Do you feel pain, when yoir spine is bent? Marred, bowed, and decrepit? Your cover battered and threadbare from the times you were shoved into a backpack; to the depths of a shelf? When your faded pages are dog-eared and unkempt?
Do you feel happiness, when you are held gently by a caretaker whose eyes never skip a single word of the stories you hold? When you are gripped firmly, protectively, in the arms of your beholder, rather than thrust into the dank underbelly of a school bag, or crammed into an already bursting locker by a negligent student? When your pages are faded from age? Worn, not from derelict, but from the love your caretaker has given you?
When you were young and shiny-new, did you think you could conquer anything? Tell your tales to all those of whom you encounter? Now that you are aged and faded, is your spine, though worn, still sturdy? Though old, are you strong enough to continue telling your bountiful tales, both old and new, to both those who will cherish you, and those who may not?
Does the character of one being depend on how others treat them?
YOU ARE READING
poetry for english class.
PoetryI had fun with a thesaurus. I also had to write a short story that included death.
