Pages are potent,

pretend is precious to me

and no matter where these people come from

they sit with me as I pour over their prized poems

Although they aren’t palpable,

If you penetrate my presence,

I’d still bleed for the personas in pages

I meet friends and foes from fictitious tales

I face unfeasible feats in the face,

surrounded by friends who don’t fear things like you and I do

for they’ve fulfilled these tasks before

They’ve fought tooth and nail,

lost friends and gained freedoms,

yet some say this pride I feel for them is not real,

that it can’t be real, because they aren’t

But they are an art of sorts

And art was created to abstract emotion

So why waste your time bursting my bubble?

Why try to ruin a good thing

all because you don’t understand it?

Although they are mere marks on paper to you,

they are everything to me

They encourage me to imagine

to dream

to live

What is a life worth,

particularly one that has been without these things?