Books are be my escape from reality
The words in black ink on their pages,
Are more addicting than drugs.
I long for the comfort and relaxation that lies within them.

I try to write them myself
But books and stories tend to write themselves.
I can see a film in my head
But the words used to describe what I see come from instincts.
They come from the dreams I can’t remember,
The memories that I know are there,
But that I never really think about.

I’m a black hole. I suck everything in,
Then spit it back out, whenever I choose.

Writing is my therapy, books are my drug.

When I think of myself,
I’m reminded of the Forgotten Stable boy,
Who dreams of grand things, never to come.
I imagine my future, sitting in a cubicle,
Dreaming of my beautiful prince who will never appear.
The future really is the most unknown variable.

I’ll end up being the writer, who stands on a street corner,
Trying to sell the books no one will publish.

There will be those that will pity me,
Try to take what I have to give.
But they won’t read it and they won’t care.

Hypocrite city.

I feel like a rag doll, torn this way and that.
Feeling elation turned to sorrow.
Happiness coming in waves.
All the other emotions fight to get a chance at my heart.
Do you ever feel like there’s more than just this life waiting for you?
I can only hope, pray, wish,
I can only dream and believe,
I can only Read.