These words have been laid down so effortlessly,
Who is the author of this book I’m reading.
A biography of twists and turns,
cuts and burns,
These words taking me through a journey,
yet into clarity it turns.
Where is this leading to?
I haven’t even gotten to one third of these endless pages,
how is it so much has happened in so little chapters,
yet there is so much more to occur?
Who is the author?
How will it end?
Happy or sad?
I have yet to learn…
I turn through these pages,
they seem so familiar,
dreams that are blurred.
I turn back to the pages,
forward to some,
trying to figure out,
trying to make sense of this chaotic nostalgic feeling that’s has surfaced and occurred.
I read the last word,
of the last line,
of the last chapter
before that page that I had turned.
I find the next one empty,
with no words or introduction or even title of any sort.
Just white, and pale, and empty.
Staring into the abyss,
wondering how is it that there are no more words…
I look down at my hand,
find the very source of the words,
written so effortlessly yet passionately.
It is I,
I am the author of these words,
of the book,
of my life.
Of the twists and turns.