If life is a book, then these words that I’ve written
Of dreams and of wishes and of places I’ve visited
Mean nothing when there is no reason for living
So I’ll scatter the pages, indecipherable now
Stand by and watch as the clouds cry down
The ink sliding past, creating blurred lines
Until totally clean is this story of mine
I will start over new, an attempt to cheat time
I’ll rewrite the past, sketch new storylines
A careful redraft, but I’ll make sure this time
That instead of hers, you are mine.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 9:47 PM UTC
If life is a book, then these words that I’ve written
Of dreams and of wishes and of places I’ve visited
Mean nothing when there is no reason for living
So I’ll scatter the pages, indecipherable now
Stand by and watch as the clouds cry down
The ink sliding past, creating blurred lines
Until totally clean is this story of mine
I will start over new, an attempt to cheat time
I’ll rewrite the past, sketch new storylines
A careful redraft, but I’ll make sure this time
That instead of hers, you are mine.
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