my life is a story.
each fascicle is different,
but connected in millions of different ways.
am i my own author?
or does someone else pen my life for me?
if i was to choose my own adventure,
would it be that i'm writing my own story,
or just following the one that someone had chosen for me?
because it always seems like i'm five pages ahead,
or just a page behind.
no matter what i do,
i can't seem to catch up to where i should be.
i'm asleep when i should be awake
i'm in love where there's no love to be found
i'm hurting when there's nothing to harm me.
i feel like someone is flipping through my tome,
making sure i can't live in reality,
but only in the literary present tense.
what's worse is when i'm sitting on the floor,
all disheveled and a mess.
with my pages all bent and ripped;
are they the scars of a much loved tale,
or of an untold romance?
its been said that when Once Upon a Time met The End,
there was no Happily Ever After.
that's how my story goes.
that's how my story ends.