in which i live in text on paper

how daft of me

thinking i could remain in 'a world of fiction'

castles woven by someone else's mind,

a book's spine i see as no different from mine, 

pixie dust for rice grain, mystic ink rivers 

(delve in deep,you'll find treasure chests hiding heartbeats)

velvet hardback covers as alabaster blankets and sheets—

that if i read slowly enough

reality could cease to exist

and i could ease myself into a far-away home

first-person stories 

giving me a chance to be someone else

a fraction of a day being a parallel universe of me;

only an ideal that i could dream to be:

a protagonist reaching the greener side of things,

a variety of good and bad, jagged and silk-smooth skin,

butterfly-winged-stomachs, flower seed eyes,

wonders growing inside of this body, clear skies,

with personality of appeal and interest, not of a repellant

sword-wielding, wand-waving,

strongly fighting, purpose finding, 

feeding off of curiosity, never held back by gravity, 

everything-else-things too good to be defined as part of me, 

a less lonely me,

a witty-but-wisdom-filled me,

a happy me,

a better me.

now i fear having to close the book,

in denial that all stories must come to its end.

how detrimental it feels to have to separate myself

from these ink-blood characters, from my friends

they've understood me better than i have on my own.

how bittersweet this is,

but i still choose to write endlessly

about different places that would never be but could be

(only remnants of those are in this tangible world;

the good in the bad, as i'd like to perceive)

maybe you could tie me to a balloon,

unfurl the invisible wings

that i could escape this life—a hullabaloo,

float away with the pages of a paper world

be a tad too close to the sunbut at least i'll be burnt long before literature ceases to exist.

(but i think, even then,

i'd still diminish myself as a minor character

lacking development, not much of an interest;

maybe i just need to be kind to myself.)