Their Something Worse

I wrote a novel once.

I painstakingly chose each word.

I poured my soul into the pages

until it dripped with my tears;

the ones of sadness and

even those of joy.

When it was finished,

I felt empty.

Here was my soul

bound by leather;

written in parchment.

At first, I thought it too flimsy

then stronger than I knew.

But nobody read my novel.

Nobody saw my soul

in the pages, in the words.

They bypassed it for others,

for their something better.

For I was their something worse.