"bibliophile" poems
A Woman of Many Words
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am drawn to all those places
That words congregate:
Libraries and bookstores
Road signs and billboards
Ticket stubs and subtitles
Nametags and license plates
Each one a journey driving inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
I love the way the shapes feel in my mouth
The skittle taste of syllables
I am drawn to especially long words
With their phonetic entities stretching out like tentacles to reach new corners of pronunciation
Words like
Bibliophile and flippant-irreverence
Evanescent and Insouciance
Mellifluous and Effervescent
Mondegreen and Labyrinthine
Words like
Onomatopoeia and Tintinnabulation
I appreciate their weight on my tongue
The way my hands appreciate the thickness that is a fat book
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am attracted to their multitude
The space their figures take up on a page
The calligraphic punches
Typed up by keys
The carefully constructed
Brush strokes
Spouting
What is sure to be, nonsense
But I do enjoy the sound of nonsense in the morning
I am a Woman of Many Words
I cling to the lettered skyscrapers wherever I can find them
Because the familiar scent of scribbles across parchment is comfort food for me
I find them
On the backs of cereal boxes
And in Popsicle riddles
In fortune cookies
And alphabet soup
From magnets on my fridge
To junk food logos
And I hold on to them for dear life
For fear that silence should find me
And leave me empty
For fear it will take away the music of maracas
Made by words
Dancing the salsa inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
because Words
Answer my Questions,
Soothe my fears,
and Humor my Whims
They are not always Right
But they are always Constant
They are not always Honest, in fact,
Mostly
They Lie
But ever so often
They tell such a Beautiful Lie
That you wish it were true
They sing from the rocks
offering Escape from
Terrifying,
Suffocating,
Mind numbing Silence
that echoes off my skeleton
I am afraid that silence will hollow out my insides
and leave me abandoned
with nothing between my Bow and Stern
my Forecastle all torn up
I am afraid of the skeleton inside me
So I am a Woman of Many of Words
For fear of silence
And contempt for truth
Because my words are sirens
And my shipwreck is home here
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
and slowly i'll drift
away from you
with each passing day
they say
that absence makes the heart grow fonder
but sometimes absence makes you forget
forget the smiles shared
and the moments you got lost in
forget the poems i wrote
and the time spent wishing just
for one moment
i could call you mine
not like my property,
but mine
and i'll forget what color your eyes are
and how your laugh made me feel warm
and i'll forget who drew me that picture
i'll forget how your arms felt around me
i'll forget all the things you were so passionate about
and the things you didn't like
i'll forget where we met
and all the fun we had that summer
and the letter that i wrote you
i'll forget your smell and your thoughts about politics
i'll forget which music was your favorite
and all the little things that made you tick
but i bet you'll forget me too
you'll forget my love of puns
or how I'm a bibliophile
you won't remember my laugh
or my smile
or how I cannot dance
you'll forget what color my eyes are
and my yellow rain boots
you'll forget about my novel
and my love of poetry
i'll forget about you
and you'll forget about me
we'll go in different directions
totally different paths
i'll be on a plane to Wales
and you'll be on a plane to Italy
and maybe i'll see you in the airport someday
maybe i'll recognize your voice
maybe i'll remember how i should have tried
maybe i made the wrong choice
will it really be that easy to forget you
i don't think there's a chance at that
will it be easy to forget me?
or did i make a big impact?
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:49 PM UTC
Eccentric, tea-drinking Whovian, bibliophile, lover of puns.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Not going to lie and say I love you
because I don't, probably
but I want you,
oh do I want you
and deserve you
yes, deserve
I deserve you.
A girl so soft
so sweet
sweet loving tender
beautiful
Librarian girl
like you.
Yes, I deserve
deserve a night, a chance, a moment
with those long
long legs
writhing wrapping smoothly
luscious lip *******
gasping
moving moving kissing
pulling clasping sticky sweet honey
coated candid book girl
oh do I want
me my skin to yours
bones and nerves tingling
tongue holding tasting
maybe
just needing a chance
a moment
a night
a lurid ***** fantasy
with precious lovely
bookish you.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
i know its probably the weirdest thing
you've ever heard of in your life, but
this man so smart and so attractive,
it hurts. he knows about Star Trek and
hes a bibliophile and he drink green tea
for ******* fun. thats ******* amazing.
he served in the Coast Guard for 20+
years and he has nine children.
he has double major in Physics and
Education. i just really want to kiss him
so hard and feel his ****** hair just rubbing
on my cheek and with his really nice hands
all up in my hair and maybe i better stop
because im in school and this ******
frustration is killing me. ******
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 11:16 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
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
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
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
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
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
you silly man,
you silly bibliophile..
you lover of green tea.
i never expected this to happen.
i never expected you to say
that you loved me.
i never did.
i'm not sure of
how you mean't it but
you see, i thought i loved you
earlier in the year...
and i do.
but, maybe not in the way you
expect it to be so.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 11:05 PM 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
i want to give everything
to a utopian ideal
to coffee and cigarettes
clean white sheets
six pillows, a window, you
Vintage bibliophile
filial commitment
contentment come on
home
Apr 4, 2011
Apr 4, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC
If the written word
ceased to exist
I would end with it
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
I am your favorite book
read time and time again
with the coffee stains,
dog-eared pages,
and highlighted notes,
somehow long forgotten,
yet always familiar,
living on the shelf above your bed,
waiting to be picked up
and ruffled through once more.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC
bibliophile
because i like watching
my collection compile
the feeling of a book
is one i can't explain
it's happiness, excitement
a thrill for my brain
books make for wonderful friends
because the next book starts when the first one ends
and there's a giant supply
a list of things to read
a list so big, i couldn't possibly complete
books are the perfect gift
because a piece of you is always in it
it warms my soul
a smile of gold
because of what in my hands
i hold
because a book is much more
than words on a page
it's part of a writer's soul captured
but not caged
because writing is like bleeding
and that's why i love reading
and so when you give me
your favorite book
it's not something lightly took
because a piece of you
is somewhere in there.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
Will someone ever understand me?
As simple as it sounds, the word ‘understanding’ is an uncanny term. To expect understanding from others is like a screaming paradox that uninvitingly and inevitably gives its RSVP. Definition of understanding varies from person to person. While some term ‘compatibility’ as basic understanding, others think understanding as a means to gain affirmation. Both interpretations sound alike but in fact very much like bibliophile and bibliomaniac. It gets peculiar as we proceed.
Why in this world do we need affirmation?
It’s profoundly queer to ask for acceptance. Do we really need ‘approval’ for our existence? We’re not illegal. Illegal things require approval. Drugs require consent. We don’t need to prove why we should be accepted. Giving heed to such a peculiarity is equivalent to symbolising yourselves as illegitimate. You have a birth certificate. You’re a registered citizen of a country and you have a house to live. You go to school/college/ work. You’re normal. Believe me, you’re not a felon.
Why don’t people fulfil our expectation?
Major Irony Alert. Expectations being fulfilled is, I believe, one of those rare miraculous occurring in our lives. When people get it, they find the solace hard to digest. Just when they are faintly ready to accept it, they change the course the things by doing deeds to blindly adhere to the balance of sad and happy. And when the ruination has been already done, they crave for it. Dear fellow beings of earth, stop expecting. It’s purely a hypothesis. The permanency of the damage expectations leave behind needs no explanation. It’s one of the most obvious and self-explanatory dictum on this planet.
People around me crave for being accepted. Girlfriends incessantly complain about their boyfriends not understanding them and vice versa. Parents lament over the ignorance their children. Children whine about the gap between them and their parents. People spend humungous cash to buy endurance. The reasons for such acts, I don’t reckon.
There’s an old African belief that hovers around the truth of being singularities. I find it deeply humbling. Why ask for plurality when the sole purpose for our creation was to be singular and fulfilling.
The purpose for this entry is to some extent not defined to what I believe. It is not meant to mould you. It is meant to be analysed by you. Critique it. Make your own moulds. It’s just what the existing needs.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
My life's going to bits, but you people make me smile.
That's all that really matters, when I think about it.
Also, I'm a bit of a bibliophile,
and I don't want inactivity to make my poetry sh*t.
I think I'll stay a while.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
It has no slander.
It does not chatter.
It does not spread falsities.
It is truthful, honest and comforting.
My fantasy land is full of books, sans any humans.
What ultimate joy!
One day I will write my fairytale of bookdom.
The Bibliophile Kingdom, the wanderlust to eternal libraries.
If I could read all the books in the world, I would.
The earth contrarily is so false, so illusory - just so human.
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 6:03 AM UTC
The wind leafs through my skin
Like a bibliophile on his tenth book
My body fixes—destroys, fixes—destroys
Itself every running second
I am alive
I am alive through the universe whispering
As time passes through my
Membrane like a ghost—unseen.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
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
You were once clean
Like all creation.
Beautiful and unfamiliar,
Full of possibilities and ambitions.
Just waiting to create your own story.
Your imagination is your only limit.
But I did not fall in love with you
Because of your cleanliness
Or because of your image.
I did not fall in love with you
Because you were new
Or because it was fated.
I fell in love with you because
Of your contemporary ideas.
I fell in love with you because
Of your imperfections.
I fell in love with you because
Of your ancient scars.
I fell in love with you because
You made me laugh when I wanted to cry.
I fell in love with you because
You beckoned me to come into your mind.
I fell in love with you because
You consumed everything that I ever was.
You didn’t care about my past.
You didn’t care about my feelings.
You didn’t care about my looks.
You cared about your selfish ambitions.
You cared about seeing the world.
You cared about changing me.
You altered my being and my story.
So thank you.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 10:21 PM UTC
Ⅰ.
Her paintings often worried people
outstretched hands and cooing voice
“Are you alright?”
“It comes and goes in waves”
You see, that was her specialty
Composing masterpieces out of emotional turmoil
Ⅱ.
The Artist found her new muse within the heart of a Bibliophile
Stacks of books bowing the wood on a stained white bookshelf
Her favorite; a black bound Salvador Dali collective
Ribbon bookmark frayed by the teeth of an orange kitten
The bibliophile’s face filled the Artist’s sketchbook pages
The finest work of art in her mind’s eye
Ⅲ.
She fills the bad nights with smoking good **** and drinking cheap liquor
Her feet touch the floor for the first time in 3 days
Hair knotted and joints crackling
Empty pizza boxes litter the floor of her studio
Blank canvas next to dried paint
****** up attracts ****** up” she said, paint scraper in hand,
How ironic the Artist cuts herself with her tools
Ⅵ.
She remembers how they made love on a mattress without a frame
Fingers brush across bodies leaving behind colors of flushed skin
Like an anatomical paint-by-number
They breathe smoke into each other’s lungs
The Bibliophile said “You are my favorite drug.”
A deadly mix of ******* ***** and marijuana
“You keep me on my toes and put me on my *** all at the same time.”
Ⅴ.
She squeezes her thighs into stretch denim
Attempting an imitation of normal
The Artist stares distantly at the blinding white of blank pages
The thoughts of the Bibliophile tickle her amygdala
Begging to run rampant across canvas
Time heals all wounds
She calls ********
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:04 PM UTC
If been in this world for while too long,
I rather get high and be bibliophile and get it on!
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 9:05 AM UTC