I am untitled. Yes, like book. I am untitled like a book with no name. I have my chapters. I have my hard cover. Inside my hard cover, the millions of splatters of ink I call words found on every page running deep within me are contained. Words. They each have distinct meaning to their sound. The words people read off of me yet seem to not define me, for I am untitled. They just read me for my covers, but do they not know I am untitled? I have no name. My story is ongoing. Therefore I have no name; no title. Do they not wish to uncover me and have a good read about me? Do they not wish to discover why each ink splatter, stain, and beaten page is there? Or do they judge me, assume, and mistreat me for my covers? Who knew being untitled and left with hard stale covers could lead to the trails of tears and beaten pages carved within each sheet...
