The Storyteller

She has a bookshelf for a heart

And ink runs through her veins

She’ll write you into her story

With the typewriter in her brain

Her bookshelf’s getting crowded

With all the stories that she’s penned

Of the people who flicked through her pages

But closed the book before the end

And there’s one pushed to the very back

That sits collecting dust

With its title in her finest writing

“The One’s Who Lost My Trust”

There’s books she’s scared to open

And books she doesn’t close

Stories of every person she’s 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 her heart

You might wonder why she once knew?

But she hopes one day she’ll mean enough

For someone to write about her too

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