Books. 

Covering shelves,never collecting dust

Corners of pages bent and worn, covers faded and torn

Books are what make me tick

Constantly comparing my life to the classic novels, comparing situation to scene

Books make me a weirdo

Books make my imagination run wild, the antics written by Brontë, Austen and Dumas all taking turns in parading on my reality 

I have no true reality

My life is fiction, I can no longer tell what is real or imaginative 

Books isolate me from the world

Days are passed being shut-up in my room reading my worn copies of Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights, Hamlet

My dream man is a mash-up of the Count of Monte Cristo, Darcy and Heathcliff

My enemy is reality

Books monopolize my time 

Turning a day into an hour

An hour into a nanosecond

Books keep me lighthearted

Books keep me entertained

books keep me, me