The Book and Its Writer

This is actually one of my most favorite poems that I wrote.
It is simple, and written when I was in my sophomore year in high school.
It still works out really nicely. It's titled "The book and its writer."

There I lay, collecting dust 

Waiting for those worm-like things to pick me up 

To open my hand-written work by that glorious man. 

Why won't they read me? Why won't they look? 

It's like they don't see me, like they once did. 

Those other worms are coming and eating my spine; 

I'm losing my pages to these slimey things. 

Someone, pick me up please! I'm festering, waiting. 

Hey, look! The glorious man's friend. 

He picked me up and placed me in a bag. 

It's dark now, but I can see a light. 

There are people in black, water falling down their face. 

I see the glorious man, geez is he old! 

He's lying there sleeping, man he feels cold. 

His friend placed me on his chest, and placed his glori-
ous hands on my leather cover. 

He remains unmoving, forever cold. 

The worms continue feeding, unaware of the change. 

Dirt is thrown on me, the glorious man, too. 

The worms are feasting on both of us now.

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