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.

To get lost on a shelf.
A journey, couch potato tourist,
Book upon book, fantastical and fact
An expergefactor for the literary senses.

A sofa that swallows you whole
with an old fashioned friend,
stirring bourbon thoughts and
swirling orange twists

A wall of books,
novels and tomes.
Hemingway nestled next to Palahniuk.
Generational angst and
Alphabetical Chaos!

See her? With the impeccable taste in fashion?
She's top of her class in calculus. You probably didn't know that.
See him? With the fearless glint in his eye?
He's studying science, but he has the soul of a poet. Tests lie.
See her? Buried behind a stack of books nine tall and three deep?
She's terrified that she'll get a B, because, to her, that's failing.
See him? Museum-quality doodles and red ink decorate his papers.
He'll be president one day, if he can find something that he loves.
See me? No, actually you probably don't see me. Why would you?
I've managed to dangle from the rim of the outskirts of life so far.
Someone once told me that seeing gifts is a gift itself. Maybe it's true.
But, didn't they ever tell you that geniuses doubt themselves, too?
That we doubt ourselves most of all?

Have you ever noticed that friendships are like books?

A new Friend is like a well acclaimed  book that you just can't put down, as you wait to see if it is really all it was cracked up to be.

An old Friend is that trustworthy favourite with bent pages and peeling cover that you turn back to year after year.

A good Friend is the book that always brings a smile to your face, making the hard, dull parts of life seem worth living.

A best friends is that one book that you can inexplicably never part with. It's less exciting, less acclaimed, less popular than the other books on your shelf. But no matter how hard you try, you can never replace that well thumbed treasure with the newer, flashier releases everyone else seems so taken with.

My heart is a library full of well thumbed or ignored stories that fill the pages of my daily existence.

Even the forgotten titles of friendships past fill an essential part of my being.

Without them I would be an empty page.

i got lost
in the library
to think my time was wasted
or rather - borrowed
and left by the orphaned paperbacks
like the last dog remaining
at the rescue shelter.

i got stalked
in the library
to think i worried
about finding cover
when, in fact, i found thousands

and i hid behind them
skipping through
hospital wards
where the bereaved
wore glistening plot armour,
and American homes
where paternal affection
was grievously mistook
by European men
with lyrical prose

and when i emerged
found my bearings
set my feet
in the tar of reality
it did not treat me kindly

so, to the librarian:
if i disappear again
please assume i'm safe and sound
because if this is what being lost is like
i'd rather not be found.

Just a fling,
just a thing,
what shall I bring?

2 servings of joy,
a pinch of serenity,
and a bell just to ring

:)