reckless thoughts roaming my brain
I’m the same book all right
but I open a new page for everybody
each page so different , so unconnected from the previous, uncaring to be comprehendible
if I open one to you, you shall never know I could have a possible other page that varies so greatly from what I show you
and you can’t turn the pages until I let you
and even if you do you shall never understand
what the strings of seemingly meaningless ink means
for I show what you could possibly understand
I show you the emotions that’ll buzz in your mind saying ‘isn’t she like me?’
I’ll uncover delusional faux mysteries, that don’t even exist , that’ll make your brain whirr with a frustration and curiosity to unveil these nonexistent secrets of mine
very few , de-code more than one page
and fewer, be able to connect them
“Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle.”
― Lewis Carroll,
but right now I’m befuddled!!
I’m the same book alright?
but which page am I to myself??