Pages are in her
She has a bookshelf for a heart
And ink runs through her veins
And words naturally in her voice
She’ll write you into her story
With the the typewriter in her brain
Her bookshelf is full
With all the stories she’s penned
Of all humanity flicked through her pages
But they all closed the book before the end
And there’s one pushed to the very back
That still collecting dust
With the title of her finest writing
There books she is scared to open
And books she doesn’t close
Stories of every person she’s met
Sretched out to endless rows
Some people have only a sentence
Their names or point of meeting
While others once held the main part
Thousands of inky footprints
That they have left across her heart
You might wonder why she writes this
Why write of people she once knew
“I am waiting for someone to write me”
Her dream