Books revised

I write music a lot.
I write a lot in general.
Pale fingers flying across a keyboard
Or black ink across a sheet of paper—perfect, right out of the package.
I love it.
But lately I've writers block big time.
It’s been difficult for me.
Feeling inept, unable to take part in my favorite thing to do.
Write.
Anything and everything.
Besides writers block though
I don’t know why I couldn’t write a song
I’ve been trying for such a long time
It never sounds right the way I want it to
But if I had to write one
If I could write one, it would be about you;
about something that furthered my understanding
Something that made me read.
A book with such a beautiful, complex plot; moral; center; soul
Your past is so clouded by the wear and tear and dust that floats like mist over a green lake
Where your story will go
You’re taking one step at a time
And the people that say they love you seem like they are turning on you
Throwing you away
Wasting the wonderful diction and language and story found upon your thickly bound, tanned parchment.
You feel like you have no support
I am here though
Like you personal bookend
You don’t cry
That would blot your already watermarked pages.
You just get frustrated because they won’t let go of the past
They don’t see you changing; growing old; maturing—becoming a classic.
Become “real” literature
But I saw something from the beginning.
No one looks past the cover these days
A generation that is swayed by advertisement only
What they want to see
But you aren’t that
Neither was I;
Neither am I
And I saw you
On a bookshelf of books with flashy titles and colors and font and such
A place where you didn’t seem like much
you weren’t like that
You were just you
I don’t know how
I just knew you were different
You weren’t who you seemed to be
You weren’t bad for having a different cover
That didn’t degrade from the quality of your story.
The world is just full of judgment
Everyone’s a critic.
A lot that is negative some that is positive
But that’s not what you’re seeing now
You’re enveloped by poor judgment
Not from me though
They through you away,
I won’t
Never
Your limp pages
They can find refuge in the warm space between each of my fingers.

Even my friend said you were no good
Bad ratings
Gossip from the pursed lips of others
But I told her she didn’t know you like I did
And it’s funny because at that point I had barely read you at all
She never even read past the cover though
I had at least read some of chapter one
No matter how difficult it was to get that far
And I guess that’s the reason I knew you were different
I know you pretty well now though
(Enough to know where you’ve been)
Better than most but I know there’s still more
However You have let me in somewhat
So I don’t have to fight my way to read you
I can just do it
Read you
Well try at least
Because you aren’t a picture book
So it’s not that easy
You’re an endless paged novel written in a foreign language that I don’t speak fluently
But I have some basic knowledge of this foreign language so I can decipher some of it
And you’ll teach me over time, more and more of the words that lie across your wrinkled, stained and worn pages
We all have those same pages though, some are just better at hiding them behind their flawless and flashy covers.
I know I’ll never know your whole story
That’s one of the many reasons why I like you
Not because I’ll never know the truth
But because I’ll always be learning more and more truth
Oh, and just to let you know I’m not a reader so this…
This is a pretty big deal.
I’m a writer I like creating the stories
And dreaming them up;
And playing them out on my own pages or on actual pages of plain white simple paper.
You really are different though
Making me learn
Making me love
Making me read!
And I’ll never forget it.
I never forget books that impact me in such a good way.
So few do,
And that’s exactly why you…
You’re different, you’re special.
I know it.