Letters burned into pages contain the rages
Of writers who have no escape
But by way of pencil and paper
Their savior before thoughts collide
Inside their heads, an inevitable car crash
Of internal musing smashing together,
Forming words onto thin gray sheets
Made by machines of mass production.
Words attack like dogs of instinct,
Distinct in every character and mood
Hungry for food to fuel its reason
For living season after season
Aimless in goal, blameless in action.
I'm hurled to a world where
Ink outlined people carry me
Past columns of imagination
Creations only the mind can conceive,
A place I never wish to leave,
The world given by a writer through a book
Living its life within my palms.