When sadness is brought to my conscience,
I search for the forest of books.

Because then I may drown my mind,
away from those atrocious looks.

For in the aftermath of staying in these walls,
boredom lives in these dark and thoughtless halls.

Halls which should have always been filled,
with a mirthful and laughter-inducing yield.

But here sadness consecutively weeps,
so I delve my mind into each stormy genre.

Away from the madness that seeps,
like the haunting presence of my contender.

Whilst the morning refuses to believe my innocence,
the sun sets over the moon in effervescence.

As in the room of this librarian breeze,
here my safety haven lies.

And my diverse degrees of insecurities,
have already wept, have already cried.

Because in these explicit books,
my imagination cries out to success.

So unorthodoxly enigmatic with words,
soaking into the pages over which I obsess.