If my life were a book, written in ink, It would tell a tale brought back from the brink With sentences well constructed with rhyme, Of inkblots made by wasting precious time, Of full-stops, colons, and commas galore, Filled with desire to learn, and explore, Aging sheets of regret pondering the past, Some wondering how long the story will last. Only Death takes away this humble pen It's just a small matter of how and when- This book may never be a bestseller But it will be honest- a truth-teller That's unfinished and revised endlessly, Until it joins the pages of history.