If I were to write a book, the words would prescribe me a dosage of self help.

If I were to read that book, the words would listen and diagnose me meaning, whilst I’m kicking and screaming

If I were to read aloud the book, it would say, “They call me a rain cloud”

What if I was the book, the book would say:

I’ll be your thimble: But I’ll let the needle ***** you on the thumb for your sense of reality

Sew your tears for torn premises lost in a fear of what’s out their.

Cover thy hand past the rugged fingers, “fear not, for I am that stitch to heal all open fissures.  Come, weep and cry out for me.  I’m waiting.”