Books

Are made of up sweet-smelling ink and paper

That are so saturated with potential

They are weapons

My hands ache to weave a tapestry with silk threads of words

A story that would tear at the reader's soul

A story that would draw water from the driest wells

A story that people would set down and say

"That changed my life"

I want to be feared for the tremendous power these

Hands hold, for

These hands hold the lives of letters you've fallen in love with

Letters you've poured your heart into

And with these hands

I could crush them

That is the fear I command

That is the fear I want people to feel with feverish excitement

As they pick up a bundle of

Sweet-smelling ink and paper

With my name emblazened upon its hideous face