I feel as though I’ve lived a thousand lives
I still always cry when not everyone survives
“It’s not like you’re really there,” they said
So what if all of this is happening inside my head
In those moments I left this world behind
Our lives then became intertwined
I shared their happiness and gain
I cried for their sorrows and pain
With them by my side, I made it to the finish
Without them, I would diminish
Not everyone came out on the other side
But, oh was it a beautiful ride
This is what comes of the stories of our age
I am so grateful for the stories on the page

All those books they made us read,
The smelly yellow-pagers
That weighed as heavy as the guilt
We felt as "zombie teenagers";

Do we remember anything?
The names of the main characters,
Or maybe, who died in the end--
Or the ones who were in pictures?

It wasn't that we hated books--
We didn't understand them;
Before the teacher's spiritless voice
Made us slowly condemn them.

"Memorize the vocab words,
And don't forget the spelling!"
Was that the point of literature?
But definitions aren't compelling.

So all those hours in English Lit,
The days spent reading Steinbeck,
Were soured by the grouchy face
Always looming over my desk.

I always wished someone would say,
"This isn't boring, here's why:"
But I was told to shut up and read
When sometimes I wanted to cry:

"I hate this story! Nobody's happy!
And everyone's messed up!
It doesn't make sense to force it on us
When we're already stressed out."

But we had to read it, because they had to read it
When they were young in school.
This book had an impact in history:
So now, reading it is a rule.

So if it's a must, that's fine, then.
But...why don't we make it fun?
Or talk about the psychology
And learn something when we're done?

A book can't be everyone's favorite.
We're all different people inside.
But please try to make us all interested
With wisdom only you can provide.

Woeful are the tears
           that a word was not
                 pondered upon.

Just neglected,
          or ignored in haste.
Words just painted over.

Never seen in true virtue,
         just sentenced to ignorance,
         due to inattentive readers.

11:32am
My alarm goes off
I should probably shower
But I lay here and read poetry instead

11:40am
I could probably still shower
It's cold and the hot water would feel nice
But this sadness anchors me to my bed
So I write some poetry instead

11:52am
I'm still writing
And I definitely haven't showered
I need to get dressed to leave at noon
When did I get so bad at deadlines?

12:03pm
My ride is here
I'm still not dressed
No binder today
So I throw on an old sweater and some sweats
Good enough for me

Your words have the the ability to make me feel things that I didn't know words could make me feel

and I am constantly more and more captivated by each entry of your journal

quite frankly, I would find full amusement in reading something as simple of your shopping lists

As in and out one must breathe
in order to survive,
One who writes must also read
to keep their work alive.

You will say: “You’ve been holding out on me!” -
and that will be the day when this landslide of poetry
Finally comes spilling from my lips, because I can no longer withhold it -
And you will awake in the gardens that I’ve been growing here,
Looking at me with brand new eyes, like you’ve never really known me before,
Or seen me, or felt me, and we will roll together
Among these soft petals of imageries, fingernails like lilies
As you lift the pages, see them turning, these little white leaves,
Changing with the different seasons of visions and daydreams,
Thousands of hours passing in your eyes blinking, reading,
A living river of emotions flowing into those irises, of
All the things I cannot speak or explain or convey
When you are sitting here in silence, gazing deeply into me,
And I am leaning into your warm shoulder, wondering,
How I can turn these precious moments
Into the best kind of poetry.

i sat in the shotgun seat of your eyes
and they drove me to the edge of glory
the radio was up and playing a silly love song
my feet were on the dash
i was reading a collection of poetry
there was a soft breeze coming in through
the open windows as we rode along
trees passed in blurs but you--
you stayed in brilliant focus
like waiting for a red light to turn green
you were the harmony and the melody
the center of this galaxy

Why read a book?
People say for entertainment
Or to learn things
For me,  simply it is
To feel and to be somewhere

If you're like me
And you don't have a life
It often gets boring and sometimes...
depressing.

There's nothing that feels more fulfilling
than to have a book in front of you
You read and the words **** you into the novel
The rest of the world dissolves away

Reading makes me feel hopeful
That someday
I'll have a life of my own

Maybe I'm just one of those characters
who start out being loners
And later have adventures of their own
with their remarkable wierdo friends
and fall in love and such...

I don't know
Who can tell?
When you read,
It feels like anything is possible
I can't be that optimistic in real life
But when I read, I don't loose hope

Reality can be a ****** sometimes
But you don't always have to deal with it
Escape! If you can afford it