Scriptwriter

I was never able

 to sing a song,

I would always

input words

that didn’t belong.

And while I thought

I might captivate,

It always ended in failure,

for my voice wasn’t great.

Realising I would never

be able to confess

I decided to try

another avenue to impress.

I picked up a pen

and let it lead me astray,

To rewrite me

memories of yesterday.

Back to a time

when I was young and naïve,

a web of lies

 I could easily weave.

My personal history

looks a lot brighter

now that I am

my own scriptwriter.

person uses pen on book
Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

 

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