the journey of life isn't what some seem to believe. ther isn't a staircase, a tunnel, or a path surrounded by trees.

it's more of a book as the others, the few, have come to believe.

it's written as it goes the writer needs his rest so he stops to put down the pen. once you think the story is done a new chapter starts holding the fin.

the pages may be yellow and crisp. a few misspelled words and some scribbles here and there.

but that doesn't maek the story any less interesting, the eyes of others always begin to glance and stare. it's time to publish the work of art. it's not near the end of the trail but as otheres read they begin to read like they had never seen this tale.

the book is loved, the book is hated, and others find out theres more than one way to destroy a book.

they try to end your ink of life across he pages making you as the author mothing more than a mere shnook.

books are a fragile thing. pages can tear, the outsides and corners can be raged, and the cover can even come off.

the author is dead, but his body walks as a zombie across his trail.

this trail isn't very famous most read it with nothing more than a sneeze or a cough.

but after rumors and people read it begans to grow. now there's contriversy and life on your trail.

the fantasy of life comes true. it begans to grow, it isn't a seperate star case, trees, or path way engulfed by crows.

it's a city, a populaton, a nation, a world, but sadly a book has an end. everyone will leave soon enough and find the joys of making new friends.

your book is under piles of others, they all end the smae way. in the center of trails, thankfully no one story to bother.