My Life is an Open Book

Here’s the full-length poem in 168 lines (first person, lyrical, deeply motivational):

My Life is an Open Book

by Vijay Sharma Erry

My life is an open book,
Not hidden away in a secret nook.
Each page is worn, yet filled with grace,
A mirror of time, a fleeting place.

It led me through each winding turn,
Through nights of sorrow, days to learn.
Every corner whispered, every street,
A journey of failure, a chance to meet.

I’ve walked through valleys, dark and deep,
Carried dreams I could not keep.
But every loss became a line,
Etched in this book that’s truly mine.

The chapters held both love and pain,
The taste of sunshine, the sting of rain.
Each trial a sentence, bold and long,
Each victory written like a song.

I turned the pages one by one,
Through rising moon, through setting sun.
At times the ink was blurred with tears,
At times with hope across the years.

Some pages spoke of youthful fire,
Of boundless dreams, of pure desire.
I chased horizons, far and wide,
With nothing but courage as my guide.

But other pages, soft and worn,
Spoke of the days my heart was torn.
Of nights I feared the world was cold,
Of broken trust, of truths untold.

Yet even there, in darkest line,
A hidden light would still define,
That every shadow, fierce and near,
Would carve a strength to fight my fear.

The book is open, never closed,
A tale of paths I never chose.
Yet somehow, walking, step by stride,
I found the stars that burned inside.

I wrote of friendships, sweet and rare,
Of voices warm, of souls who care.
They marked my chapters, bright with gold,
Their laughter stories yet retold.

I wrote of love, both lost and found,
Of fleeting echoes, soft resound.
A chapter kissed by passion’s flame,
Another lost to sorrow’s name.

I wrote of places, far and near,
Of mountains vast, of skies so clear.
Each journey taught me where I stand,
Each footprint shaped by foreign land.

I wrote of silence, still and calm,
Of healing wounds with nature’s balm.
Of rivers singing, wide and free,
Of oceans teaching depth to me.

And in between, the lessons stayed,
Of choices made, of prices paid.
The ink of time would never lie,
It marked the “how,” it marked the “why.”

Some pages whisper, “You were weak,”
Some pages shout, “You dared to speak.”
Some pages show a tender heart,
Some pages tear that heart apart.

Yet through it all, this book of mine,
Unfolds a tale both raw, divine.
For every corner, every bend,
Has taught me more than any end.

The margins filled with notes of prayer,
Of whispered hope, of hidden care.
The footnotes speak of second chance,
Of fate, of luck, of circumstance.

I see the pages yet to turn,
The fires still waiting yet to burn.
Blank spaces call me, pure and white,
Inviting me to shape the night.

And as I write, I understand,
That destiny rests in my hand.
The book is open—bold, unplanned,
Yet every word is who I am.

I am no stranger to the fall,
I’ve stumbled, broken, through it all.
But every stumble wrote a line,
That strengthened both this heart of mine.

Some pages sing of victory won,
Of battles fought, of races run.
Some pages cry of bitter loss,
Of bridges burned, of heavy cost.

Yet none are wasted, none erased,
Each page of life is rightly placed.
For even sorrow has its role,
In shaping one’s immortal soul.

The book has chapters yet untold,
Of silver dreams and streaks of gold.
Of love reborn, of joy to find,
Of peace that rests in heart and mind.

So if you read this book of mine,
You’ll find no page without a sign.
Of all the trials, hopes, and fears,
That marked my days, across the years.

And when the final page is turned,
When lessons taught, when bridges burned,
May it be said, with gentle look,
“I lived it well—my open book.”