My soul is a library that screams out me.
Within its caring, loving shelves,
It holds the story that is me.
There are books old and yellowing;
There are books unwritten, waiting to be opened;
There are books I read over for old time’s sake.
These hold stories unspoken,
The things they make me.
Would you read through me
Or would you leave the pages half read?
Oh, but hold these books with tender hands,
For they hold treasures within;
These books hold memories,
They hold people in them.
Some people are simply sentences,
Others own complete books.
They all make me, shape me;
Their inky marks adore my soul.
Would you roam into the darkest corners of my library?
Would you blow the dust off and read?
I sure am writing you down, my friend,
But my dear, would you write down me?