Come in, come in!
And welcome to my home!
The cover is beaten and torn, yes, but inside it's wonderful.
Don't mind the porch, it's in need of repairs,and paint,
Maybe just scrap it and build a new one.
Come in, come in!
Settle down anywhere, the carpet or bed,
I have found that with this many books,
I can build a throne or two, maybe even a table
And still have one more book to read.
I am a hoarder of books,
Some of these I have read, and some not.
Some of these I have written, but some I bought.
Some of these are journals, but many are worlds of their own.
Each one you see, and even some you don't, are my home.
My work and fortune goes into these texts.
They are my bread and water, my passion and love.
I am a traveler, facing rough roads you see,
But the path is less distressing
With a novel as my companion.
These books carry ghosts,
Neither good nor evil.
Characters that are like you and I,
Living and breathing as normal people would,
But they never die.
I am friends with these books, and acquaintances with their authors.
Yes, I know Wilde, Rowling, Poe, and even Chaucer.
I dare say that Shakespeare is my closest friend.
I know their hearts and dreams, and I discuss with them as well,
Through their life's work.
Gather with me to the table--
If you'd like to be specific, THAT pile of books.
I am but a woman, worn by the world.
Sadly, I fear revealing my true self to you in my state,
but I could never lie to my journal.
These words aren't who I am,
They are symbols and phrases that have no masks.
My heart is captured in paper and pen
and you will know me when you finish this book.
There are a million others around!
There are a million books I have written in,
I don't mind giving you just one.
Every journal I fill
I find myself.