Biography

Do I take my book off of its shelf

And open it up to the world?

Do I show myself, behind the decorations curled

Around the spine; to make them see

The subtext of my soul, the real me?

Or should I leave it, untouched and out of sight,

Withholding all but cover from the light;

Keeping words trapped on each page

As flightless birds in a dusty cage.

I long to whisper tales to you all

And for a touch at my paper pall

But the time for notice is ever decreased

And I stay on that shelf; as yet unreleased.