Another house poem for y'all (that's right, I used an INFORMAL SLANG in a post)
The Book
Date: 9-21-21
Each page is a blade,
Ready to turn,
Each word is a spark,
Ready to burn,
She reaches over and grabs my spine,
What’s in this book,
She needs to learn
A soft tickle comes from her eager hand,
As she traces the story within,
Her burning eyes glued to the page,
As the tale takes a spin,
Her eyes remain on my fantasy,
During the reading time in class,
For my characters’ fate in the story,
Lay just beyond the looking glass,
My thin, sharp pages,
Cut through your mind,
The plot and the words,
knotted and entwined,
There is no escape from my literary wonder,
In me, there is sunshine while outside there is thunder,
The crinkles on my pages signify how much I have been read,
My dark crimson cover has turned light red,
Now in my old age, I finally see,
That the only reason, that girl picked me up,
Was for my story and not for me
