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Like a book
I can read you
Like a book
Pages spilling
Words tumbling from your mouth
Lies and sarcasm
Drifting to the floor
You hide your secrets
With only time
Until your games are over
When the truth cuts
Like the paper of your soul
People can stare
And glare
And burn you to the ground
You can become
Just ashes to found
With the firewood is where you'll rest
Come on
We all knew you'd never pass this test
Maybe something good will find you
Like a breeze
To whip you away
To a better place
But you'll just turn it all to black
Grey with soot
Even darker with dirt
Like a book
You aren't real
You're as fake
As the rest who lie about what they steal
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Writers are a less dangerous version of the career criminal. Everywhere they go, they see the potential for the perfect crime. The difference is that writers have better self control.