by Jo Fisher
When I am bored of writing my own short-ish story –
when the narrative leaves expectations expecting –
I seek refuge in the lives of others, bound up
between covers that I shouldn’t have judged
(but I do).
When my own little life leaves much to desire
I aspire to be those who have luck worse than mine,
or who learn, on the way, and emerge both triumphant
and humble; who shine when the worst comes to play.
I dig myself deep in the chapters of people
whose innermost thoughts are spelled out with ink;
I drink in those faces, ones made in my mind from
the voices refined line by line on the page.
It’s safer in here; let me finish this chapter,
or maybe the next, or the one after that.
Let me get lost in this plot, swallowed up
by a story designed to transport me away
from this place, for a day, for a moment,
a minute at least, my retreat, my salvation,
asylum in print.
Jo is a writer, poet, and editor based in Southampton, UK. Her goal is to tell tales and share stories through written and spoken word, and weirdly enjoys the terror of performing her work. She sometimes dabbles in writing theatre reviews, too.