Dream Life

                                                 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 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 One's Who Lost My Trust", There's 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, 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 abo...

                                             she had a library, you see, with many different stories to loan. but the ones you couldn't borrow were those that were her own. they sat there on the bookshelf, abandoned, collecting dust, for those she used to show them to had all broken her trust. there were some chapters that to them looked out of place, and even some words that they had tried to erase. there were some empty shelves because of all the stories they took and other shelves full of tales that had never been given a look. one day a boy came in and began to fill his cart with all the books she'd written from her heart. at first, she was terrified but he promised to stay and read every single one without stopping halfway. he brushed off the dust from the stories that were forgotten and worked through the pile until he finally reached the bottom. then through the stac...