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Steve Page Nov 28
I love the warm smell more than baked bread.
I love the old stories flooding back through my head.
I love the middle-age chatter, with child like mutters,
finding old favorites in old familiar covers.

I love the personalised fountain-penned message,
carefully scribed and meticulously dated.
I don't care about the number of dog eared pages,
or the tell-tale signs of well worn aging.

Tea stains and small tears - they don't bother me,
each tell a new tale beyond what I can see.
I love the weight of the years sitting in my hand,
I love the tether to past lives multi- second-hand.

With memories of libraries with warm worn carpets,
wall to wall adventures and sun faded artists,
battered yellow seats, shooshed conversations,
quietly spoken protests at the books being rationed.

I stayed past closing, riding trains of free thought
with Tin Tin, Asterix and old Mrs Pepperpot.
I'm still drawn to the pages and the feeling inside
second-hand stories where memories reside.
My dad taught me to love reading. My kids learnt it for me.
eng jin Apr 4
On campus

the morning rain is subsiding  
while the cool air is still flowing
a live band starts to play  
in front of the library
beneath some trees
sweet and beautiful melodies
to promote a ‘happy relax’ theme

while my fingers tap to the beat
a familiar face
appears and sits
between the band
and my seat

indeed a pleasant surprise
but I should leave soon
a revision class is starting

should I stay or should I leave?

ah what a rare chance it is
to find the heart
where it wants to be,
I should stay

yet the tuition class
is where I ought to be
I should go

torn in between
I look up
to the streaks of light
slipping through
the wet foliage,

it then occurred to me
don’t think too hard
just enjoy the stay…
Obed Ladiny Nov 1
I enter the land of ink leaves
without the slightest idea
of what I’ll have from its menu.
Much to choose,
many avenues.
Delicious leaves await my perusal.
Endless rows of the hard and soft nourishments,
endless rows of the healthy or the poisonous,
each designed with a name to mesmerize
and to tickle my brain.
Up the stairs,
eyes at the floors,
sit at tables,
travel in the elevator,
out to enter other mazes
into more,
without the slightest idea
of what I’ll have from the menu.
Much to choose,
many avenues—
the world I know boomeranged
out these large rectangular windows
and left me standing here.
Graff1980 Oct 25
It’s all a lie. I work the words, speaking spastically in humorous verbs, and **** jokes. Strangers smile, and tender sweet laughter, which I love. So, I keep pushing the boundaries, working weird thoughts. They laugh more, which is what I work for.

Later when they are not looking, I look at them. I try to keep it less creepy than the other stalker type men, but I am studying them; Learning the limits of my understanding, sussing out the rhythms in which they speak and think. I try to devour their truths but hope they don’t see me struggling to see them.

I observe the hallway world. There is a man a foot shorter than me with a very wide waist, slightly longer white hair that gently curls at each end with small bald spot in the back, and the face of a cherub. Hands in his pocket he barely looks up but gives me a slight grin when I acknowledge him. Then his eyes return to the ground three steps ahead. He speaks softly and walks slowly. I know he is hiding something deep, but I do not try to see too far behind the surface, to the grander mind because people don’t appreciate that kind of trespassing. I wonder if his shyness is a product of years of rejection, abuse, or merely a reflection of a truly introverted disposition.

I am in a hurry, dropping off books at an out of town library, and picking up some poetry to devour later. She must be new, because she moves slowly. Then attempts to engage me in social pleasantries. I am trying not to pay any attention, and she is not super desperate, but she wants to speak and be heard. So, I really look at her.
Lengthy strands of brown thinning hair fall down her long skinny face, slightly obscuring a small growth under the left side of her cheek. Thin rim glasses look at me, as she talks about what she likes to read. Then shifts the discussion to the walking dead. She is passionate and despite my previous urge to escape, I am now sincerely engaged.
The gym is loud with ****** music and clinking equipment. She is stunning; Long wavy hair released after a hard workout. She is tanned, and thin but muscular, with a soft and generous voice. I ask her about her boys, and old man. She always appreciates that. We keep the chit chat short, so we can workout and get on with the day.

I stare back at a familiar but silent face, there is a building rage ready erupt, something deep and dark that is waiting to self-destruct. I do not like this person much. Dark hazel eyes pressure me, to seek something deep, short dark brown hair recedes but at a barely perceptibly rate. Teeth seem to be shrinking extremely slowly, except for the lost and already rotting ones. His body is losing fat. He is improving, but **** that. He should work harder.
I have little patience and compassion for this dumb doppelganger, but I still observe seeking something deeper, the darker unheard truths. I stare at him and snarl.

      “I like them much more then you.”
i wish i had something to write about
some trauma i experienced
or some injury i endured
or some great adventure
but no
i'm just plain me
no interesting stories inside of me
i'm no library
ollie Sep 29
are you happy?
she asks him, out of the blue
in his own silence and his own life he knows the answer
but he will refuse to say it
i’m going to write the question in the back of the book
because sometimes it’s hard to realize the sentences aren’t just to other characters
you are being spoken to
Kuvar Sep 20
Today I saw them
With heavy loads of favored wood pulps  
Weighing them down to the earth
The deceased might of their gods  
Pushing hard to open the library door
Today I saw them
Protocols mechanizes their existence
Sniffing the dust as they walk
In-between lines of old forsaken books
Gently touching the back covers
Today I saw them
As their feet march in accordance
Empty Buckets of sands to quench fire
They’ve come for the obituary of dead men
Reading their books to their ears  
Today I saw them
The chirping birds that made it in
Build a nest with tattered fluffy cottons
Chirping in slumbering pitch
A Lullaby to this already sleeping generation
Today I saw them
David Abraham Sep 18
I'm burying my own words as best I can,
but as soon as I have set the ban,
down in a hole beneath filthy tongues
twisted from lies and sour-breathed pulling,
you make my blood boil.

You whisper about me, I can hear it,
behind the book shelf,
between the narrow isles of stories.

This place could offer me sanctuary,
but you came along,
and you are every noise, breath, sight and smell.
I cannot read, you are always over my shoulder.

I might collapse here and hope someone does not see me.
Am I overwhelmed or ******?
Am I lonely or needy?
Truly, I must ask, are things in me or are they part of this library?
maybe i have anger issues or something but there is no help but for books i cannot read because i am distracted at least a few times per page so HAHA
David Abraham Sep 18
I'm digging my words up out of the books,
flinging them over my shoulders like dirt
as they lift from the page and flit in and out of my eyes,
barely keeping me concious.

I try to fill up my gut
with the gritty syllables that I can't actually hear,
flung up from the holes in words,
between pages,
between worlds.

I press my fingerprints into the fine, aging paper,
knowing it will help me later
to cover up the void I'm filling with words.

Maybe if I can force my eyes to stop staring at sideways spines
and straightup people looking just fine,
I can make myself focus in the scent of the decay wafting up from between the words,
or I can make myself read between the lines,
instead of struggling to read the blurry spines
that I can't help but watch.
I can't pay attention to anything, but I am spending every lunch and every study hall in the library now.

09/17/2018 2233
Gemma Davies Sep 6
There is no friend as loyal as a book,
Improving your mood and outlook.
I wish I could read for hours all day,
Open the cover and drift far away.
To fantasy places and distant lands,
A dream you hold right in your hands.
For reading is dreaming with open eyes,
You are the pilot as the time flies.
Travelling far, right from your chair,
Some think I'm weird, but I don't care.
Between the pages is a lovely place to be,
Nothing will come between my books and me!
My poem was lovingly made into a 'Me to You Bear' video:
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