Books are fuel to the imagination.

Works of fiction pour into my mind,
hours at a time.

I feel the power rise,
as I climb through expositions.

Looking down,
I see the world in the palm of my hand.

Looking up,
I see my face amongst the clouds.

On this high I craft my own words,
some spoken and others in ink.

And as I fall,
I ponder the time until my return.

We are here today to celebrate the love
You so obviously share,
A love you wish to formalise
And publicly declare.

A couple truly meant for each other,
A couple truly meant to be,
A couple whose friends and family,
We are very proud to be.

We hope your happiness continues,
That you have much more in store,
We hope the memories made today
Will stay with you - forever more.

Reading the front pages
Why? Because you’re beautiful
To an unread poet and Whipping posts away,
It’s untitled leaking..It’s just like water,
An October sky It’s just a memory
A cry for the quiet... Burns A candle
For the lost in translation about Fake love
Falling for If they wanted they would.
I care that Mars is a red planet
I’m still here is A suicide note

On your bed
you lay on your back
wrapped up in your favorite cover
Your lamp is on
bringing light to your room
Not too dark but not too bright
a book in hand
One you seem to enjoy
You carefully read over most of the words
sometimes going too fast and restarting the page
You may laugh at what they say
Or cry from the loss of a character
maybe even believe you're in the story yourself
With the peace and quiet of the world around you
It's easy to get lost in your book
Page after page
You get eager to know what happens next
not getting tried of the action, adventure, or romance
All of it keeping you on edge
You read until your eyes wake
and the sun begins to rise
not realizing how you lost time
But all is well
it was worth it
in the end
You finish the book
and the story ends
Now you seek out another
just for the adrenaline
of a new world
What will you read next...

I saw this once,
in Philosopher's Stone,
that the wand picks the wizard,
not the other way around

I realized today,
at the bookstore in town,
that the book picks the reader,
not the other way around

You sit politely on the shelf,
tempting, teasing.

You haven't changed in the years.
Physically, at least. But I know
you've grown bitter, behind that
facade.

One day, I think, I'll take you down.
Finish you in a day, come back in a year.

I remember where we met. That
shop, the covered market.
Knew you were the one. The promise
of romance, a cunning plan...

I returned home giddy, keen to begin.
But a new job forced a delay; then a girlfriend, depression, apathy.

I took you down once. Made a start but never finished.
So I put you back, guilty of that literary crime.

So many books, so little time.