You wished, I did...
He has a bookshelf for a heart,
And ink runs through his veins.
He'll write you into his story,
With the typewriter in his brain.
His bookshelf is getting crowded,
With all the stories he's penned,
Of the people who flicked through his pages,
But closed the book before the end.
And there's one pushed to the very back,
That sits collecting dust
With it's title in his finest writing,
"The One's Who Lost My Trust"
There's book he's scared to open,
And book he doesn't close.
Stories of every person, he's met,
Stretch 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 his heart.
You might wonder why he does this,
Why write about people he once knew?
But he hopes one day he'll mean enough,
For someone to write about him too.