One day she felt the need,
To write on white pages.
About her life, her stories, her nothings,
Her delights, her all, her musings.
She did not wish to exaggerate,
Nor did she under tone it.
She wanted it to be a happy book,
No parallels, the work was going to be her spirit.
And yet when she began to scribble,
Only mysteries flowed endlessly.
She did not know where to stop,
Surprised she knew so little of some of her own stories!
It started happy, then going slow,
It translated into a story of sorrow.
She went on and on, and wrote some more,
Hoping it’d transpire into something with more highs, less lows.
The purpose of her book,
Was not to inspire anybody.
She only wished to reduce to ink,
Her life, her medley, her parody.
She decided not to read it again,
Because too much pain it had given her in the first place.
Once she had lived it, second she wrote it,
And now reading it will only ruin the compromise her life had made her MAKE.