an open book

(keyed rather quickly)

An open book is but a page. We read then turn, it slips away. Another page another day. We write it down, call it a play. We say it's life, the book we read. The one we wrote when stuck in grief. The one I write seems drunk and brief. But enough with me, I'm not in need. The papers thick just like the skin, And ink can bring clean to an end. It's scars remind us to give in. It's poetic. It's love is oxygen. And if we breathe, we'll end the story. The actors involved will all ignore me. I need their glow and "Hello, good morning"'s. I guess I'm saying I'm feeling boring. I think in fiction (life leaves me snoring).