I recall my life as an unfinished book
I gently caress the chapters that you took
It reflects on my history, what is past
But does it continually grow, when the die is cast

It is no exciting odyssey, it tells a pathetic story
It twists and turns, but has no glory
Many pages are written, some lie half full
Awaiting completion from the fool

I am no mystery, I am no enigma
I wrote the words, created my stigma
Some are dark, and some rest blank
Many are inane in empty space they sank

There are no pictures, I possess no palette
Some tell your dreams, crushed by my selfish mallet
Some pages to forget, some perhaps to remember
Telling of my existence from birth to ember

Some tell of great sadness and past sorrow,
Wishing at times there be no tomorrow
Would that I could erase the pages of pain
But I wrote the script, the hopes I have slain

My book of self justice, my meaningless account
Can only be measured by me, for myself is all I flout
My book has changed me, I am no longer unbending
But somebody else will have to write the ending