What am I for, if not to write?
What else helps me sleep at night?
When there isn't a ticket in my hand,
A book is where I find that new land,
The world is a heavy weight to bare,
But my bookshelf, I can escape there,
To dream a world of buttercups,
Rainbow raindrops and Dalmatian pups,
Ride the backs of dragons and centaurs,
Now that is one of my favourite tours,
Over sand-dunes and talk to mice,
Little teardrops will just turn to ice,
A forgotten heart can feel again,
Learn of other loves, other men,
Blackened mind weary of the everyday,
Now here she is, out to play.
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