Unread

I'm a book with pages yet to be read,
For my cover does at it says,
Perhaps waiting for someone who can see past it.
For they would know the language of my heart,
And for them the pages would turn themselves.
And as for words...
They will remain unspoken.
For feelings,
True feelings,
Cannot be told,
But must be felt.
So what is my purpose for having pages?
You will never know...
Unless...
You feel what I feel.
And the only way that can be accomplished,
Is if you know what the book beholds,
Prior to seeing it's cover.
Beneath it's cover,
Unread.

I wrote this when I was in like 6th grade, or somewhere in middle school. I recently recovered it from my Uncle. I was surprized at how much I enjoyed it knowing that it was so long ago, and that I was that young writing it.