This is the third of such pages I've hidden
              Written on days when I'm feeling bedridden
              When I contemplate riddles and fiddle with thoughts
              And whittle away at my innermost knots

              I don't know who you are
              I don't know why you're here
              I don't know if your stars feel fuzzy or clear
              But I do know you're nearing through sheer perseverance
              An engineered rearing of your spirit's appearance

              You've been steering yourself down a path of your choosing
              Pockmarked by signposts of thoughts you're perusing
              Building the castles that stand on the hills
              Of horizons that shine with your innermost thrills
              And pour with the scores of musical passion
              You store in the cores of the morals you've fashioned
              And ration in everyday actions you gush
              That may as well be a magical brush
              That paints out the portrait you secretly store
              You act like an actor... but you're so much more~!*

              As a matter of fact, you're a writer of dreams
              In a secretive language that so often seems
              Like simple emotions, twisting in oceans inside of your skin
              The world that's outside you is forming within!

              Pay heed to the knots that you've tied in your middles
              Contemplate thoughts that arise from these riddles
              Translate the words in this story you've written
              This is the third of such pages I've hidden