A Book

The torture, the pain; the agony, the horror. My body aching from the strain of the metal point racing on my skin. The trail of black ink completely ruining the smooth texture of my skin and engraving on it millions of strange signs; the process making me bleed and weep from every pore on my skin. Cut into various sizes and pieces, I lay on the floor, naked and wet from the painting on all of my body; then pain consumes me as the huge contraption puts all of my parts together and binds us together.

My eyes open in the suffocating innards of the plastic packing. I race towards nowhere; my friends lying next to me, all bound by the shackles, with nowhere to go. Helpless, stranded and asphyxiating; I lie still in the darkness, and wait for the pain to all end.

My wits return back to me as the cover is torn off violently. Air engulfs me and I take in a huge mouthful to return back to the world. My parts are opened, sometimes calmly, but often without care and concern. My body aches at this barbaric torture, but I do not speak; I adjust and I bear the pain.

Thrown around, folded, burnt and even used for the most awkward of tasks, I go through the toughest of lives. I hope for immense care and respect, but all I get is the pain, which I endure with pleasure; as I bring on faces the best creation of God- happiness and smiles.

I educate, I teach, I help, I support. I do everything to make the world a better place to live. All I get in return is not admirable. This does make you wonder what or who I am. I am a book. I go through unimaginable circumstances, but I adapt.

PS: This is a tale of the books we use daily. Please treat books with respect and do not harm them in any way.