In my dreams are books,

and many ink-filled pens in nooks,

in a room sunlit, with not an artificial light lit.

Mind you, the room must look out,

onto a field where butterflies fly out and about.

Big windows, a soft breeze,

where I can just bend my knees,

and get down to work,

get down to write, on a low shelf,

or a table, munching on a Perk.

I can splash some paint onto a wall,

write on it, or paint on it endless scrawls.

Where I can unleash my imagination,

to no bounds at all.

There will be words, and sentences hanging,

and the smell of fresh paper in the air,

no limits, no restrictions, no deadlines,

and none of those annoying word counts. 

No paragraphs, no justifications,

I’ll write as I like, without a care,

without any second thoughts,

without noise, without distraction,

just me and my thoughts,

thrown into the endless paths,

of my imagination.


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