When I think too much and say too little,
and end up feeling strange and mental,
I pull a book that smells of dust,
and bury deep in those inked rusts,
and find my thoughts are not alone —
In fact they’re made to feel welcomed,
as if the writer knew my dreams,
and wrote of realms and magic things,
and all those shady hidden thoughts
have surfaced up like bubble pops, ah! —
How fun and lovely is a friend
That speaks to you with ink and pen.
Categories: Creative Writing, poems, poetry, prose | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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