Shall I Be The Writer

Life is like a cord string- so delicate and unpredictable

that it’s only longed when gone

instead of considering it aedile

In my outcast mind, I wish to live it fully and wholly

but its reachably impossible to achieve

for I’m not like the dancer, skilled and filled with friends

It only makes in my heart feel grieve


Then, I imagine I’m old and dull

and that all is gone

when my life wasn’t even yet full

I open that book, and wish to unleash

those barrows of sorrows inside

Maybe it’s honorably wrong

but I still wish it to untide


I wish to be like him, filled with friends

or  all that he has achieved

But let me cleanse

my whole body, to be detestely blessed

So let me be the writer of my story

shall I grab a pen, and put all confessed

and take it off my chest


Maybe I’m not filled like him,

but with you I have enough.


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