She has a bookshelf for a heart,
And ink runs through her veins,
She'll write a story about you,
With the typewriter in her brain,
Her bookshelf's getting crowded,
With all the stories she's penned,
Sometimes people open the books,
But close them before the end,
There's one book at the very corner,
It sits there and collects dust,
The title is written in cursive,
"The One Who Broke My Trust."
Some books she's scared to open,
Others she doesn't close,
Stories about people she's met,
Stretched out in endless rows,
Some people just have a paragraph,
Others held the main part,
Millions of inky footprints,
They left in the bookshelf of her heart,
People wonder why she writes books,
About people she once knew,
Because one day she hopes to find someone,
Who'd write about her too.
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