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My life was a book I had left on the shelf
A story I always said I would read
Collecting dust and coffee stains
Although I don’t even like coffee
But then I met you.
And for the first time,
New ones, soft, thin, smell like a new magazine.
To a jail? A hell? A cage? No
To a library, gather the knowledge, read the books.
One, the book of life, we do not read.
We write. This new year, this new passage.
Right in front of me is a different world, a different land.
A different story, a true best friend.
A place where I can be anyone or anything.
The breeze flutters the inked pages softly,
A reader’s gaze follows every a word.
Nose stuck in a book, in hand a coffee,
Far off places and new worlds most unheard.
Aching hands
Bloodied taste
Bottle caps
Dirty clothes
Ink stains
Letters returned
Old tears
Broken heart
Music blaring but yet still unheard:
The price to pay to fill these pages
I first checked you out in school.
I don’t know what caught my eye
But it doesn’t matter because I was too shy
And let you pass by for the fear you were “too intellectual.”
I.
Am.
A reader.
A starry-eyed dreamer
Who holds worlds in her hands on a daily basis
Escaping from the hum-drum to a mythical oasis.
I'm a devotee of words, a disciple.
Smile please...
Really, to say the truth I don't know what
to write..
I'm not a great person like you to impress...
I hope there is no gifts for you, other than
my few words in this four papers...
You.
You were a blank page
A compendium of blank pages,
Bound together and stained by the madness of life
To tell a story with rings of coffee and ink,
Or even ashes.
If life is like an open book,
My pages are made of glass.
As I carefully make each turn,
Time continues to pass.
A rip is like a crack,
In the story of my life.
Any kind of peril,
I have a smallish voice.
It carries the weight of massive expression,
But bears it alone.
My visions detonate in the world around me,
They scatter and end up in every corner
