Maybe my mind is a typewriter,

and the ink is the blood in my veins.

In that case I've got a lot of books,

that decorate the dusty shelves of my brain.

There are documents on people I've met,

it's a mix of both good and bad.

And there are stories telling lessons I've learned,

they can be both happy and sad.

In aisle four you'd find the genre of fantasy,

consisting of every dream that I've ever had.

And if you go to the corner there's nonfiction,

from when reality stabbed my imagination in the back.

I've got an old librarian too,

though she's not as grumpy as you'd expect.

Perhaps she's just gotten used to all the havoc,

that my inner demons have ever wrecked.

But overall it's pretty welcoming,

the library that thrives in my mind.

There are some sofas over there in the back,

and a couple million books with all the numbers combined.

So feel free to come right in,

this brain is open twenty-four seven.

And while it can sometimes get a little dark,

it's truly my own little version of heaven.

So I'll get you a cup of coffee,

or a pastry if caffeine isn't your thing.

Heck let's even open a cafe,

in this wacko library that I call my brain.