The average mind can process 200 words a minute.
Mine, on the other hand, likes to take its time,
likes to wait for the syllables to feel familiar in my mouth,
which is not to say that I can’t swallow three books whole in one night,
but that I’d rather let the words roll around the back of my tongue until they feel home.
You see, I am not a critic when it comes to stories,
I tend to fall in love too easily,
spending countless hours away from reality in distant thoughts I can barely fathom.
But I try my best not to get lost,
to make sure there is always a fine line that binds me to the real world,
because I have been reading about lost causes for long enough
to know one when I see it.
I am one of the 15 people in this town who can read,
which often leaves me with too much technical jargon in legal documents
and not nearly enough time for poetry.
But sadly, what it also means is that
if I ever choose to hide my verses
in between the pages of these books
they will probably have no choice but to return home like flightless birds,
because nobody would understand their struggles to leave the nest anyway.