It was a world made up
A story line exaggerated
Thoughts of an author written
A beautiful semantic on paper.
It's a way to escape
Not just pain, happiness and feelings
It's to escape reality as a whole
A getaway better than Nevada.
The book made me a sheikha
A princess one time, then a vampire next
Most times someone just in love
But every character I read, I live for.
At first it helped to forget pain
Then it made me happy
After that, I can't seem to stop
It seems the book is addicting to a fault.
Well maybe not the book itself
Maybe it's the stories
Sometimes I think it's the story plot
But whichever, I think the book helps forget.
The book is something I can always hold
Like an anchor to a ship who wishes to be still
A rock to a paper that's weightless
Or maybe it can be a god of some sorts.
My addiction to the book is frantic
I praise it like an eager pagan
Knowing it's wrong does not hinder me
This is the book that gave me back my sanity.
Don't argue if it's bad or good
Because one can never tell for sure
If the book is saving me
Or maybe the book is silently killing me.