They're confused

They want to know why I prefer
To read
And miss the dazzling fleshy
Make-up pretty men and women
In orchestrated beauty
Onscreen
In CGI! With tigers and
Soundtracks and action and
Noise and vivid sex and
Blood-red blood and made-up
Glory.

But in my pages, the browned
Worn, ratty pages, my people
Live.
They breathe -- the dwarves and
leather-clad sex gods. They mimic
The voices inside my head.
The prancing young girl
Grows
In my mind's eye
To dazzling young woman, to mother,
To crone.
The men -- they're mine, they're created
But I give life
like God!
I draw breath from my being and
In my pages
They live.

And nobody else see them
Like me.
They know them, but my people
They're difference from other people's people.
My places are the same, but different.
My moats are bigger
My meadow is a different green and my busy sidewalk
Has different faces, holding coffee cups,
Striding busily.

So my pages, my worn, ratty
Thumbed-through volumes, my dusty
Shelves of Annes and Aidans and
Janes and Darcy and Lalithas and
Ford and the Millenn
ium Falcon, they live.
They live and so I live to live
With them.

And everybody else remains
Confused :)