Today I met a man
He looked so much like me
I asked him where he’d been
He told me where I’d be
“All the world,” he said, “is
Nothing but a stage
History is just a book
Each life a single page
Authors of our fate we are
Weavers of our destiny
With power to create
The change we want to see
The past for us is written
In ink indelible
The future sketched in pencil
And ever changeable
I have written many stories
Told tales of distant lands
Yet the only thing I wanted
Never fell into my hands
Nothing could come easily
No matter how I tried
So I gave up trying
And many nights I cried
Until my days were running out
My love a memory
I wondered if a bullet
Would be my remedy
I beg of you to listen
Th my words because
I came to show you how to be
Better than I ever was.”
Apparently, I wasn’t done a couple of days ago. Why my mind dreams this stuff up while I’m on the toilet or taking a shower, I’ll never know.