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?

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.

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!

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.

He told me that my heart
Was a library full of secrets,
And all I've ever wanted
To do was burn.

More brilliant
     Than a library,
More pure
     Than a spring.

Trailing my fingers along the weathered spines
Which one should I pick?

Tiny whirling particles
Tumble as they descend from the sky.
I sit in the warm yellow library
As I observe them through the window.

I sit
beneath the sign that reads silence
conscious of my imminent sneeze
and the threat of its violence.