Who am I?
Who am I? I'm the fragments of the books I read, Of pages ever so crooked, but print still fine. Sometimes fantasy, sometimes non-fiction, And sometimes the disturbingly horrific genre, that keeps you up at night, clutching your sheets tightly to you heart, hoping that none of your vulnerability would seep through the fabric. I'm the songs that I listen to, Songs that you sometimes hate, Songs that you sometimes love. Songs that you pretend to hate for the sake of worldly approval. Songs that you call stupid, but then cry listening to at night. Songs that you would never even give a chance to. I'm pieces of the Café that I often like to visit, Only to drink hot chocolate, on a hot summer evening. I'm places, where grass fails to grow, damaged beyond repair. I'm someone you desire me to be, Almost but not quite. I'm all the stars in the night sky, That wishes to be seen, Almost but not quite. That makes no difference, Nevertheless, ceases to exist, Almost but