I am a reader, not a writer,
Like a lover, not a fighter.
I don't let words come out,
I invite them in.
Not able to shout,
All I do with books is begin.
I find my ideas through the chapters,
My happiness in ever-afters.
I consider the protagonist as a friend,
At least until I'm at the book's end.
I'm an audience of all but one,
But the author has only begun.
I see objects with new meaning,
As if my foggy mind needed cleaning.
Us readers, we vary in different ways,
Besides some physical, our mental contrasts stay.
Our unique likes and thoughts of kinds,
In which we love to engage,
Running through our aspired minds,
Getting faster by every page.
Soon we know the characters,
Better than ourselves,
They live more inside our minds,
Than their place on the bookshelves.
We handle the chapters without fatiguing,
Reading them through and through,
All the while the story becomes more intriguing,
And our fictional feelings turn into something true.
Are we too compassionate?
Or are we just crazy?
Are our minds too elaborate?
Or did they just become hazy?
Though we're called bookworms,
We call ourselves among different terms.
We're futurists,
Adventurers,
Humorists,
Amateurs.
We associate ourselves with these title names.
Although we are all so different,
In front of books we're all the same.
Hail the readers!
YOU ARE READING
Stained Hearts
PoetryMy first book of poetry, consisting of prose poetry and rhymes. Just a collection of thoughts and experiences translated into whimsical poetry, made specifically for your poetic appetite. Mostly I write about nature, time, a bit of love and...
