Library Bear

I feel like the core of me is waiting in the margins of a book
that you will never read.
In bold red ink.
Plain to see as desperation,
and twice as easy to ignore.
Your eyes may be, inadvertently directed to something that makes this into "me"
You wouldn't even have to discern any truth about it.
Some one else has been in these pages.
Some one came before you and did the work,
leaving this written trail of crumbs.
All you need do is turn the pages and scan the words.
What they valued is written here.
Scrawled among the scars and pathos.
Clearly the observation of this beneficial defacement requires of you no work,
but you will never even crack the pages open.
It may as well be written in a language you find foreign.
I will remain outside the body of work
until I am discovered by you.