• whats my life but a book yet to be written in? as time goes by i wait patiently to write myself yet i am kept busy as others take it upon themselvew to write upon it. Silently i weep as the pages fill with the pain and misery, a sadness beyond imagination. still i wait to write in it as it still fill wit so called help, and words of hate. Quickly the pages run fulled with black ink as life experience after experience continues to be written with such lies as "I've been there" and " your life is so much easier ". As tears flow freely the words overlap not giving me any room to write on. As i realize the truth of the world I am free, finally it is my turn to write! hastily as one tends too, i pull out my pen and write not in black but in blood: There lies in this world amongst the world:
    I am me, and you are you