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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:
Aisha Sep 5
Today I ran through the archives of the extensive library of memory,
in there I found various books with titles I have been longing to read;

"Days of shimmering sunshine,"
"Friendships forged for life,"
"The purple Barney I played with,"
"The best"
and "The worst."

I browsed through myriads of red and navy blue leatherbacks,
only to realize I found myself.

I found that it contained my dreams,
my fears,
my hopes
and even the reason for the selection of my favorite chocolate.

Memory reminds us of our essence.
The essence that brings tranquility to our souls on a chaotic day,
an essence that reminds us of our path that brought us to the destination of today.

Visit the library of memory often,
and remember to take a cup of steaming tea.
You are special. You are unique. Unravel what makes you different, visit the library of memory.
Obscrea Sep 3
He told me that my heart
Was a library full of secrets,
And all I've ever wanted
To do was burn.
III Jul 2
More brilliant
     Than a library,
More pure
     Than a spring.
schuyler Jun 24
old, cracked marble busts
of people lost to the folds of history.
weathered, ancient scripts of dust
about people forgotten in misery.
we steal glances at each other,
your eyes wander over the rim of your tortoise-shell glasses.
my gaze flicking back to my yellowing book,
cautious of how long it lasted.
hearts thudding in the study
cannot be heard by each other but we still worry.
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