my life is made up of chapters,
all inside an assortment of books.
one is clean and tidy,
with extra large font.
another is black and formidable,
with a chain lock forming an X.
a certain book is stained blood-red
with torn pages and smeared ink.
and yet another is orderly and green,
but nothing is written in that book.

where is the book with frilly laces,
and hearts drawn in page corners?
with cupid acting as publisher
of its thick, massive volume?
and photos - lots of photos -
too many to fit on the pages...

the answer is quite easy:
i simply haven't written it yet.