A Threaded Soul Mapped Within a Heart

I have a dream

Of holding a book in my hands,

Running my fingers over the pages,

Crisp and fresh,

The white only lasting an inch

Or two,

Before being invaded by black ink

Spelling out my thoughts,

My emotions and my questions,

Knowing the words will be read

By people I don’t even know,

With my name

Stretched across the cover,

Looking like a real author,

Because if my dream comes true,

I guess I will be.

I will be a writer

Who wears rings upon my fingers,

Each one inspiring,

Each a metaphor or simile,

A rhyme or personification,

Giving ideas,

Their glitter

Composing verses within my mind,

Before filling the possibility

That is a blank white page.

The adventures,

The stories I spell out

Will become engraved in hearts,

Mapped out between the veins,

Rooting themselves

Within the deepest crevices,

The loneliest arteries,

Becoming one of the main things

That make human life possible,

Because hope

Is as necessary as air,

And a reason to live

Is what truly makes us human,

And a dream for your future

Can be drawn from words,

Picked apart paragraphs,

Disentangled essays.

My fingertips

Will be hardened by callouses,

Well earned from pencils,

Pens and keys

That left their mark,

Both on my outside,

And twisted along with my soul,

Being threaded with some parts of myself,

And myself being threaded 

With some parts of them.