A poet with a poem purely made of glass
Holds on to it dearly as each day shall pass
Waiting for that moment to simply let it go
For the poem will only shatter onto the minds who wish to know.

i creased the cover of my book today,
my heart shattered at the sight.

Life is a story.
Every day is a new chapter with new characters and interests.
Every day is a chance to move the story along, introduce a new conflict to keep your readers hooked.

Life is an adventure novel.
Each page is used to tell your journey through life, to let the reader live through you.
Even if you wish you were the reader and not the protagonist.
Even if you feel like you are your own antagonist.

Life wasn’t supposed to be a romance novel.
He wasn’t supposed to waltz in and become your Christian Gray, your Edward or Jacob.
He wasn’t supposed to mean so much to you.
You wonder if your author is playing a joke on you.

Who took the story and changed the genre so drastically?
Maybe it was always a romance, and you were just too blind.
Maybe all the guys you helped on your adventures were possible soulmates.

Maybe he decided the genre should change.

But he can’t be your Edward; your Christian Gray.
He was written into someone else’s story already. This is no romance novel, no.
This is a heart-breaking adventure where the protagonist just wants to get through life.

I just want to get through life.

Each morn, I sow
a quest-in mind,
resolved to find,
a handsome home,
‘low golden glow,
or wood entwined,
one springs to mind.
What place I’ll go
in morning throes
to bury blind
this heart of mine,
I never know.

The midnight ink.
Perfectly dabbled upon the printed page
Or written,
I don’t discriminate.

The breath I feel in each turned page,
And the life in my fingertips
As they brush
The timid paper.

My thoughts,
Flowing blissfully by
In harmony
With the black type.

The lamp next to me,
Providing necessary lumination
For my endeavor.
A beacon of hope in the black room.

That is peace.