I wanted a story to call my own,
A perfect tale for the world to be shown,
Something to make you cry in vain,
Then lift you up in mirth again.
A story well planned yet fierce and wild,
Resilient as a newborn child,
A touch of magic, a trace of pain,
Moments that wound, yet heal again.
But as the years kept passing by,
I learned that life is neither shy
Nor tender, gentle, soft, or mild
Its twists are ruthless and misaligned
The flow is tangled, rough, and wild,
The ending yet to be compiled.
Each moment intense, each choice unknown,
The path ahead is mine alone.
So now I take each day in stride,
A book unwritten, open wide.
What comes next, no soul can say,
And maybe it is best that way.