He loves playing guitar even if he can't play the chords just right.
She loves words but she's a slow reader.
He loves the rain even though he's afraid of thunder.
She loves running, no matter the distance.

He hurts her; she loves him anyway.
I could be cursed
I could be filled with rage
I could be saving the universe
It only stops when I turn the page
When I get lost in a book
the books
line the dusty wood shelves
in pristine condition,
squirming in place,
to be
and cherished
for the words
their stories.
so tell me.
don't you want
your story

- katrina ******
what is that you are hiding?

instagram: @wordsbykatrina
twitter: @_wordsbykatrina
tumblr: wordsbykatrina.tumblr.com
Deb Jones Jan 9
I read at least 6 books a week
If there is a male voice
I hear you, I still hear you
EJ Lee Jan 6
English is a challenging language
That is forever evolving
New words are added every year
Some words follow the set rules
But many do not
Words are a puzzle
They difficult to convey
As I try to image them spelled
It is problematic
Some have extra letters
While others are silent
Some have to many vowels
While a few barely have any
With this notion
Spelling is a continuous riddle
Those with learning disabilities
May never fully solve
KJ Dec 2018
words fill her up
in a way
people never could
easier to connect to written word
Jessica LeVario Dec 2018
It contains the ideal world,
Mysterious and intriguing,
Providing a means of escape,
With its tales of adventure.

The book is seen in many forms
Hard as the shelf it rests on,
Soft as the creamy pages within,
A perfect means of distraction.

After a rough day, it’s pages are welcoming,
Beckoning for you to escape.

~ j.l.
been finding an escape in my books.
TheStartOfMyEnds Dec 2018
Uncover the mysterious spell in reading
Once you've truly fallen in love
For such a hobby
I've been to Paris, Barbados, Australia
Who knew getting lost in the Sahara desert can be quite sizzling
sparks of romance
I've travelled through time
From the modern to the ancient
I've fallen in love
Dragged from one relationship to another
Some with happy endings
And some without any
I've lived so many lives
Sitting on my bed
With a barricade of my new purchases
Reality fades in the background
As I let myself be taken again
By a new chapter
And more pages to come
ZenOfferings Dec 2018
Volumes on silence…
You could fill a library;
Then what has been said?
Storm Dec 2018
I don’t know what I’m reading.

I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading.

What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

“Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision.

“You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant.

How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved.

“Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior?

“I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment.

It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.
college is getting to me. send help.
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