I was desolate.
The sky was never purple or pink
I was inside, and my heart ached.
I ran out of things to do
I lay in my bed staring at the fan taking rounds.
There were tons of manuscripts, waited to be complete,
On the brown wood table on which paint has dried upon.
The canvases have fallen down; the nails are still deep into the walls.
I still tie curtains into a knot so that the sun will shed some tears on my bed too.
The lights I don't need anymore hang on the walls.
Mails are all left on read, I remember there used to be 506 unread.
I'm exhausted of doing everything in my head, the bedsheet is falling off my bed.
Thoughts that make no sense are crowding in my head.
I have no place to keep all the clothes I never wear.    
My hands feel manly sometimes, but feminine at others.
Like when I hold a knife or want to color.
I pull the hair-tie off and my hair fall onto my shoulders, bounce; they feel soft on unpleasant days. Cliché
I live not far from the ground, though if I fall I could possibly die.
There's a light I intend to use for reading at night, but i never do.
I never read.
I write, I bleed
I write, I bleed
I write.
I bleed.
And to reading,
I don't pay heed.

Seeking the philosophies and convictions of others will stop me from finding my own
Life is happening while my head is buried in books
God is here while I'm looking there, and there while I'm looking here
Do I need others to tell me what I know to be true?
Will I spend my whole life missing the point?
Reading for fear of living

Teaching your child to read
Is one of the greatest gifts
You can offer them,
Along with love of course.

Instilling a love of reading
Opens their innocent eyes to
Exploration
Excitement
Adventures  
Dreams and
Limitless
Possibilities

It enables them
To find a way
To articulate
To visualise
To create
their own magical world
Borne of imagination,
But no less real for the imagining of

Enabling them to create
A vision and a realisation
Of a whole new world
Borne of imagination
And ways of being
Of futures anew, and
Ones of their making
And choosing

When the eyes saunter past each line,
The frame begins to paint my mind.

With every bit of knowledge my brain is fed,
I grow wiser of what's alive and what's dead.

With each book I read, I add every tale
To an infinite-capacity weighing scale.

Each tale pulls weight on the spectrum,
Bearing their own different conundrum.

Each story at times tip the scale left or right,
Or even set the scale as still as silent night.

Sometimes I wonder if all this reading,
All this adding, never-ending, has meaning.

I think that moving from book to book,
We approach the new with the previous look.

With every book that we add to our souls,
Comes a new colour, a new world, new goals.

As I stare at the verses,
I must seem so still.
She casts a web
from where she sits
and I smile,
but knowingly,
lower her body
down to the table.
She scatters again towards
the page I have just
turned and together we
weep for beauty

the world used to be small,
books broke the walls

bring them all
cause books broke the walls

I've got a reading!
And the venue's all sold out.
It's an old phone booth
that some company threw out.

Standing room only
you can get in by arrangement
I'll just hop out
for the term of your engagement.

If you show up
you won't even need a mask
'cause you'll be standing
on the far side of the glass.

My voice sounds muffled
in the sound-proof enclosure
so my poetry won't really
be getting much exposure.

For my fan base
it's the ideal place to show.
See, I can do the reading
and no one else will know.