The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple.

She has a bookshelf for a heart, And ink runs through her veins, She’ll write you into her story, With the typewriter in her brain, Her bookshelf’s getting crowded, With all the stories that she’s penned, Of the people who flicked through her pages, But closed the book before the end, And there’s one pushed to the very back, That sits collecting dust, With its title in her finest writing, “The One’s Who Lost My Trust”, There are books she’s scared to open, And books she doesn’t close, Stories of every person she’s met, Stretched out in endless rows, Some people have only a sentence, While others once held the main part, Thousands of inky footprints, That they’ve left across her heart, You might wonder why she does this, Why write of people she once knew? But she hopes one day she’ll mean enough, For someone to write about her too.

By Peace Truth

Life is like a bunch of roses. Some sparkle like raindrops. Some fade when there's no sun. Some just fade away in time. Some dance in many colors. Some drop with hanging wings. Some make you fall in love. The beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Life you can be sure of, you will not get out ALIVE.(sorry about that)