Defining ourselves by our appearance or our colour
What do we tell the world around us
What’s our message to each other?
If I told you I’d read a book, when all I did
Was sweep my gaze across the spine
While the novel did its thing on the shelf
Waiting patiently for a reader
Just being bookish
If you asked me what’s the story
What’s up jackanory
Would I be spineless enough to
Concoct an ignorant tale
Based on chapters
Of my own imagination and past lives I once knew?
Would I take it down from view and
deem it unsuitable,
Would I strip it’s outer cover
And render it unrecognisable
Make it the same as the others,
Forcibly ‘Abnormally normal’
Would I hide it behind other books
More outwardly palatable
Not arranged according to its inner content
Worse still, would I damage its inside with intent,
Tear out its sentiment
Leave it collapsing in on itself, a poorly pitched tent.
‘Pick that one’ would I say to a young browser?
It looks nice, it suits your hair and it matches your skin.
I don’t know what it’s about
I don’t know what lies within
But that’s irrelevant to how it fits in
To your reading list, you look good with it.
The others just aren't your type.
……I’d be asked to leave the library
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