a bookshelf for a heart
ink runs through her veins
she'll write you in her story
with the typewriter in her brain
her bookshelf's getting crowded
with all the stories that she's penned
of the people who flicked through her pages
but closed the book before the end
and there's one pushed to the very back
that sits collecting dust
with its title in her finest writing
"the man I learned to trust"
there's books she's scared to open
and books she'll never close
stories of every person she's met
stretched out in endless rows
some people have only a sentence
while 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 of people she once knew
but she hopes one day she'll mean enough
for someone to write about her too
