I find I love her.
My biographer. Who
wouldn’t?
So many important questions to ponder;
so many answers only I can give.
My thoughts are a gold mine.;
my travels, her outline.
She wants to know my soul,
my sins, my giving
in.
When I worry, she sees the slippery slope
when I succeed, she sees all mankind’s hope.
She records each word I breathe;
for this endeavor, I am challenged just to please.
I no longer want the book
I cede my secrets and my trust
to this wordsmith minister.
I want to spill every little thing to this, my listener.
All is naught, I cast it all aside.
To express my story, I lose myself--
too in love with the myth
my biographer and I create.
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