Why I Taught Myself To Read
A book, to me, has always been more than just paper and ink.
When I was four, a book was like a safe little bubble, a small reprieve
from the chaos and din of a world that made no sense to me.
It was a solace when I heard my parents talking in hushed voices
they thought I couldn't hear, trying to figure out what was wrong with me.
How could a child be smart enough to read, but too dumb to talk?
Books were my portals, taking me to worlds I could only see in my imagination.
They were a vacuum, opening a void where only I existed.
When I opened a book, the pages would enclose me in a quiet cocoon,
a safe haven from the mayhem a seven-kid household tended to contain.
Reading was the only time I got the chance to march to my own drum,
with no one telling me what I should know and what I should be able to do.
When I read, the words on the page would turn into a million keys,
undoing my shackles and freeing me from the weighty chains of expectation.
YOU ARE READING
My Poetry
PoesíaOne day, a girl was given an assignment in English class. She had to write three odes, three haikus, and three free verse. She had only written her first three odes, when she was told they were too long, and she had to start over. She wasn't sure wh...
