Your existance was based upon love,

so was the book that sat upon your shelf.

I reckon you're fully your own,

nothing is truly based upon itself.

You found yourself based upon a hobby,

you weren't just born as you are.

Your beauty was surreal to me,

I dare to believe it was based off of something bizarre.

My love for you was irreplicable,

and it grows; as do the plants around.

My love was based off of nature's love,

so chaotic, yet without a sound.

A poem you may read often,

was, more certainly so, once a thought.

Literature was added and thus the result,

its root words were what you forgot.

Your existance was based upon love,

love from one person to another; nobody else.

I reckon you're fully your own,

nothing is truly bases upon itself.