Open Book

You wanted me to be an open book to you 

You wanted me to lay bare my pages for your perusal 

To be picked up and casually browsed

Book-marked and dog-eared

And in the end you were angry

That I was difficult, inaccessible

I’m not saying I’m a masterpiece

I’m no Hemingway or Steinbeck

But I can tell you this:

I’m not a synopsis

Not a CliffsNotes guide

No eighth grade reading level novella

I am difficult to grasp

Impossible to master

My words are fluid

My meter erratic

My lyric baffling

I am a mystery even to myself

And a hundred readings will not

Make me anything less

Advertisements

NPM: Less Than She Appears

She looms over a cauldron, steaming

Tosses into the pot o’er a fire, gleaming,

A handful of aromatic herbs

With a cackle that frightens and disturbs

The fire glints in her yellowed eyes

Her coin pouch jingles against her thighs

But instead of potent witch’s brew

Her pot is filled with common stew