Cliche: Reading a bad book
Is like a bad relationship.
At the end,
You feel like you’ve poorly invested
And wasted time.
Each book, a contagion. Spreading
And affecting each person differently.
You say, “Don’t you see the symbolism?
Isn’t it fantastic?” And I do see.
But the sentiment is lackluster
And the conviction needs tempering.
A sincere sensation
Turns to a monochromatic abyss.
But how would you know
Without the first read?
Still, I wonder,
Not what book would I love to enjoy last,
But, instead, what book
Would I die without reading?