It’s strange how the smell of paper
And ink is like a drug, something I try to get away from, but really can’t.
How the sentences, like words woven into emotions, make my eyes rain,
And my soul bathe in my tears.
How I want to hold that cardboard clad with paper close to my heart.
Like it keeps it together.
And this makes me question the worth given to words.
Words, they’re the fillers in our hollow, fake, phony lives.
And words stringed into stories are healers like I’ve never known.
Words are nothing but stardust in the form of ink,
Ready to change the basic makeup of our being.
They make you and they break you.
And books, these are what hold me down to earth more than gravity ever could, yet make me want to fly so high.
Books, they’re my happy place — and my death bed.



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