My books are packed.
I held their souls in my very hands.
Now, the shelves howl with darkness.
Hollowed.

I feel empty too.
Neither here nor there.
My life is packed. My books are packed.
The emptiness fills me.

Perhaps, I should take out my books,
Put them on the shelves,
And look at them,
One
Last
Time...

I had an addiction,
every word had a new connection,
reading left me with a daily fascination,
even helped me look beyond my own reflection.

I had an addiction,
every sip showed me what was perfection,
Earl Grey or English it was my much needed predilection,
even helped me imagine by recollection.

I had an addiction - maybe I have already said,
sleep it seems came only when I read,
dancing words in my half spinning head,
who knew tea could bring new thoughts when old ideas fled.

They say storms even brewed in a tea cup,
my mind was always brewing when staying up,
tea it seems calmed me and yet charged it up,
go write more books for I will have my secret potion to hold my head up.

A poet with a poem purely made of glass
Holds on to it dearly as each day shall pass
Waiting for that moment to simply let it go
For the poem will only shatter onto the minds who wish to know.

i creased the cover of my book today,
my heart shattered at the sight.