sometimes i feel like an ornament on a shelf
that interesting looking one
that you got at that street market
in that exotic place one summer
you'll stare at me for hours
marvel at the curl of my hair
and the gold in my eyes
in awe of my vibrant colors
and how i stand out
but blend in so seamlessly
you wonder sometimes
what's my story
why my story
how my story

but i'm an ornament
only to be observed
not to be held
and read and read again
and understood and welcomed
and worn in like a good book

but i'm interesting to look at
and to marvel at..
and only that

i'd rather be the good book.