I am a book, waiting to be opened.
I wonder who will judge me by my cover, or who will try to get to know me.
I hear the sound of people reading me aloud, whispering my name.
I see my pages turning, each telling a new adventure.
I want someone to read my whole story and not skip to the end.
I am a book, waiting to be opened.

I pretend my pages are wings and my bookmark is a beak.
I feel trapped inside my leather cover, not able to speak.
I touch the tough bindings that keep my feelings from gushing out.
I worry that I will give away the ending to my story, because I want people to read me first.
I cry when I see myself being the last book on the shelf, the one that no one reads.
I am a book, waiting to be opened.

I understand that being a book makes it hard for people to see the real me.
I say that books are filled with unexpected things, some good and some bad
and you have to read my whole story to find my surprises.
I dream that one day I will be read, understood and loved for who I am.
I try to get people to notice that I’m not just your ordinary book,
but my outside identity conceals my creativity.
I hope that everyone is able to see that I am unique, and that’s what makes me, me.
I am a book, waiting to be opened.