Story

If I could write a story And get lost in it forever Wouldn’t that be the day The day my worries would go away Oh we humans are so naive Isn’t life but a story we write? By ourselves; for ourselves To live without stealth We complain and we whine Even though there is no line Between reality and story Because reality can be the story As days go by, we flip pages As choices are made, we run out of ink As sorrow is felt, a salty flood on the page As fear is hoarded, shaky hands scribble words out of sync We are not authors, yet we are Perhaps if we knew what we actually wanted Out of this story We would’ve found glory But is it over yet? I think not We still breathe; and think With or without fiends Carve or paint, no word is quaint