This is what happens when I decide to write a poem at 1 a.m. It is not the best of rhyme, but it felt good to get it out of me. I hope you will enjoy reading it and I appologize if you find minor spelling mistakes.
They tell me they're stories,
that they'll never be real,
and my heart becomes heavy,
since they don't feel what I feel,
I tell them 'They're real,
they will always exist',
but they laugh at me,
and I clench my fist,
I slam the door to my room,
I sit down on the floor,
and my heart is longing,
for something more,
I dream of dragons, of dwarves, of elves and of hobbits,
of a golden ring which is hiding in a pocket,
and of an old wizard grey,
who used to fire rockets,
I dream of green hills with holes in the ground,
a great party for an old man,
who that day turned one hundred and eleven,
and there a new story began,
As my eyes grows heavy,
and my body relaxes,
I dream of more things,
of councils and axes,
Of how nine men were chosen,
one of them a king,
to follow him to Mordor,
to destroy the one ring,
Misty mountains were cold,
and Moria was dark,
Lórien was beautiful,
with it's silver bark,
My eyes start pouring,
as I remember the fall,
of Boromir the fair,
of Boromir the tall,
The fellowship broke,
devided to three,
as Merry and Pippin,
could not break free,
The Rohirrim fought,
in the Deep of Helm's,
against the Uruk hai's,
along with the elves,
Then the white wizard came,
and he saved the day,
for he was no longer,
Gandalf the gray,
He took the path of ghosts,
along with two friends,
to fulfill an oath,
before it all ends,
The blade that was broken,
had now been renewed,
all the evil that was dwelling,
had now been endured,
The elves were leaving,
and the gulls were calling,
as the king had been crowned,
and the sun was falling,
I wake up with a start,
and rub my eyes,
I know that the others were telling,
only lies,
For dreams do exist,
they're as real as the day,
and if you only believe in them,
they are never far away.