The Help.

Prowled round the edge of the gorse layer
Wild pear trees, thick winter air
Old leaves dead around my feet
Picked up a Fitzgerald book, took my seat.

The words started to grow on me inchmeal
Desired if it could all be real.
Not mere books, but sustained the life in me
Legitimized the freedom to become what in actuality I couldn’t be.

Late in the damp December afternoon
Cold mists creeping, and darkness waiting to sink in from above
With the adventures I could never have and people I couldn’t be,
I fell in love.

There was a bit of yellowness where the sun was fading away
Wondered how my wounded soul started to sway.
I was a reader that I realized,
With a book in its verisimilitude , the whole world paralyzed.

Same books, old faces, but new was my pain
How I breathed words, as the ground soused with rain.
In that cold, I tried to stay warm while glacial blood flowed through me
Reconsidering vehemently what I wanted to be.

I didn’t know what I wanted to do
Aslan’s Narnian visit maybe, but Harry’s spells were few.
Wasting days frozen in my bed
Obsessing with what’s going on in my head.

Over the internet, that blog, I see a light
Frosty morning, air still, sun was bright
Unfettered with concern, I didn’t know who
Him? Her? The silhouette ? Or was it you?

Reading about his experiences and life
Tore me open, left me red, raw and rife.
Reminded me of everything ever happened to me
Found a purpose, finally at peace, someway it be.

Never did we converse, but we definitely talked
Realization held me together, pessimism, suspicions blocked
Deep awe of words, touched hidden places inside of me
Not a writer, but the writing itself begot me.


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