When I was but a girl,

Pages whispered secrets without a sound,

In worlds of black and white,

Characters quickly became companions,

Springing to life with every word,

Taking me by the hand,

Leading me away, to an escape.

Through realms held together by nothing but a spine,

Stories unfolded, serene,

Their world touching mine, intertwining.

Each story's end brought a quiet sorrow,

A silent goodbye to a piece of my heart.

What a bittersweet journey,

To live 1000 lives,

Yet from the heartache of each ending borrowed,

I died 1000 deaths.

Yet seeds of my own tales, quietly planted,

With pen and hand, I crafted worlds of my own,

Ink spilling forth a river of dreams,

Characters developed from the corners of my mind,

Stories to which there is no ending,

Friends, to whom, There is no forceful goodbye.

Poetry, a rhythm without a beat,

Verses flowing, strength in every line,

Words and chords, together as one,

The guitar's strings a narrative, reflecting my soul.

Words, much more than mere marks on a page,

They are the thread of my existence,

The breath in my lungs, The beat of my heart.

So let the world spin, it’s relentless dance,

For when it’s all over, to dust it shall turn,

But within the written realm, I am infinite.