You've Got Me in Such a Bind

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Books, a favorite pastime of mine.

People are my favorite genre sometimes.

So easy to read after the first few pages, I write down what makes them tick.

It comes in handy most times, even on both sides.

Though my own book holds a different story.

It writes a bigger picture, and daunts most.

Still my mouth is open and my pages are ever flowing.

I embellish my pages with fine golden print on the clear white canvas.

Though still no one quite understands, foreign are my words to them.

My pages are wrinkled by their harsh touch, as they are like children in their ways.

It wears off my print and dulls my words, so I go to my library to see the writer and refine myself again.

There I find you.

Your binding is beautiful, it's title holds an allure behind it's carefully placed print.

I'm drawn, ready to dive in and swallow your story whole, to relish in it's sweet and edifying languages.

Though I am held by caution, for delicate are it's pages.

So I look from afar, until finally I take a peek.

A shiver goes down my spine, and I am left without speech.

Intriguing.

Truly a treasure are you, and undeserving am I.

Yet still I persist to keep you close by, for you inspire a thousand words to fill my mind.

I open my pages for you, but you never look. Why?

I reflect upon my own book, and find the words in the chapter I devoted to you to be meaningless jabber. Maybe that's why.

So I try and try and try, I write left and right.

But still remain an empty sight in your eyes.

You've got me in such a bind.

-A really, really, poorly written poem by Yours Truly.

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