they say talk is cheap,
but a hardback novel sells
at fourteen ninety-five,
so words are worth something.
my bookshelves are weighed down with these words,
bending under their collective philosophy and ideas.
sentences and lines that inspired me,
shaped me into a person worth being.
there are stacks of yellowed paper
scattered beneath my bed,
priceless words scrawled on their faces,
offering me up to the planet.
novels lie face-down and dog-eared
from being overly loved by me.
they embody what i want to become;
the pieces of me i want to will to the earth.
i've been writing longer than i can remember
and my dream has been that, someday,
my words would mean something.
i'll be writing until they do.
perhaps the most beautiful sight
would be my name on the cover
of the book in your hands,
changing your life.