With a pen on my right,
Much have i wrote,
Stories of past and present,
Of the sun and rain.
Assorted tales of my past,
Of this life i cherish,
Some stories i can never erase,
Inked to a chapter.
When stories read again,
Memories flows like ink from
my pen,
Some chapters are best left
on the shelf,
While some read with fondness.
The permanent stain it holds,
Etches a lifetime of tales,
Bit by bit i pen down my life,
Upon a piece of paper called
memories.
