"bookworm" poems
Don't discriminate
Just don't do it
All it is, is hate
Hate is made out of other hate
and hate only fuels more hatred
You pour gasoline on a blaze of loathing
with every discriminatory comment you make
It doesn't matter
if they have done something you believe is wrong
because you have done many things that are wrong too
it is not for you to judge
so black white brown both or polka dotted for all I care
gay les straight bi or into adhesive sloths (we adhesified furry little sloths need a little love too)
man or woman or sloth
punk emo crazy nerdy weird loser REALLY weird bookworm or literal worm sloth or adhesive sloths (like me)
nature freak or homebody
axe murderer or a cereal killer or a cheerio killer
it does not matter who or what they are
they are all human too. or all sloths. that too.
Just don't discriminate
and share the slothified love of adhesiveness
accept everyone as they are
even if they hang from trees and move in slow motion all day like me
even if they are rocks
because rocks are great
in fact this one time, I found this rock and man, it was absolutely hilarious it should have been a stand up comedian
okay well not a STAND UP comedian, because I mean... rocks can't actually stand up... but like a really hard and Sedimentary roundish stone shaped sit down (well more like lay around like a rock all day) comedian
Wait, what was I talking about?
oh right, don't discriminate!! :)
against other humans or other sloths.
or adhesive sloths.
...I'm not crazy! my mother sloth had me tested!
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
You are the practicality that keeps me grounded;
I am the spontaneity that drags you along.
You are the reason to my irrationality;
I am the tumult to your calm.
You are the answer to my questions;
I am the words to your quiet deeds.
You are the engineer I cherish;
I am the bookworm you esteem.
You are the chef I rate as top;
I am the baker you adore.
You are the handyman I can count on;
I am the seamstress you prefer.
They say opposites attract, and it seems that might be true.
Like two pieces from the puzzles we both love,
We fit together seamlessly.
To be cliche, you complete me,
But in ways I never knew weren't whole.
Apr 3, 2011
Apr 3, 2011 at 8:34 PM UTC
As Autumn approaches,
my mind drifts to the decaying leaves,
Halloween,
the cool, crisp breeze...
The communal understanding that eternal heaven comes only with
death—
that Summer must always go.
And that beloved Autumn must always usher in bitter Winter who lays the foundations
for an exalted Spring.
Oh hell...I hope for a long Autumn, I want to make it stay—
like a host who lectures his party guest for too long
so he won't look at his watch.
Oh how I need the frumpy sweaters and pumpkin heads on window sills!
Oh how I need the billowing steam from milky beige cocoa,
the misty light rain in the gray of the morning,
the high canopy of fleshy red flakes!
And echoes of children laughing as they eat candy on their way home from trick-or-treating—reminding me that life can be enjoyed
with sacred rituals and good company.
I need Autumn personified—
a cool-headed, crackling-fireplace-girl.
A quilt-maker, cloud-gazer, two-dogs-and-a-cat bookworm.
Someone comforting like oatmeal.
Someone surprising like the first day of school.
I need Autumn.
I need Autumn but it never seems to need me too.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
She carefully creased the corners,
Bookmarking her favorite parts.
Because the words on those pages
Seemed to touch her heart.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
He looked at me
The way you look at
Stacked books
On a wooden shelf,
Carefully stroking my spine
After he's done it to
Three other stories
he'd gotten tired of.
Mr. Bookworm,
I am not a fictional option.
Yes, my cover is
Stained
And my last reader
Folded and tampered
With all my pages,
I only wish you'd
Treat this piece of literature
With respect.
You see, Mr. Bookworm,
I'm not a trilogy,
At least I'm not sure yet.
My Author isn't quite done with me. And I find it quite rude
That you stare at my papery insides,
Page after page,
Only to leave me
Back in the shelf,
Collecting dust.
Be patient with me, wandering reader.
Wait for my story
To reach it's ******
Inhale my aging pages
Until you reach my resolution.
My apologies
For the times I've been
Rewritten.
But wait with me
Till you've reached my story's ending.
Because I swear upon my
Mismatched table of contents,
It will be a story worth telling.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
Marissa Ann was a firecracker of a little girl.
For her, there was no fence too tall to climb, no bully too mean to face, no street too busy to cross.
She was all tangled hair and toothy grins.
And she'd yank the book right out of my hands and say, "Gabrielle, we have more important things to do than read."
In the jungle of our lives, Marissa was a lioness, queen of the pride.
I was a mouse not indigenous to these parts of the second grade.
The world was a terrifying place, and I had no problem cowering in the corner, knee-deep in a pile of Nancy Drew.
I tried to stay huddled behind my words, drowning in the ink, attempting to let the pages be my armor.
Marissa would not let me.
When I allowed bookshelves to be my shields, she came guns blazing, and kicked them all down, then stood me back up on my feet.
She'd grab my hand and pull me head first toward adventure.
Marissa was tough, and everyone knew it.
There was not a soul alive brave enough to pick on Marissa Ann.
But me? I was an easy target.
The other girls said I was "weird" with my enormous wire frames resting atop full cheeks, and my frayed jeans, a glowing reminder of my mother's lack of wealth.
I heard the whispers on the playground about the chubby girl who read, (can you believe it?), chapter books.
Brianna was a demon of a child.
She'd bat her pretty little eyelashes and everyone would melt.
She had the entire second grade class wrapped around her tiny little finger.
She'd corner me on the soccer field and do everything she could to remind me that I was different.
But one day at recess, she was nowhere to be found, until I made my way through winding halls, back to the warmth of our classroom.
There sat Marissa with a devilish glint in her eye, waving me over to sit in the desk beside her.
Behind us, a sniffling Brianna, looking forlornly at the teardrop stains on her pink lace skirt, her mouth pulled tight into a perfect straight line.
I looked back at Marissa with a curious glance, then intertwined her hand with my own.
The sound of stifled sobs behind us and the warmth of her skin on mine sealing an unspoken vow between two girls with puzzle piece fingertips that only fit each other.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
Reminder:
It's better to be losing her in books
than losing her to someone else.
a.g
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
He is a bookworm humming marching tunes with a caribou.
They smell the sky, hear the sand, see the bright red light with their tongues.
Ed Ed the Knucklehead hides his hands in Ottawa.
Ed never hid his hands, he revealed them for all to see.
Splish-Splash, Splish-Splash, his webbed feet slap the tiled floor,tasting, tasting, tasting.
Walking, walking, walking
The foul-smelling wall of hunger screams empty codes at the freezing sun.
"Calculus," whispers Ed, "I want more Calculus."
The math will sneak by, he will feel its shadow; but not yet.
Sour triangles whirling openly greet the visitors.
Powerfully they mask their entrance embracing fraudulent identities.
The caribou now speaks his truth, "Ani rotzeh tachtonim."
Blindly the door opens and reveals all that the caribou desires stripes, rainbows, little flowers.
Down the long pathway to nowhere.
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 5:45 PM UTC
HomePoetry Control PanelPlease enjoy your visit. Poetic-Verses 4147 Poems Read.the bookwormi was in library sat there with a bookthen i heard a noise and thought id take a lookthere on the shelf as happy as can besat a little bookworm sat there watching mehe was very funny as he began to wiggle i couldnt help my self as i began to gigglehe was very nice and needed companyso he came across and sat along with mewe sat there together reading side by sideit was time for me to go and time for him to hidethen i said goodbye until another daythen we could meet again and together we could play.
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC
Bookworm how I envy you
you live and ingest the written word
You have been around many volumes of knowledge
Taking it all in adsorbing it all
Living through those words and living because of them
Do you have a favorite type of book?
You may have even seen some famous authors
If you could write you would already know, many words
If I could let the words all sink in as well as you
I could be a remarkable student that is why I envy you
Should I be a bookworm too?
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
Accept me for me.
And I will accept you for you.
I won't judge you or hold grudges against you, I won't make you feel inferior neither will I act like your superior.
I'll do my best to be support you and stick with you even if you hurt me...
But accept me for me, I'm a little messed up, crazy and bipolar.
I am what people call different?
I am what people call a social outcast because I am all in one a **** a nerd, a geek or whatever you call it.
I'm a bookworm, a wallflower, I like to stick on my own but I do like to go out.
I'm not a serious person because being serious comes with horrific memories of my past so forgive me, forgive me for being childish, its a defence mechanism against this Canvas of pain that surrounds me...
Accept me for me and I'll accept you for you...
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 6:10 AM UTC
His study, with books of various kinds,
A dim light, his only source—
To keep himself from going blind
To keep himself on course
In Langdon's mind,
Whatever stood behind this force
Is yet to be defined.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
People say, bookworms are antisocial, quiet, and pretty much unattached.
these are not true, alright? no. bookworms are not like that.
let me enlighten you by telling you about the bookworm I fell for.
1. on meeting her for the first time, I was minding my own business. I was in class and it was the first day of school.
then all of a sudden, she suddenly points out the game I'm holding and screams *** *** *** that game!! and after that we just talked on and on and on and on pretty much about random things. so no, they are not antisocial.
2. on trips to bookstores I'd always end up walking out of one with ym body hurting. why? Whenever she sees a book that she doesn't have, she'd gasp point grab gasp point grab and repeat. on seeing a book that she can't buy. she'd hit me with it! I mean who does that? on seeing a book that she's been looking for, for a long time, she'd throw a tantrum! so no, they are not quiet.
3. When you look into her eyes, you'd see all the things she's been through, the masks she wore, and the wrinkles in her smiles for faking them so much. It came be from a lot of things, A past lover, a long-term problem, an old friend, or betrayals. whether it's fiction or non-fiction it would pain her no matter how she lies about it. She's been attached to too many for too long a time, that she'd try her best not to get attached. So on a bookwrom being attached or unattached, in the end it's all up to you whether she becomes the first or the latter
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
He was the perfect height for her.
Tall enough that her head fell
Right tight under his sculpted chin
But not so tall that he was called "giant".
She was the perfect shape for him.
Not so skinny that he worried
About breaking her bones with a hug,
But curvy in all the places
That made him say a throaty "whoa".
She was a bookworm who loved TV.
He was a chef who loved Mac and Cheese.
They both adored animals,
Though he might have loved reptiles just a little too much.
And they both hated politics,
Though she might have set fire
To one too many campaign signs.
They argued about music, money, and kids.
They debated the merits of dancing in the rain.
They held hands in the moonlight,
And kissed at midday.
They grew old together and never strayed
Too far from the home they had built.
Then one day his chin wasn't high enough
For her head to fit snuggly below.
Her dresses, though comely,
No longer made him say "whoa".
But they still held hands and kissed
And remembered the days of their youth
When they were still learning
What being perfect for each other meant.
It wasn't until the night her heart gave out,
That she realized how he was perfect for her.
It wasn't his charm and dashing good looks,
Or his witty retorts and clever touchés,
But the simple fact
That through all of the years,
He loved her,
And that made him perfect for her.
It wasn't until she took her last breath,
That he understood how perfect she'd been.
She was perfect not because of her curves,
Her smile, her laugh, or her intelligence.
She was perfect for him because she loved him.
They'd been perfect in each other's eyes
Because love is blind.
And sometimes that's not a bad thing.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
and it scares me because
the glow in her eyes and
melodious rhythm
in her words give me the impression
that she enjoys talking
about these things.
And it's not
one of those mindful zen
practicing acceptance
attitude of gratitude type of
scenes where she loves it out
of herself and heals all
the heavy scars she wears.
It's like she revels in her misery--
I just don't get it man!
Maybe I'm doing some
wacko projection thing
or that I'm reading too much
into it all. I mean,
I am a bookworm. But,
There's just something about
the way, the feeling or
the tone that vibrates through
my soul like a friggin' red light Spider Sense
that gives me the creepers.
She'd say that she's simply
stating facts and, while that
may be true,
I just can't help but hear
*some callous time ******* black-hole train crash rejoicing;*
like a perverted hymn
to misfortune and gloom.
I don't know man, maybe
those are just the tunes my mom enjoys playing.
Could be that's just not my
style, or how I approach
something like that.
I try not to judge, but
some **** is just doesn't sit
well with me, you know?
I can't help that.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
It's a case full of poetic justice.
The only feelings I express are those of spoken words.
In my brain hides a bookworm.
It's feeding me with ideas.
His name is Jack.
Jack 'O' Lantern.
Lighting up my inspiration.
Once he swallowed a dictionary.
He ingested the contents and fed them to me.
I use them as free expression.
Having buckets of fun.
(C) Livvi
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
I'll just be a bookworm.
It's easier than making friends.
And it hurts less.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
-
sometimes i wonder if i Learn anything -
sitting in the back of class with etchings n Sketchbooks,
looking through dimensions of a delicate World,
burning through the canvas with mechanical Pencils,,
.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
I couldn't take it.
Watching people shoveling
****
Into their mouths
While staring at
TV commercials.
Some just sat and
Stared
For a whole 45 minutes
Slouched in a chair
Mouth opened slightly
One hand clutching the opposite arm
Looking down at
the phone occasionally
Like there was something happening.
I couldn't do it
So I started bringing my books
To work.
I wasn't trying to be
Some intellectual
**** I definitely don't look
Or talk like one.
Then it began.
First with the short Mexican girl
"Whatchu reading?"
"Nausea"
"Oh...I wish I could read, buuut...I don't know.. , I get bored, even if its inchressing, ya know?"
"You just have to find the right author."
"Oh...I don't know...my eyes juss get all blurred after I read a long time..."
"Hmm..."
Then the old lady
"Hey! I always see you reading, you must be a bookworm like me! What are ya reading!?"
"Journey To The End Of The Night"
Oh, never heard of it, who's the author?!"
"This french guy. Celine."
"Oh? Ever read Game Of Thrones? I'm reading the series now!"
"No."
The college graduate girl:
"Are you reading Bukowski??"
"Yeah, you a fan?"
"NO!!! He makes me wanna curl up in bed and DIE!"
"Oh..."
And some dude asked about
Anne Rice
" I don't read that ****
"What about Poe?"
"He's ok, I guess..."
Somebody asked about
Catcher in the Rye
To **** a mockingbird
And I wanted to slap her.
A manager walked in
The **** one
"Ray your always reading. It's cool.
You seem so ...cultured."
I thought about being
Drunk
Shirtless
Screaming
And throwing chairs
The night before
I laughed
"Cultured? I don't know about that..."
When you see
Somebody
Transfixed
By the power of the word
The page
The line
You
Just leave them
The hell alone.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
I’m the sort of girl who drinks tequila out of coffee cups
and wears really skimpy dresses
and goes out partying all night
and kisses random boys in the dark
But I’m also the kind of girl who wears her hair in a messy bun
and reads Jane Austen when it rains
and enjoys watching documentaries with my cat
But I’m also the kind of girl who likes slamming beers
and putting on team colors
and cussing at the top of my lungs at sporting events
But I'm also a *** who sleeps until noon
and eats cold pizza because I don't wanna cook
and contemplates what life would be like if I were dead
But I'm not fitting in your boxes
And you hate that
And it confuses you
And I like it
Girls aren't one thing
Or another.
We're not the sun
And the stars.
And we're not the **** of the earth.
I'm not Alpha and Omega
I'm not Fire and Ice
I'm not Beauty and Grace.
I'm me
And she's her.
And we're not the same.
I can chug a beer while reading Frost
Or contemplate the meaning of life at a hockey game
I can be
Party Girl
Sloppy Drunk
Thoughtful Bookworm
*Crazy ******
All of the above.
Or none.
I'm me.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
Every night I try to press myself
into the pages of my favorite book,
and every night I realize that the spine
is too weak to hold onto all the extra vowels.
So instead,
I tear out every single page.
I fold them into paper airplanes,
each with my lip stain on the wing,
and I scatter them in your yard.
I watch every one glide and soar
until it crashes, even after I've
woken the neighbors. Even after
your parents have called the police.
Even after you stand in front of me,
so close that all I can do is crush them
against your chest.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
palms are masks
that cover nothing
fingers, frustrated fishermen
combing dark waters, searching
for the uninhabited isle.
the tree stump pitifully trying
to grow,
melody of the typewriter,
the letter opener's song,
withered daisy in a plastic display,
hidden bookworm art
carved into dusty paperbacks,
overgrown, abandoned houses:
sleeping animal,
dormant jungle.
wet asphalt puddles of fallen sky
dead butterfly
blind blue eyes;
tragic, difficult, poetic
you are
poetically
(unplayed piano furniture)
useless.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 9:57 AM UTC
I ended all chapters.
But when will the book finish?
Nov 19, 2019
Nov 19, 2019 at 8:59 AM UTC