The Book

I am an open book Pages pure white Oh author ye direct Words scribed scarring deep within the pages of white I am an open book Read the words you write Pages now wrinkled Blackened by the words planted, marred and scratched within my heart Soon my pages shall tare My pages no longer pure white I was an open book Discarded no longer a part Tormented by time and hand My pages now have became blurred My worth lost I was an open book Without pages, only the cover left behind Who could possibly wish to read me now