My soul is a book
and the pages are curled on the edges,
for my story is well known and well read.
So much so that if I were to look
upon it from Your eyes, I could see
the days of my life on which you look
fondly and say "That's my girl..."
Because those are the days you remember
and turn to when I'm losing the plot,
you remind me of who I am,
and skip unending paragraphs of who I am not.
Oh Author Eternal, what will my ending be?
Will I be a hero when I reach eternity?
If dog-eared pages and scribbled notes are all markers in me,
Let me be a journal, my empty pages left for thee.
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