Why can't we just read?
I love to read,
we all do,
somewhere inside.
I love the way the words flow,
I love how quickly it transports me
to vivid new worlds.
I like the feeling of fragile paper
and the smell of a dusty,
long forgotten book.
Pages of excitement bound together,
you think it could never lose its magic,
but you'd be wrong.

You go to school
and the magic is lost.
These light words that mean so much
are weighted down and draped in logic,
the book becomes dull and painful.

I don't care if the colour of the curtains
is a metaphor for the author's struggle with homosexuality,
I don't care to take this painted porcelain
and smash it into bits,
entirely digested,
sorted into categories,
and picked into nothing.
I do not wish to burn away
the heart and soul
to leave nothing but the bones.
I read to escape,
to love,
to learn,
to experience,
I read to forget where I really am.

I do not wish
for the thought of this fantasy tale,
to be flogged over the head repeatedly
with reality.
I wish to forget,
read for pleasure,
read for interest,
read for love,
read because I want to,
read to fully appreciate
the well-thought out story
by a person long gone.

Is that too much to ask for?