Through The Noise

Writing, Reading, and Me in Between

When I went
home that night,
the books on my shelf
sang to me,
darling,
hold us in your hands
flip our pages
where you'll get lost
but still be found.
Wander these worlds
created by words.
And if you are weary,
lie on the grass and flowers
adorning my valley.

And when I sat
on my bed
the pen chanted,
honey,
imprison me
within your sleek fingers,
glide me over
the surface of paper.
Stitch the letters together,
weave the rhyme,
free yourself from
the chaos of your mind.

And I laughed
like everything
was a comical joke.
The pen says,
let go,
the books say,
forget.
And I laughed some more,
neither was easy,
I responded.