#bibliophile
books books books
such a wonderful way to escape
the crisp scent of a fresh book
pages upon pages
drifting into other worlds
so much better than reality
dragons and unicorns and demons
are a better alternative
than the boring normal world
libraries are a comfort
so quiet and filled with books
May 17, 2025
May 17, 2025 at 10:51 AM UTC
the aroma of a roasted bean chocolate coffee would never beat
John green's new edition..
Aug 2, 2022
Aug 2, 2022 at 11:36 AM UTC
Collecting books has become my obsession, Which has erected a mountain of books,
laying across my sight.
I've so many task & twenty-four hours
Still, I priorities you.
I sit at my table with numerous pile of books
Some are toured & some are yet to.
I know you want me to dive into the ocean of your words,
As you want me, from a sea to a shining sea & twinkle among the throng.
But always remember one thing You are my life's library,
I'll never keep you unread.
@readers_domain
Jun 1, 2021
Jun 1, 2021 at 9:39 PM UTC
He was known for a puzzling idée fixe
for literature in an array of topics;
Not a citizen of particular themes.
Given to a pursuit of this literary ENTERPRISE,
he would hermit away and ravenously read,
which left him with a pale VISAGE.
He'd dealt with comments of its PERNICIOUS effects,
putting a BLEMISH on his social standing.
Yet, it didn't DAMPEN his spirit.
He didn't shy from upgrading to a learned man.
A mixture of books granted him entrance to
TRAVERSE an ever transforming road,
for which weather had no dampener on.
He was a SENTRY of his own mind,
following the ASTRAL bodies in the night sky,
to channel knowledge into dreams.
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 1:10 AM UTC
Reasons to stay alive:
a thousand splendid suns,
the land of decoration
beloved
fairy tales.
Dark places murmur
Girl, interrupted.
We are all completely beside ourselves
And still I rise.
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 7:04 AM UTC
The flip of a page sounds like
Yesterday's tunes
Haunting the remains of ancient runes
Of libraries snugged within our brains
Perhaps in a blissful yearning to be named
By its forgetful creator
Sep 21, 2020
Sep 21, 2020 at 10:52 AM UTC
this is where you’ll find me~
behind the pages of an unfinished story
between the lines of bliss and misery
beneath the chapters of peace and tragedy
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 10:29 AM UTC
I collect words like fine antiques,
Admiring the way this ancient lexicon rolls off my tongue,
The same way I’d admire how crystal candlesticks glow in the sun.
I create sentences like painters create art,
each syllable delicately placed,
Much like each individual paint stroke in Monet’s Japanese gardens,
Admired but never truly understood.
I cherish books like passions held close to my heart,
Comparing the glide of page against page as they turn in excitement
To the soft-lighted kisses shared in quiet moments,
Loved and filling my heart with contentment.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 1:07 PM UTC
I don't love reading because it gives me an eternal pleasure. I love reading because it is a moment of discussion of my mind with my soul.
A.S.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
I read far too much
to be considered a conscious part of this world.
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
I was reading a book
I was Indulging the smell of its old pages
my imagination was ignited
as I ate every mere word it has
my eyes were healed
my mind was quenched
I was not me when I was walking the journey
and it’s a story that I hoped would never end
its covers conceal fragility
and the book sheltered me from reality
I was focused
I was bound to the book
lots of things had happened
and I was unaware
it was already afternoon
the flowers poured the summer’s snow
fogs devoured the pearls of the ocean
trees have lost all of its leaves
the bookshelf fell and got broken
my coffee became cold
and many more had happened
everything happened
I did not know
I was too busy
I was reading a book
and that book was you
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 9:00 AM UTC
I regard my attraction to language as an affair,
as a withstanding relation,
a product of indecorous communication.
This devotion has demanded a life of its own,
accepting my whole as its proxy.
Others won't understand this affinity.
They aren't familiar with the curving lilt of a domestic tongue,
Nor the taste of a verse fermented in the mouths of one's ancestors,
Surely not the stuttering moans of a mother dialect,
Yet the sharp sting of a jagged vernacular,
or the mastery and art behind the articulation of a single utterance.
This discourse developed over time,
I required maturation and growing before my notions aligned.
I felt eager upon observing the pervasive movements of great text
Which delivered a high known greater than ***
It is true that I contemplated profoundly first,
before committing my desire and will to the whole of verse.
But now that my diction reflects the appeal of great literature and enamoring fiction
I couldn't be more satisfied.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 7:33 AM UTC
If you were a glass of scotch,sans soda
sparkling like gem stones on rocky ice
or
A tiny shot of tequila,besieged
in a castle of glass,pleading
not guilty through out,
I could quaff you down
my parched throat, like
an elixir,stung
by short lived fearless wisdom.
But you are not.
You are a castle
amidst the infinite sea,
not made of glass,
concocted in layers,
masking the answers,to questions
i could never ask,
buoyant by wisdom hidden in your pillars,
resplendent by your tall embossed walls, with figures,
an index of its sagacity,
chandeliers hanging like words of all kinds,
enlightening the castle at its pilgrims appeal,with
right words,
wrong words,
sensitive words
and
insensitive ones,
So many words.
And I too wish to feel your embossed skin
through my fingertips,
with each flip,
gaining access to the your light.
I wish to stay afloat with you,
on your paras undulating
like sea waves of a quiet night,waiting
for an eternal dawn of wisdom.
-Pallavi Goswami
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
You could be my glass of scotch,sans soda
sparkling like gem stones on rocky ice
or
A tiny shot of tequila,besieged
in a castle of glass,pleading
not guilty through out
and
I could quaff you down
my parched throat, like
an elixir,
stung by fearless wisdom ,but
just for tonight.
So, let me drink
you through words,
one at a time
right words,
wrong words,
sensitive words
and
insensitive ones,
So many words.
So, let me taste
you through my fingertips,
taking down to you mine
through each flip, like
a token of appreciation, against
generosity bestowed,
none plundered.
So, let me drown
into paras, undulating
like sea waves, on seeing full moon.
Let me sink,and
get high on them, but
Forever!.
-Pallavi Goswami
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Was a man who believed
To read was to pray
The sound, the smell, the touch
Of books, truly made his day.
"I'll collect books," he thought
"To read to my hearts content."
And so he did, filling chests
In pursuit of his intent.
He bought and he brought
He stocked and he stored.
Reading forgotten, collecting
Meant so much more.
"Books so countless
Their stacks so tall
I would not live," he'd say
"To read them all!"
It's funny how fate works
The man's wish came true.
But not quite so fantastic
As the dreams he drew.
The books he collected
In his bibliophilic lust,
The termites left him naught
But some dunes of dust.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 4:56 AM UTC
this is how i travel,
with a paperback clung to
my chest, fingers wrapped 'round
like birthday gift ribbons
i sail on the syllables,
the music they make.
how many homes i have,
nestled in the spaces
between paragraphs and phrases.
each chapter an
island
where i'm somebody
else
this is how i learn,
how i journey -
between pages
and tales.
do not come to
find me
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
She is not merely a bookworm
She does not read for pleasure
She reads to survive
She reads to distract herself
She reads to thrive
Her words do not collect dust upon the shelf.
She is a devour-er of books
Ink drips from her lips as she tries to
Contain the words that she bleeds
She exhales chaotic eloquence
Her tongue wrestles to wrap around words more
consumed than heard
Her mind races to find that one perfect
syllable to turn her phrase from
biting and bitter to
savory yet sarcastic
Her smirk is merely a collapsing floodgate
Words will soon flood free
Watch her eyes, you'll see
She is not merely a bookworm
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
"I bought books,"
I confessed.
"You have no money.
Why are you buying more books?"
they demanded to know.
"Because I was hungry."
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
perhaps
if there were spaces
gaps left in the english language
places meant for characters left to be invented
maybe
if there were phrases
and definitions
yet to be coined
i could finally tell the whole truth
about me
and the monsters in my head
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC
I love old books—
their smell,
soft and softly mottled pages,
font-faces,
and carefully illustrated frontispieces.
My bookshelves are lined:
old copies of ancient classics.
I love buying old books—
the lost treasures they are,
and the lost treasures they hide:
tram tickets,
letters,
notes,
two-dollar-notes,
and scholarly students' scribblings.
I have some books I fear to open
for fear they'll fall apart.
There are some who love old books—
their possibilities,
malleabilities,
and superficialities.
Their bookshelves aren't lined.
But rooms of reams of bunting, and tables of origami.
(or soft and softly mottled picture frames)
They love buying old books—
not for wisdom,
nor connections to ancestors.
They've no fear of giants' shoulders;
whole worlds are torn apart.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
She was shocked when he handed her a rectangle shape
with a gift wrap and told her to open it.
And to her surprise,
it's one of her favorite author's set of books
with a sign of the author itself.
She was really happy
because that costs too much--
too much for someone to do such kind of effort.
So she can't help herself
and gave him a peck on his cheek
and say "thank you".
That made his heart flipped
and made his face a crimson.
Because he didn't expect that she would do it.
And she was just beyond happy
to seem to care what she did.
And when she saw his face like that,
she laughed at him and hugged him too.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
She opens up once
In a trance
She believed she could dance
The shelf was no place to hide
A talent so brilliant
So resilient she was
With her posture so bold
Never taking kind to the cold
But she seldom complained
And she was never strange
The time I left
Like I tore her last page
If she would only understand
I don’t live life with a back up plan
Its been two weeks
I feel more ashamed
For the actions i've proclaimed
To be mine
Though they rhyme
I cant help but sing out of time
When she looks at me like that
I feel the pages turning in my head
Though nothing I say
Can open you up my own
I just realized
When we dance so close
I feel less alone
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC