Your jeans are the baggy kind,

With ripped knees,

And frayed cuffs,

And your hair,

Is the prettiest brown,

Black,

Barely going past your shoulders.

You often wear white cotton t-shirts,

Which are always stained,

By ink at the end of the day,

From your black typewriter,

With yellowed keys,

And well-oiled metal parts.

You have a black yarn bracelet,

On your left wrist,

Which has one word,

“Evoke.”

Your bedroom,

Is a wonderful mess of old books,

Thick paper,

With half-finished calligraphy quotes,

And thick knitted socks.

Old mugs that once held hot cocoa,

And warm milk,

Sit on your desk,

And your favorite,

Once-white chunky crocheted blanket,

It hung over the desk chair.

Thick and squat mason jars,

Hold your collection of pens,

With varying points,

Of thickness,

In colors like deep ruby red,

And inky midnight black.

One mason jar,

Which is slightly dusty,

Holds a few arrows,

From your old archery contests,

And an old hunting horn,

From your great-grandfather,

Sits on a cluttered bookshelf.

A paperweight of a ship,

Pins down a few stray papers,

On one side of your desk,

While half-finished projects,

Occupy the other half.

There is some sort,

Of method to this madness,

Because you find your way around,

With practiced ease.

And you seem to always,

Drift back to one project,

Which you are working on,

In a ruby red pen,

With a thin tip,

As you write,

“Don’t let your happiness,

Depend on something,

You may lose.”

By C.S. Lewis.

And you know,

That as soon as it is finished,

It will be shoved into the spare room,

In the eves of the house,

Because your wall,

Only has enough room,

For so much,

And it is already full,

Of poetry,

Quotes,

And illustrations,

About a land,

Which you only find,

Inside your head.