i have plenty of unread books
Advent Emmanuelle

i have plenty of unread books
from Roth
to Palahniuk
supposed have been read
at a good nook

these books I have
are stack on one shelf
cause time hasn’t given
a minute for myself

these books I have
supposed are my companions
when I’m split into halves
amid destruction

#books   #unread  
Sarah Alana Cayton
Sarah Alana Cayton
Dec 21, 2011

I don't know where we're going,
but I can tell you where I've been..
and I'd tell you every detail,
but you'd throw me to the wind

you think you want to know,
what made me who I am,
but you have no idea,
where these blurry eyes once ran

I'd give these words to you,
from the bottom of my heart,
but you'd be wondering where I left you
and you'd forget what made you start..

Things are not as easy,
as we all want them to be,
but life is just a challenge,
given to you and me.

If you dig too deep into it,
with anyone but yourself,
you risk loosing everything
a pattern that never fails

I've seen the way the tides roll in,
I've watched a plane take flight,
I've witnessed the birth of brand new life,
I've seen a grown man cry

I've been through towns I couldn't pronounce,
I've learned a lesson or two,
I've given up hope on a lasting love,
but I'll never give up on you

I've watched the sun rise from the East
while the moon followed closely
I've watched the planets I cannot fathom
shine brighter then the last one

I've been through the rain that I couldn't foresee
but I've bypassed a storm that sure would've killed me
and I've survived a few falls I shouldn't have had
while making a few choices that made a few people mad

I've flown over oceans, for hours on end,
I've deleted a few answers, when I should've hit send
I've answered a few questions that cost a few friends
but I've never lost respect for the powers that lend.

I'm thankful for the things
the greater being lets me see
and I live every day happy to breathe
I'll be there for you, forever and always
we can roam the states bumpy highways
open the sunroof so I can sit and stargaze
I'm sorry its not what you want it to be,
but maybe a friendship is just what you need...

mais
mais
Mar 25, 2014

today I decided that humans are like books
enjoyed by some,
not by all,
studied by people,
who hope to find the true meaning
become wary and torn,
once they've been used too much
bring joy to some,
but sadness to others
some are noticed by many,
others stand alone
but most importantly,
they all have stories to tell

the idea came from the saying "we are all books because we have spines and stories to tell"
#poetry   #life   #thoughts   #people   #books  
So now here lies another unread piece of my existence
dean evans

The ink inside this pen can hold so many words, it's strange
I can describe so many things, or can sadly rearrange
With love or tears of sorrow, which will leave this paper stained
But in the end if no one reads, is love what I have gained?

For all I have inside my mind, flows out of me in ink
All the things I've wished for you and I, or what I think
Happiness or lonesome skies, ecstasy or pain
Lies within the winter snow I write, or summer rain

They say that if a tree falls, and no one's there to hear
Does it really make a sound, this thought fills me with fear
For if so true, then words that come from me, with pen in hand
Will disappear to be unseen, like castles in the sand

I've written many thousands, my words I set free here
I've emptied many pens to love's sweet feelings, and to fear
But my real fear is that my words, maybe just will lie
Until the pages filled with hope to you, will someday die

Words that come from deep inside, in hope of reaching you
But if my thoughts are never read, they're meaning gone but true
So why do I keep these poems coming from my mind?
Because if I should stop, the words would all be lost in time

Time that would see my words just lie upon these pages
No one here to see, or read them, fading with the ages
Someday gone with wind and rain the edges torn and tattered
Like autumn leaves, time will find the thoughts broken and scattered

But write I will, and for no reason but to help myself
Even if the words not read, grow dusty on my shelf
Someday perhaps, someone will browse far, in years to be
The old and yellowed papers, long ago written by me

To wonder maybe who had thoughts of love and loss combined
Who the old and weathered books came from, and from what mind
Some hopeless, helpless lost old soul, A woman or a man?
That sat for days and months on end, paper pen in hand

So now here lies another unread piece of my existence
Something compels me to write, I offer no resistance
I suppose it comforts me in ways, just to see these words
Perhaps just as the sun and sky,
comforts the singing birds

Dean Evans
9-24-07

if his work should go unread?
Larry B
Mar 18, 2011

Is a poet still a poet
if his work should go unread?
Or is he just a dreamer
with words inside his head?

Does a poet keep on writing
though no one knows his name?
Or spill his soul 'til his fingers bleed,
searching for his fame?

Does he dream of Poe as he writes his verse
in poetic harmony?
Or Count the Ways like Browning did
in sonnet forty-three?

Does he Take the Road Not Taken
like the late great Robert Frost?
Or take the road the others take
to find out that he's lost?

A poet is a poet
if his work should go unread
His words will stand the test of time,
in something that he said

Sophia
Sophia
Feb 7

why is it
that even though the thought of you
is causing me to feel this way
the only comfort i want
is in your arms

it's been a week.
#you  
Leyla Aurora
Leyla Aurora
Jun 24, 2014

You won't read me;
Between my lines
There are secrets in disguise.

You won't read me;
Won't face my truth,
Early screams of my bright youth.

You won't read me;
There's a code
Once it's solved, dreams will explode.

You won't read me;
In my soul
Hides a dark and endless hole.

You won't read me;
Nor will I...
My book sleeps peacefully in sky.

disguiseg
if his words should go unread?
Whiskurz
Nov 28, 2012

Is a poet still a poet
if his words should go unread?
Or is he just a dreamer
with words inside his head?

Does a poet keep on writing
though no one knows his name?
Or spill his soul 'til his fingers bleed,
searching for his fame?

Does he dream of Poe as he writes his verse
in poetic harmony?
Or Count the Ways like Browning did
in sonnet forty-three?

Does he Take the Road Not Taken
like the late great Robert Frost?
Or take the road the others take
to find out that he's lost?

A poet is a poet
if his work should go unread
His words will stand the test of time,
in something that he's said

 
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