The leather binder
Containing the blank beautiful pages within,
Stares at the idiot world beyond the shelf
His eyes fixated at a robust stupid roughbook
which isn’t embarrassed about its ‘recycled’ complexion or half torn pages.
It’s ugliness lands him with half written stories and spontaneous scribblings,
Dreadful doodles and pathetic poetry,
And meanwhile the beauty above,
Untouched and pure,
Too precious and elite for some spurs of random spontaneities
And any form of unpolished writing or uncivilized handwriting
Seething with jealousy.