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New ones, soft, thin, smell like a new magazine. To a jail? A hell? A cage? No To a library, gather the knowledge, read the books. One, the book of life, we do not read. We write. This new year, this new passage.
Right in front of me is a different world, a different land. A different story, a true best friend. A place where I can be anyone or anything.
The breeze flutters the inked pages softly, A reader’s gaze follows every a word.   Nose stuck in a book, in hand a coffee, Far off places and new worlds most unheard.  
Aching hands Bloodied taste Bottle caps Dirty clothes Ink stains Letters returned Old tears  Broken heart Music blaring but yet still unheard: The price to pay to fill these pages 
I first checked you out in school. I don’t know what caught my eye But it doesn’t matter because I was too shy And let you pass by for the fear you were “too intellectual.”
When the summer sets and the last pages are closed put me in postscript.
I.  Am. A reader. A starry-eyed dreamer Who holds worlds in her hands on a daily basis Escaping from the hum-drum to a mythical oasis. I'm a devotee of words, a disciple.
Smile please... Really, to say the truth I don't know what to write.. I'm not a great person like you to impress... I hope there is no gifts for you, other than my few words in this four papers...
You. You were a blank page A compendium of blank pages, Bound together and stained by the madness of life To tell a story with rings of coffee and ink, Or even ashes.
If life is like an open book, My pages are made of glass. As I carefully make each turn, Time continues to pass. A rip is like a crack, In the story of my life. Any kind of peril,
I have a smallish voice. It carries the weight of massive expression, But bears it alone.   My visions detonate in the world around me, They scatter and end up in every corner
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