We are the facilitators of our own creation

Open the handbook, page to page, chapter to chapter.
Clues, yet clueless.
Torn/hidden.
Mind full of chatter, will she shatter?
Bolts and nails hold objects of desire, is that what is nessisary?
Is she here to build the brightest buildings or possibly feed the poor?
Craving direction, surprisingly.
Her book she continues to fill.
Pages to be burnt however they remain as reflections of red flames.
Why conceal it?
Maybe heal it.