If our lives were story books,

We’d see ourselves in a different way,

Would we rip out all the worst pages?

Or check in the end, if it’s all okay?

Would we burn our most shameful chapters?

And scribble out each regret?

Being able to change who we are,

Makes our value too easy to forget.

All of us have bad days,

And imperfections we hate more than the rest,

But if we ripped out our identities,

There’d only be a few pages left.

Every word in our books is priceless,

And from each sentence we can grow,

So don’t try to erase any parts of you,

Like the ink, let your life flow.