Each day’s another chapter, in life’s unwritten book,
And at times there might be pages, that we seem to overlook,
At times we’d like to re-write, the pages as they’re read,
As all the pages come to life, between the heart and head.
Our births begin the journey, the un-molded piece of clay,
While the person we become, is conditioned by each day,
Some things seem to scar us, the pages writing somehow smeared,
As the pages show us, it would be nice if some were shared.
There ages we remember, signposts along the way,
While the pages in between, get lost inside the days,
Some days seem to touch the heart, while others destroy the soul,
And all we can really hope for, is that time will fill the hole.
There’s usually a balance, but it’s upset by our fears,
Sometimes being set straight again, by the constant flow of tears,
At times the page is written, with some sort of invisible ink,
As the events occur so fast, there’s no time to even blink.
Do we consider it a drama, or a novel with just one end,
Or maybe a written letter, we don’t have the heart to send,
As we look at we’ve written, what story do we see,
A heart that’s somehow caged, or one that’s soaring free.
At times the pages come easy, while others they feel untrue,
Just another chapter written, regardless of what we do,
Do we write our own pages, or is it controlled by another’s hand,
Submitting to the words we hear, instead of what the hearts demand.
There are those that like to read, and those that wish they could,
Hearts that listen to the words, while wondering if they should,
We can’t predict the future, after all it’s still a blank page,
Every person pen’s their book, with no discriminating age.
Some are just beginning, while other’s have reached the end,
While in between the start and finish, it’s our hearts we should defend,
There’s only fact no fiction, with our hearts providing the ink,
The story’s written with our lives, and it’s completed before we blink.