The Book

I don't think I have enough pages,
Nor a thick enough book,
For my mind is too full,
My pages too few,
And my pen too filled
With ink,
And it is ready to be unlooped.

I've had this book for many years,
And it's been through a lot:
Tears,
Fire,
Regrets,
And joy beyond measure.

I've had this book for many years,
And it says a lot:
A lot about me,
About lost loves,
About good and good people,
About sadness so great
That it could turn into a blade
And massacre an entire city.

Inside of this book
Is my soul:
All I believe,
All I feel,
All I shall do.

Inside of this book
Is my passion:
All I know,
All of my dreams,
All of my hopes.

It tells the future,
And tells tales of the past;
It never lies,
And is forever faithful,
Like a long-awaited soul-mate
Whom you have been seeking out for centuries worth of past lives.

I know not what I would do without this book,
But it's time has come to an end:
Its pages will turn no more,
Its leather has grown brittle,
It has no future
Other for me to look back at it,
To remember,
To be inspired by,
To love and hate
All of the things that I-
That it and I have gone through.

A new book shall come,
And though I appear immortal to it,
That is something which I am far from,
And soon the books will outnumber my family,
And soon I will grow old and brittle...
Just like this book.

Love it.
You're an awesome writer.