Maybe someday you’ll think I’m a book worth reading,

with an intriguing title and captivating chapters.

Yet, before long you’ll find all the pointless complications   

and silly diversions that should never have been there.

And then maybe you’ll decide that I’m not worth the effort,

so you’ll close me up again and put me back where I belong.

There I’ll sit, lonely and cramped, with no one flipping through my pages,

no one looking for the secrets hidden in these leather-bound walls.

Blots of ink will smother me and sheets of paper will mock me,

for I’m just a stack of these two combined, after all.

Once you’ve set me aside, if you think of me at all,

you’ll only scoff at time wasted musing over my crinkled pages.

Instead you’ll pick up a better book, one you’ll read through entirely

and smile upon and cherish always while I languish on the shelf.