The girl who loved to read

I knew a girl who loved to read,
and maybe that’s why,
her house never felt like home.
she didn't belong,
trapped in the cold magnolia walls,
and she had to get out.

so she went to the library,
and found a black leather chair,
curled up in there, and read.
and she read and read,
until her eyes became blurred
with the contrast of ink on a page,
her fingertips became papery,
rough, tough, but she liked it that way,

and she was so immersed,
lost in a world so different to her own,
there was no way she could come back.
so she used the leather binding as a roof
to protect her from an ocean of words
and a sea of chapters

she found shelter and comfort
in the thick off-white pages,
but then the time came that  she felt the hands of fate,“wait!” she cried, “wait! I can not bear to return to a world that's main attractions are greed and hate.”

Reviews

[Lucien Maier]

sounds like the reader is becoming the writer.
Now the question is what stories do you have to tell?
I enjoyed the piece. nicely written.

[Writers and Filmmakers...]

Nice! I was a bit confused in the opening paragraph (is that the proper term?). Why would the house not feel like a home? I guess where ever there are books there is a home for her...

[Matthew Ian Herrawood W]

set out like a poem, sounds like a poem and yet reads like a story. I love this and have never seen it before... might want to format the second to last line into more than one line though