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knowledge is an ocean,
its vast and endless capacity
filled with many different things.

knowledge is a book,
it is filled with information,
begging to be read.

knowledge is a black hole,
its outer figure drags you in,
and holds you captive.

knowledge is a bookshelf,
you have many books of information,
and just one is not enough to satisfy.
And I will remember the way your favourite colour
Isn’t blue
Or even red
But a royal Purple
And how your hands are
On fire when
I'm freezing and numb
How you envelop them warmly
In yours and
How we know thats an excuse
To touch…
I wont forget how I read to you
Children's books
How you could make tragedies
Laughing for hours
On inside jokes we shared
How black Sundays
Weren’t black anymore…
How libraries are your favourite place
But you don’t even read
Anything much
Except my poetry
How my poetry
Is about you mostly
How you mostly
Never loved me
How love
Is a lie
How lies
Broke us
How you don’t seem broken
At all.
i remember when i was little
i used to go to the public library all the time
in the kids' section
there were these 3 books full of scary stories
i swear i got them every time i went there
i loved them
even though it scared the **** of me as a little kid
i guess i was just getting myself ready
for the demons that would show up in my head
not the best
Abby M 7d
Some sit on a pile of books
Not knowing the worth of their seat
Not knowing that the paper holds the tongues of a thousand souls
They sit on their bright future
If only their legs could read
Maxim Keyfman Nov 28
be water know water
here is the man’s lot
here it is the lot of every century
know water be water
every every every day

and all the mountain peaks with
magma and solids
all books are thin and thick
bound with pictures
on the stretcher all the water

all water means never everything
water and therefore always what
it means my I am my humanity
my I am my each
day i hear see hear see water

Shay Moore Nov 17
Often times I felt as though each day returned to the same state of tedious repetition as those preceding it.

I’ve complained about this since a fold on the corner of my favorite book meant my life was at a certain end-

and yet, the response my mother gives has always remained static.

“You are the painter of your life and you may depict it as you please.”

I have tried to etch this monotonous phrase into my skull but even from an early age,

I have understood that I’m no Van Gogh.

I will never be Bansky nor will my crimes ever be treasured or valued.

I am just a commoner expected to fit the mold that those before have set.

But as of late, bent pages don’t seem to bother much, for the story within remains the same.

Despite the imperfection, I still fall in love with the characters;

I feel heartbreak just as I did before and satisfaction at the turn of each page.

But good books are filled with stains, crumbles, rips, tears, and damaged spines.

Novels contain these because we have taken them with us and they have been enjoyed.

The only ones that don’t are those that sit idle on a shelf in the corner of our bedrooms.

I now realize that the reason my existence felt so dull was because I kept it on that very shelf in fear of tatter and wear, as most of us are.

I now take it everywhere I can knowing that every drop of water,

every stray mark of a pen,

and every trip in the bottom of my bag just separates mine from it’s identical counterparts

and I think that’s something we all could drink to.
Lily Nov 27
She was a rose, pressed into the pages
Of a book, meant to hold a place.
Instead of a page in a book,
She held a place in his heart,
Which she thought she would always have.
But eventually, bookmarks are lost,
And stories are forgotten,
And all that is left is
The smell of the binding
As the book closes for the last time.
Just scribbles
Fainche Nov 26
let's sip our coffee and feel its warmth
‎with endless topics we should talk about
‎the aroma of coffee and dust coming through the shelf
‎filled our senses, grins plastered on our mouth
‎let's talk about on how you embraced me with so much passion and warmth
‎till the storm come and washed our feeling's drought
you bit your lips for you couldn't help yourself
‎to smile reminiscing our past felicities and doubts

‎it seems like we enjoyed ourselves with so much talking
‎and here i am, realised it's going to end
the clock have been ticking like a bomb ready to explode—
likely to ‎explode with so much agony, ready to make amend
‎let's skip the thorny roads and i will cling
tightly in your arms and together we'll reach the end
be with me as i voyage down this road
forget the books and coffees and be with me until then
Book is the place
I always visit.
It is my temple,it's mine mosque
It's the church
But above all it is my ***.

You will find yourself alone
While waiting at the gate
The moment you enter
You're in a world created by someone's brain

When reality hits me hard
I take a shelter
Under my Lord's word
No sword can pass through it
Neither the arrows will reach my feet
Alex Nov 24
It makes my flesh crawl to hear you
Yesterday, you know.
He should’ve been at the funeral
Friends and relatives of the missing gathered
Like a flame made weak by lies.
The good news was pounced upon and passed on
It couldn’t be a coincidence
The man's head had been sawed open
You didn’t close the door.
You let them in.
You killed him.
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