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My life is a fever dream. Characters fade in and out, most of whom I'm not sure ever existed in the first place, faint bruises around my wrists that remind me of all the people who wouldn't
Fresh new book opens wide and swallows me whole!Taking time to acclimate I catch my breath,Focusing as scenes and characters unfoldTo instill memories of their length and breadth.
Two twins named Chantelle with buckets and bells took to the road to scoop from the well   bending right over, Chantelle, who, quite sober, slipped off the end and tumbled and fell
Those tear stained pages. Those words. Those characters. That home.
My fingers graze the back of the page on which I spilled my soul. I run them over the indentations where my pen carved my feelings into the pure, white, sheet. How is it that such an act could be considered normal?
  Have you ever smelt magic On the pages of books?
    I have an innovative mind One with many characters and personalities My friends are imaginary, a figment of my dreams They come alive as I write on the pages inside a blank notebook of my alter worlds.
The chilly voice in your ear. The sharp smile in the dark. A cruel and smart predator. A dark Cheshire cat hiding in the shadows. When you look in her eyes you are unnerved But you don't know why.
This is my happy place, where no one else can intrude, This is my happy place, where characters are all of my own making Man, woman, child, teen, mermaid, dragon, toaster It doesn't matter here, because they're all mine
I’m sorry I apologize for all that I make you go through The torture The heartbreak The madness, the sadness I did it all for a cause In hopes that your antics and misadventure would bring
“She’s girly,” say the purple walls in her bedroom and porcelain dolls in her dollhouse bookshelf. “Not that girly,” reply the t-shirts and pants in her closet.
The creaky, half-snapped sidewalk chalk talks out the problems of my lonesome childhood. My thickly-marked, Fruit-Loop colorings and blurred characters console me about my constant house-swapping because
Pen on paper, Black on white, Alone and bored on that day I reached inward And created a few companions, They laughed and played On sun-lit beaches As I smiled and looked on I gave my creations
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