My BookMature

Initials, embossed, pressed into leather,

Leather binding a book full of my emotion,

Handwritten, heartfelt,

It will never be the artificial flavour,

Of mass-produced copies,

Always glossy, never worn down in grief,

No company will ever own me,

I am a writer, not a story-spinning machine,

Deadlines and promotional events aren't for me,

Just let me sit here with my notebook,

Drowning in sorrows,

But on the outside, as cold as a marble statue,

I am a writer,

Not a possession,

Nobody else shall own a copy of my deepest depression.


The End

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