She has a library in her heart,
And ink runs through her veins,
She’ll write you into her story
With the typewriter in her brain.
Her library’s getting crowded,
With all the stories she has penned
Of the people who flipped through her pages;
But closed the book before the end..
And there’s one pushed to the very back
Sitting there collecting dust,
With the title in her finest handwriting,
‘The ones who lost my trust’.
There are books she’s scared to open,
And books she doesn’t close,
Stories of every person she’s met
Stretched out in endless rows..
Some people have only a sentence,
Others once held a main part
Thousands of inky footprints;
That they’ve left across her heart…
You might wonder why she does this
Why write about people she once knew,
But she hopes one day she means enough,
For someone to write about her too…

Photo by Johnny McClung on Unsplash