We can not force other's interests, or lead one's hand to journey across a book, The galaxy of written accounts that go from heartbreak to triumphs, that can line the walls of a simple room. Leading us down the path of our own interest, Something that we should hold sacred. A thirst for knowledge, Though not just to be lead, But of our own understanding. One could get lost and never be found and still, they could not read every ink-stained page. Every individual writes a story, some choose blood over ink, To let the world know of their passage through time.