Of Books and Nightmares

There are books that give me nightmares 

That ones I read the pages as if I'm enchanting devils

And everytime he sees me, devastated with the words

He knew he had to ask the question

Why do you still read something that could destroy you?

A song answered, "another version of me I was in it" 

I grin, and perhaps made the enchanted devils shiver

I answered him, to remind me that I'm still human

That I still feel things that perhaps angels wouldn't 

So ask me again, why do I read something that could destroy me

To know that aside from love, I can still feel fear,

That aside from joy, I can know where sadness is from

That I can ask brokenheartedly, why there is such suffering?

To face the devil and have the audacity to grin bigger than him