Found myself sweating in the darkness of my room. Got up and it was only me in this so- called 'home'. There was a book I've read that defined home as a place where you can find happiness and where your love ones at. I thought it was true, but I forgot that it was just in a book after all. You do acknowledge what a writer can do, right?
There's a saying that can relate to this poem in someways; "If a writer falls in love with you, you're not gonna die"