She lives to read anything writers give,
Books her weed and she reads to live;
Neck bent in a bow like author of the book,
She does it like how flame does to wood;
Newspaper or a magazine, a blog or an old classic,
Like a shot of adrenaline, makes her feel fantastic.
Anything she can get, confined in her room;
Anytime she’s all set, satisfied in a quiet gloom;
Living a thousand lives, in quite a different world,
In most she thrives, and declines barter for gold;
She’d prefer a dream, of a lifetime in a fantasy,
For which she’d redeem, anything of value in reality.