The book of me,
Written in ink,
With shades of me,
Each stroke,
Black, violet,
Blue and pink;
The words of me,
Bleeding through,
As parts of me,
They come undone,
It\'s me being written,
Me being read.
And through the pages,
All the stops,
All the commas,
And all the flaunts,
The me written now,
Is nowhere as the,
Me written then,
A birth in each row.
Then I realise,
This wonder I feel,
That even though it\'s me,
I\'m relearned in everything.
With each new word,
Each new shade,
Brings a new me,
A rebirth in true spree.
I\'m born again,
To learn again,
To forget myself,
To learn me again.
To learn again,
To lose again,
To forget myself,
To know me again.
I lose again,
To have again,
To learn myself,
To love again.
A new me,
Reborn in you,
A new me,
To live in you,
A new me,
To know that you,
That loves me,
In all my trues.