A notebook sits on a shelf,
Filled with stories.
Ink on every lined page
Reminding me of heartache and glory.
Each new chapter molds me
Into a person I can't always recognize.
Each new page is a mirror,
Where I see life with my old eyes.
The end if the story
Is not yet written.
It lies beneath the writers block,
Where if I reach...
I will be bitten...
But I cannot stop this fateful clock.