I’ve abandoned every book I’ve ever opened regardless of how much I enjoyed it.
Camus’ The Stranger and The Plague—
I’m sure I got close, but the endings are vague.
Freud’s The Ego and the Id,
I tried to read when I was just a kid.
Books of rhyme, writing, and vocabulary
are dog-eared near stories of forest faeries.
The selected works of Byron and Wilde—
Opened, partially enjoyed, then like others filed.
With an old copy of Vanity Fair I thought I would go the distance,
until I discovered page twenty-five was no longer in existence.
A small, yellowed book on comedic verse—
Its pages untouched, but the binding now a purse.
Rik Mayall’s autobiography?
His humour became too much for me.
Thirteen books on or in the German tongue—
Interesting perhaps, but not much fun.
Two giant Oxford dictionaries—
Why, why, why did I pay for these?
Middlemarch read in a week?
I can try, but the prospect is bleak.
Several more adorn my shelves, but none will read themselves.