Your pages so crisp like the dead fallen leaves

that like to go crunch with the chill Autumn breeze,

What else should I turn to whenever I'm sad. 

Your fantastical worlds. Oh, they make me mad, 

for an escape from this world, please take me from here. 

The smell of your ink, printed and pressed,

somehow calms me when I am stressed. 

It is a magical thing, holy and blessed, 

when words on a page come out and are dressed. 

Dressed as in they're here for me, 

but when I blink, where should they be? 

I have not lived one, but i have lived many,

when books in my life have made me full and plenty. 

Feelin' good with a book in my hand

nothin' is calmer than words in my head.