I opened pages filled with rain, each line a mark of love and pain.
The ink ran deep, the words would stay, a map of nights that turned to day.
I walked through halls both bright and dim, where laughter echoed, edges grim.
Each chapter held a fleeting hand,
A dream that slipped like drifting sand.
I carried burdens, sharp and real, the silent ache I could not heal.
Yet in the cracks, the light would creep, a tender pulse I learned to keep.
Mistakes were ink, regrets were fire, yet every fall fueled some desire.
The story bends, it breaks, it grows, a river shaped by highs and lows.
And as I close this book, still warm, I find my heart has weathered storm.
The story of my life is mine, a fragile, fierce, unbroken line.
