She has a bookshelf for a heart,
And ink runs through her veins.,.
She'll write you her story ,
With a 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 are books she scared to open..,
And books she doesnt close,
Stories of every person she met ,
Streched out in endless rows,
Somepeople only have a sentence,
While others held the 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 hopes one day she'll mean enough..,
For someone to write about her too...