Poem I wrote about my irritation towards scripture carriers.

I see them everywhere I go,
Like a constant reminder,
They carry them form class to class,
And never question what's inside.

Thin delicate pages,
Almost always silver or gold,
Securely set in a jacket of leather,
Name etched in the corner.

Those words that seem to mix and mesh,
Losing their true meaning,
Blending together without a thought,
Of how they've been twisted and changed.

Was the first one not enough?
Not "True" enough by standard?
But what standard are the speaking of.
Are they somehow higher?

They sit there and taunt me,
Remind me that I'm different,
What is this thing that I detest?
Why it's someone's scriptures.