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A poem about the magic that only books can provide.

By Sydney DowlingPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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Photo Credit: The Hidden Sage

It is a magical object.

It is sharp pages, each threatening to cut me

As I flip through them, devouring the words

On every page, going too fast to absorb them.

It is the smell of the paper that I’ve been told

Is a mix of chocolate and coffee. To me, it is

Peace, comfort, warmth, a safe space.

It is vibrant colors crowding covers and jackets,

Pictures peppering the front, description on the back;

Should I read the summary?

It is worn leather or paper, rough then smooth against

My fingers, lots of them stretching and pulling

Down my bookbag like a ton of bricks.

It is escaping into someone else’s reality;

Such an enticing idea, but is it possible?

To forget your own life by becoming someone else?

It is possible. I’ve done it before, shedding my own skin,

Wrapping myself in the stories of another author,

Another character. Sometimes I lose myself completely.

It is a paper cut, the pain in my finger bringing me back to reality.

inspirational
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About the Creator

Sydney Dowling

I'm a Junior majoring in English Literature and minoring in Creative Writing. I love to write, read, play with my dog, and go to Auburn football games!

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