Her Bookshelf

She made the heart of bookshelf;
making the ink to run in her veins;
Some books were half filled;
Some were without addressing anybody;

Making her heart of bookshelf;
Spinning you into her story;
With the typewriter in her brain;
Her bookshelf’s getting crowded;

With all the stories and she penned;
Of the people who flicked through her pages
But closed the book before the end;
And there’s the one pushed to the very back;

That sits collection dust
with its title in her most beautiful writing;
“The one’s Who lost my Trust.”
There are books she 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 help the central part
Thousands of inky footprints;
that they’have 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.
Making her heart of bookshelf;


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