#63 book of bad poetry

I am a book of bad poetry,
covered in dusts and ashes,
in a countryside’s library,
among massive number of books,
people won’t come here,
let alone try to find me,
they prefer those best-sellers,
I’m sitting, waiting for a reader,

I am a book of bad poetry,
my author isn’t a public figure,
he himself despises me,
supposedly I’m a prodigy, but,
I’m the elephant in the library,

I am a book of bad poetry,
I wish a different life,
I envy those become hot topics,
models of bookstores, televisions, and magazines,
it’s not my fault I become like this,
I just lack of lucks, that’s all,
never given chances,

I am a book of bad poetry,
only I find it beautiful,
an Eden for everyday I live,
until one day I be recycled, or burned,
or shredded, who knows?

and I will keep being the book of bad poetry,
that no one knows my existence,
but that’s fine though,

at least I’m part of beautiful poetry.