That refreshing feeling-the feel of porous paper on my fingertips

The rhythm of flipping pages while I'm drinking coffee in cozy sips

The words printed in black relaying a movie tape in my mind

Is it weird to find comfort in books than in people of your own kind?

They say those people aren't real, isn't it ironic?

When that one character died, my behaviour was almost psychotic

For in books is where I feel the most emotional fully sober

Ink on dead trees has had me blushing and jumping all over

The titles echoing in my head years after I read those books

Reading to swiftly escape people's hateful and annoyed looks

So many stories, so many characters, so much to unfold

Excitement gushing in as I reach for a new book, so much to explore, so much untold

I live for hidden messages in the author's dedication

I cheer for the mesmerizing places forming in my imagination

For I am one of those delusional people who don't 'read' but 'feel'

Stop convincing me as I will never accept it's all in my head- that's my appeal