A book.
A book in which dreams lie,
in whichlies tell a truth only I can understand.
No names are in this book,
no people, no characters, no plot.
Just lies and dreams
and truths beyond belief.

But within these lies is us,
you, me, him and her.
That boy on the bus you dislike.
The girl who sits next to you in math.
We're all there, imbedded
in the lies
the truths, and the dreams.
No hand could ever pen such a book,
No mind or being.
It seems it never was created.
It just was.
A book,
Filled with dreams, lies and truth.
It goes by a name that has its own lies.
LIFE.