She has a bookshelf for a heart, 

And ink runs through her veins, 

She'll write you into her story, 

With the typewriter in her brain,

Her bookshelf's getting crowded, 

With all the stories that's she's penned, 

Of all the people who flicked through her pages, 

But closed the book before it ended, 

And there's one pushed to the very back, 

That sits collecting dust, 

With its title in her finest writing, 

'The One's Who Lost My Trust',

There's books shes 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 one 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.

E.H.


Sawyer Blake
@GleamingAnchor on NaNo