I'm no great thinker like Dickens or Poe,
I'm more scared than many who know me may know,
I've no talent for words like the great Bronte two,
But I'm drenched in such worlds that will never be true.
I live not by my life, for I've far too much fear,
But instead by the lives that I dream, see, and hear.
I've a heart that still pulses and bleeds as it should,
But the rhythm beats weaker than I'm sure it could
If reality would shut its doors and leave me
To my thoughts, and to worlds that won't actually be.
I prefer isolation to this world I'm in,
Where it's blinding and loud and where no one can win.
I exist inside fiction and art, and I'll stay,
For it's comfortable here, where I'm warm and okay,
And where no one can hurt me, or touch me, or dare
To admit I'm unworthy of notice or care.
When I'm lost in the words that construct this dimension,
I am safe among people of careful invention,
And I live the life I maniacally crave,
Where there's true love, real magic, and I'm actually brave.
See, I live in the plots of the fiction I love,
For reality fits like a far-too-tight glove,
And it's bored to me to madness, so I'm forced to flee
To the world of sweet lies, where I need not be me.