A book I am yet to shelve,
Because I want nothing to do with anymore.
I would have disposed of you,
But shouldn't we be kind?
I choose to keep you off the stores, book sales or anyone's shelves,
My enemy's too.
Your words, nothing as interesting any more.
Your cover,
Worked perfectly to hide secrets I thought were once intriguing.
Foolish I have been,
Confused,
Over interest, for poor judgement.
A good-read you were meant to be.
My very own Charles Dickens,
Oh, a series I thought would never end,
A sequel whose release I waited for with baited breath.
Before the wisdom in the books,
I had little knowledge,
None you can say.
But oh I am wiser now,
Well-read they say.
With all you taught me,
I can be a better author,
Have award-winning books,
For that, Sir,
I hand you the best title,
Crispy,
Legitimate love affair,
My sins wrapped in a box,
Signed, sent, delivered,
With a ribbon on it,
Your name all too bold.
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