Books.

Let’s be proud as writers, and readers.

Pen, paper and ink,
No time to blink,
Creating worlds full of colour,
With mere black and white words.

A detective all stressed,
This case was all messed.
Who stole the jewels?
And who is the murderer?
The reader would be a wonderer.

And a true story, so appealing,
Of a prisoner, a soldier, a king.
Non-fiction catching everyone off guard,
Sometimes leaving some scarred.

Fantasy to enthrall everyone,
Monsters, wizards, it’s all fun.
The different spells and languages,
Spread across so many pages.

How can we forget poetry?
The essence and the symphony.
Sometimes in rhythm, sometimes not,
Short or long, it means a lot.

Caught between the pages,
Are these different worlds,
It’s all up to you,
Where you choose to go.

Taking you away from reality,
All the lines and dialogues, so witty
Engrossed into these books,
Can’t get off the hook.

 

A/N: I had written this back in time. Wanted to write something new, but I have absolutely nothing in me alive right now to pen down. Maybe in a day or two, I could write about the nothingness I feel at this moment. Maybe I’ll survive ๐Ÿ™‚

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