he wrote about
her and
made her
immortal.


-- Eleanor

Oh to journey to a far away place,
Never leaving the safety of my home.
The plot escalates, my heart starts to race.
When I read a book, my mind’s free to roam.

Oh to place myself in another’s shoes,
Like dueling a troll in an epic fight,
Or flying on a broomstick, if I choose.
I can view the world in a different light.

No matter the plot, or the length of the tale,
Finishing a book’s like losing a friend.
Even reading at the pace of a snail,
The best of stories still come to an end.

The narrative becomes a part of you.
It allows you to view the world anew.

there are so many words
wrapped up in my brain
they're tightening up
and its causing me pain

i want them to go
i scream and i shout
but despite all my efforts
they just won't come out

i try to go in
and decipher them all
but i am ****** in
i begin to fall

sometimes i feel too much
sometimes i feel too little
i wish i could stay in that happy place
that lies right in the middle

when i feel too much
it's a torrent of emotion
a downpour of epic proportion
and i pray for it to end

yet when it does i don't feel enough
i'm numb, frozen, depressed.
I then pray for this to end
and i'd do anything to feel again

so i'm stuck in this happy limbo
never feeling quite right
like goldilocks in the three bear's house
i can't sleep at night

So this is how the dreamer dies,
like awakening---
a vague and fading
recollection of the yesteryears and
the sleep sinks around the backside of the eyes
where it haunts the mind in
mirror images.
The vividity of living fades to grey and
all is calm, all is
monochromatic.
And so the dreamer dies, like falling back asleep.