Oh, how many nights have found me like this –
Clutching a book in my hand,
Caught in the entangling web
Of someone else’s mind.
I do so love the way people think.
I lose myself in their musings,
In the way they arrange letters
And send them spilling out onto paper.
Oh, how many times has midnight discovered me
Racing around, mad out of my mind
Attempting to catch every single word
Dripping from the tip of an author’s pen,
So that I may bathe in their richness,
Like droplets of ambrosia
Washing the scars
From my skin,
That’s the funny thing about
Writers, you know.
They have no idea
What they’ve done to you.
They go about their lives
Of the way their hands
Have twisted and turned you
And wrung you out like
Water from a towel,
Their stories screaming
Across your eyes,
Dying by their