I'll just go back to my books,

these faithful friends who never lie.

They tell me stories when I need advice.

They comfort me when I cry.



Paper won't break hearts like people do.

Ink won't trigger tears.

These loyal friends will stay with me,

forever, year after year after year.



I'm heading back to my stories,

the voices who speak in my head.

They live forever on paper

long after I am known as dead.



The characters are mine to create.

I'm the one who sets the stage.

These people know me and say what I order

as I write page after page after page.



I'm running back to my paintbrush,

this other world I've found.

The vibrant hues encompass me

as I race toward the ground.



This entire world is mine to make,

be it black or white or colour.

I'll live inside this world in my head

and sketch another and another.



I'm falling out to these melodies,

the songs that reverberate in my soul.

Tears will speak in treble clef,

flooding and filling the hole.



My hands have the power to create

an air that lasts beyond trends.

This music will hide me from a world that hurts

again and again and again.