What is it to you,
A piece of paper with words on it.
But to me a photograph of my thoughts,
As they flit across my mind.
But to me a way to record what I remember of these darts,
Flying across a canvas that has been overwritten time and again,
And I can’t discover anyone,
What has already transpired.
So to me,
A memoir it becomes of vague phrases and sentences trying to make sense.
To you, just a sheet of paper,
To me, the beginning of everything.