There I lay, collecting dust
Waiting for those worm-like things to pick me up
To open my hand-written work by that glorious man.
Why won't they read me? Why won't they look?
It's like they don't see me, like they once did.
Those other worms are coming and eating my spine;
I'm losing my pages to these slimy tings.
Someone, pick me up please! I'm festering, waiting.
Hey, look! The glorious man's friend.
He picked me up and placed me in a bag.
It's dark now, but I can see a light.
There's people in black, water falling down their face.
I see the glorious man, geez is he old!
He's lying there sleeping, man he feels cold.
His friend placed me on his chest, and placed his glorious hands on my leather cover.
He remains unmoving, forever cold.
The worms continue feeding, unaware of the change.
Dirt is thrown on me, the glorious man, too.
The worms are feasting on both of us now.
Points:
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Canary word: Present
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125,004 Literary Works • 672,792 Reviews
wow. i love it!
I like it, due to the fact that its on a subject that all writers reach.... your book is just sitting their in a publishing honcho's office, collecting dust... and it asks the question "why?". What are the worm like things? The only other gripe I have is that the last line doesn't make any sense...
Sure no problem
well this is surtainly interesting. But can you space it out a bit please- hard for me to read.
I give it a 7/10 ^_^