A book and it’s cover mask the exciting tales within,
while also deterring those that are unable to be open.
My book is covered in a bold yet dusty dark blue fabric,
broad spine, thick cover board, strong joints,
and a single colored, faded gold Gustav Mucha-like illustration of a tall individual.
Quick athletic proportions, fitted suit, loose tie, long fingers,
prominent watch, rough chin, and high cheekbones.
Open me up, the beginning reads, “He’s a very respectful young man.”
Many might linger and look at the cover, but the opening line lacks excitement.
By design, this is planned as I don’t want too many to know,
how I tick, how I tock, where I break, or where I rock.
But because I’ve written a novel about myself, I want a few special people to know
where my frustrations live,
where my dirty thoughts yearn,
where my insecurities wreak havoc,
and where my life’s passions thrive.
I want criticism and critique.
I want love and understanding.
I want partners in crime, partners in bed, and partners in adventure.
I am unable to hock my book to passerbys,
or suggest my friend read my pages.
It’s not something for me to give,
but rather, something for me to share if someone asks and reciprocates.