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My pen is my transport,
My paper, my portal.
The moment they touch,
I end up somewhere else:
The late victorian age with
a story of tragic romance,
a mystical realm
with the most fantastical lore.
Perhaps the roaring twenties,
Or the age of rebirth,
Maybe classical Greece,
Or somewhere else—
It doesn't even have to exist!
I could do whatever
My heart desires
With just paper and a pen,
And some inspiration in mind...
I find true solace when I write.
Just this thing I wrote after finishing ALL my homework
I want to lay my head
On a woman's warm lap—
To feel her soft lips
Against my chapped own.
The pink and purple sky
Glowing against her hair
In a garden full of violets
I'll wander with her someday...
I know I haven't posted in a while and oh also I dont know if I'll continue my series
Homework, homework,
Pouring out onto me.
There, they all work,
while I hyper-fixate on poetry.

O, peer pressure,
I'm not good enough.
Nothing will give them pleasure,
They think my hard work's only bluff.

Sleep deprivation,
I only rest for four hours.
Not enough motivation,
And no more brain power.

And just like a candle,
I get burnt out.
This is all I could handle,
Do not be in doubt.
Based on my (possibly) ADHD cause I'm so stressed right now :')

— The End —