I spend my days bent over a stack of papers all kept in a bind.
On the front of this stack there are colours, a name, even a few words.
But these don't matter.
It's the words that fill the crisp white pages, the inked letters that make up something my heart yearns for more than anything.
A story.
A place in which I come up with images in my head of people and places and conversations. These people are my friends and I will follow them all over the world.
Whether it be to a castle, a hospital, or the open plains. We will travel to the paper towns and bring down a society and learn magic that was thought not to exist. In these beautiful pages I have my first kiss and I deal with the loss of a friend and I learn something about myself I never knew. We will dive into oceans and travel back in time. We reach for the stars while still trying to keep our feet on the ground.
I will laugh and cry and most of all love these images of people and places and conversations. These people are my friends and I have followed them all over the world.
But it was only a story.
Only bent white pages and black typed letters that made up something that took me somewhere I'd never been before.
But they mattered.
I shut this stack and stare at the colours, the name, and read again and again the few words.
I spent my days bent over a stack of papers all kept in a bind.
And I lost myself in them.
...
In case you couldn't tell this poem is about what it's like for me when I read. I loose myself in the stories and people and places. I sometimes spend an entire day wrapped up in a fictional place. When I finish, I know that these are in fact just stories. But I prefer these stories over the reality I'm living in.
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Poetrythese are the things i wish i was able to say out loud. but because i can't here are the words that pass through my mind the words no one listens to because they'll never get the chance. . {highest ranking #98 in poetry}
