She was in love
With old books.
She was in love with
The way they smelled
As she flipped the pages
And felt the air hit her face.
She was in love with
The rough texture
Of the paper worn over time.
She was in love with
The yellowed tint of the pages
And the crumple of water spots.
She was in love with
The broken and tattered
Binding that crinkled
When you touched it.
But most of all,
She was in love with
The stories that not only
The words written in them held
But the stories behind each
Coffee stain and torn corner.
The idea that this book
Had connected with
So many other people
Enchanted her,
And she wondered if
Maybe she wasn't as
Strange and odd
As people told her.
And she thought that just
Maybe she wasn't as
Alone as she felt.

didn't apollo just love daphne
or it was a ****** thing?
didn't zeus cheat on hera?
that's for sure, my deary.
but my love for you is real
like demeter loved her daughter
so the times she left her mother
autumn came along,
and then the winter,
all so cold.


in the deepest land
you'll ever see
where king of death
have lived for many years
where he keeps her as a prisoner
persephone's just,
for good,
his slave.


slaves of gods
that's what humans are
they've got no point
on their decisions
cause in olympus
they're not born.


the most beautiful
goddess couldn't archive
the goals she wanted
with hephaestus,
the ugly one
in the night her husband
saw her lying on a bed
with mars, god of war,
screamed both of their names.


if titans hadn't been so rough
their sons and daughters
wouldn't have done that
keeping them in jails
so they couldn't escape
from the tartarus,
under the hades,
now they are the slaves.


and now let's go back
to the beginning
when the nymphs heard
her screams
trying to escape
from the handsomest god

              turning her into laurel,

      not letting her live anymore.

Her eyes are deep pools of cool blue.
Open but empty, staring blankly
Into infinite space.

Her smile - formed by wax-like lips -
Is stiff, emotionless, almost as if concealed.
but her mouth trembles as it traces
the letters of an irrelevant name.

Her scent moves through the crowd
and permeates your consciousness.
It shoves and pushes aside thoughts,
Making its way into your awareness.

A sound slithers into your ear:
A whisper transcending the noise around.
Despite the ruckus of chaotic discourse,
Her endearing voice is the only sound.

The night slowly grows old
Whilst more stories are told.
Histories fail to unfold
as endless lies are bought and sold.

(presumptions of non-existent subtleties
has claimed its fair share of casualties)

More is said, but less is revealed
Meandering timelines of hurt
Kept hidden beneath the scars
of wounds that have seemingly healed.

This is the shadowed imprint, the trace left
ice melt and sea drift of time erased
soft-shod footfalls once apace
this ancient path we travel by
wild with beasts, fledgling trees
of downy wings
we cry, learn to fly
stay awake to see the night
how light penetrates
moon tangled through trees
our souls to illuminate
stars light the way
carry us ever further away
once per chance, never again
until morning

Armed with her bag and a book...
Every morning she waits around the nook!
Catches the bus full of passengers..
Begins her journey with strangers!
People don't pay her much heed..
She's the girl who reads!!
Occupies a window seat..
Buys herself a ticket!
Drowns into the pages of the book...
Enlives every emotion on the hook!
A few people do notice her smiles...
She's the girl who reads!
Shields herself from her feelings...
Gets engrossed in the stories..!
Loves being in the world of fantasy...
Cuz it's much better than reality..!
Ah, she's the one who feels..
She's the one who reads!