I have filled the empty pages,
In the chapters of "My Life,"
With so much needless worry,
And so much needless strife.
Not trusting the true author,
My maker and my friend,
To whisper all the words to me,
From beginning to "The End."

Instead I chose every syllable,
All the characters, and the plot.
Til my pen went dry and I heard,
"There's something you forgot!"
"You failed to mention I was there,
Every second, yet you didn't know,
And this story "you've" been writing?
I actually wrote it long ago."