The Book of my Epoch

I have a bookshelf for my heart,
And ink runs through my veins,
I’ll write you in my story,
With the typewriter in my brain.
My shelf’s getting crowded,
With all the stories I’ve penned,
Of the people who flicked through pages,
But closed the book before end.
And there’s one pushed to the very back,
That sits collecting dust,
With its title in finest writing,
“The ones who lost my trust”.
There’re books I’m scared to open,
And books I don’t ever close,
Stories of every person I’ve 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 my heart.
You might wonder why I do this,
Why write of people once I knew,
But I hope one day I’ll mean enough,
For someone to write about me too.

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