Perfectly Imperfect Me

She was in the library,

Her dark brown head,

Bent over a book.

You could tell,

That this was the place,

That she belonged.

Sure,

She went to school,

And laughed with fellow peers,

But in the library,

She found her home in the pages,

Of thick novels,

By Jane Austin,

And Lousia May Alcott.

And anyone who saw her,

Reading a book,

Could tell that she was never complete,

With words echoing in her head,

And a book in her hand.