a storybook...(p.38)

I ask that you write yourself a storybook,

one that you can read over and over.

One that brings you back home

when you have wandered off.

Sometimes, our thoughts are not so kind,

yet they have somehow become our own.

The book we hold, the words that we read,

may not have been penned by our hand.

It matters not where they came from

but that you write and hear your own.

How do you know if you are holding a secondhand book?

What words do you hear in a silent room?

Are they ones you would read to a child?

Is your story magical?

If not, I urge you to write anew.

Pick up your pen.

Write, my child.

Dream.

For our lives can only soar as high

as the lowest words we hear. ❤️