"She had been waiting,
for her knight.
Her proper gentleman,
the one who at night
would hold her tight,
the only way
that seemed right
to sleep.
So deep,
was her love
for someone she hadn't met yet,
it kept her away
from the others.
No prince
could ever save this
damsel in distress.
She was busy, anyway.
But on one
humid, busy day,
one said hello.
And in a blur of a year,
she realized
she had said 'yes',
with stone like Ocean
adorned on left hand.
She was happy.
She was going to unite
with one whom
she had searched
her entire life for.
One who loves her
for who she is,
and every thing
that implies.
He is no knight,
no master-commander,
just a man
who has a way with words;
or so he likes to think.
All she wants,
is to ink into passing
the change of last name.
A light love story,
that began two year ago,
one busy day.
"Say it ain't so,
trapper in her own little world,
the sounds, smells,
and whirl of the ceiling fan
spins unnoticed,
unfelt,
with the security
and familiarity of her headphones.
The music,
unknown,
the art that is decorating
her time
sealing away
the ugly world around her.
Given unto her
the superpower
to make the whole wide world
completely melt away.
Her eyes never breaking
a horizontal plane,
not out of submission,
but from avoidance.
The lack
of eye-contact
can be unsettling to some,
perhaps to the ones
who cannot stand silence.
But in silence she works,
folding her laundry,
being sure to block all view
of any unmentionable
she plucks up
to fold.
To the observation
of the outsider,
an observer
would see or anything
practically any and all
back story
only to be
most likely
incorrect.
And she will never care,
never know
she is the topic of light scrutiny,
so that script can be written,
the unaware volunteer
for the unwarranted play
playing in front.
For there is nothing but a scene,
of washers and dryers,
an incredibly clean location,
and with the only movement
being the one
who has made a point
that she does not want
attention;
she becomes the only subject
on stage.
A boring play.
Smelling of fragrance;
after the rain."
A seemingly infinte amount of books line shelves old and new
You can't possibly read them all, but shouldn't settle for just a few
The cover is a starting point for weeding through the masses
Even though its what the author wants you to see, not necessarily what is past it
Some books have lost their covers too
Taken apart by readers that came before you
Whether the cover is hard or soft
The pages it protects, holds the truths that you've sought
Your world could be warped by the words of one page
You could flip through a thousand and find they had nothing to say
There's no guarantee of what you will find
But I urge you keep looking, and yes it takes time
For if you've found a story that never gets old
You can read it each night and new love still unfolds
Then you already know there's nothing better you can do
Than looking for that book that was written just for you
The crispness of the page beneath my fingertips,
Yellowing edges and bent corners,
Every word a missing puzzle piece,
Unraveling the mystery- unread... untouched.
The abyss of my unending pain melting away,
Eyes moving across in a practiced motion,
Craving each sentence... each dialogue.
My life becomes theirs,
Their existences etched in my heart,
Telling each story as if I lived them.
For a moment, my life is whole,
For a moment, I forget.
Until reality crashes like a thousand tidal waves,
Ripping me away into the violent current.
The light coming trough the window
showed all the dust that exploded from
the opening of that one book…
This cold light
lighting up
the warm dusty room.
Books and books and nothing but books.
Mice’s houses.
Rat’s castles.
Home of the fattest woodworms.
I cough with every step,
cause every step
is a step creating
clouds of dust.
Dust created from books.
Sandstorm.
Duststorm.
Bookstorm.
As I walk thought the kingdom of dead knowledge
towards the end of the world,
I’m looking for one book.
Even if in pieces.
Even a tiny part of it.
i need it.
A page, or a line.
A word would do.
My room is my desert,
my prison and my kingdom.
So I build my paper castles
and I burn my books to feel warm.
I drink the sunlight
and I look for the word, hopelessly,
like it would save my soul,
like it would grant my wishes.
……..
I don’t know how old is that wine.
I found it behind these books over there.
It tastes like shit,
but that’s allright.
I’m eating the leather covers some book have,
else i’m dying.
I lick my own sweat,
the rats are no more.
All their houses and castles and bedrooms are ruined.
You see, i’m still looking for that piece from that book.
Even the moths are gone.
Not that tasty,
but that’s alright.
Oh well, here we go again…
I’m a starving man,
a godless messiah,
soon I’ll feed myself
pieces of my flesh,
tiny organs no one needs.
It hurts a little now,
but that doesn’t matter.
I can devour anything,
I just need to keep my fingers,
so I can run them over my book,
when I find it,
I will find it,
gently caress the pages,
one by one, run my hands
over the hard covers, the soft insides.
When I find my book
it will all be worth it.
New rat in town.
The rat is no more.
Gave me strenght for one last search.
It seems i looked everywhere:
in all the secret rooms,
under the stairs,
behind the bookcase,
under that little door behind the sofa…or what’s left of it anyway.
The book is nowhere to be seen
so now i’m on the floor.
Breathing is almost impossible
cause of the dust i breathed through these months.
Seems like my last scar has opened up…
The ceiling is beautiful…
Andels fighting demons.
Demons loving angels.
And God is reading a book…
WHERE DID YOU HIDE IT?!
I KNOW IT’S HERE SOMEWHERE!
DAMN IT ALL…
There’s dust dripping from me.
Dust and words.
And light.
I’ll ask you in a bit… Father!
So what I’m a character?
So what my steps are counted?
I had the right to try and change that!
See you in the next book, God!
"Kill your darlings." I read in a book
Behind my glowing keypad, I shook.
Kill my darlings, you say?
Just pick up a rag and wipe it away?
Backspace, backspace, backspace, I press.
Making my paragraph noticeably less.
But I don't think I'm fooling anyone, I guess,
I really must start fresh.
My grandmother loves reading books. She loves imagining every story she reads to full detail and she loves entering into every new adventure she can. She loves the feeling of the pages of a new book and the smell of the old ones. She loves reading the different funny and weird names of the authors. She loves the fact that when she was 14 she started collecting books of all shapes and sizes. Pink books with soft covers and drawings in every page, little pocket books and dictionaries that you can carry everywhere and gigantic books of hard covers that don’t contain a title at the front, which I assume, are the oldest ones. She loved that she had so many books her father promised her that she would have her own library one day in the house, and so she did. She loves that, when she turned 18, her father gave her a room of the house with every wall painted in a soft pink color and it had bookshelves everywhere. She loves that she filled that library within months. She loves that she had to make even bigger bookshelves to fill the library with more books and she loves that she had to buy a stool to reach the books that were in the highest corners of the library room. “I fell in love for the first time with that room.” My grandmother used to say. I’ve gotten to know my grandmother through her library and the books she wants me to read with her. She has made me fall in love with books and stories as well. I love that she spends all of her time in the library room and I can always find her there. I love that she sits in her favorite chair to read a book, then she goes to eat and after an hour or so she returns to her library to read another. I love that every time I use a vocabulary word incorrectly she goes upstairs to the library room to bring back her beloved Larousse Dictionary and teach me the proper way to use it. I love that every Sunday I go visit her we read a completely different book than the one we read the last time before. I love that she has teached me the wonders you can find within books of little or long pages. And finally I love that, to her and to me, friendships can end, money comes and goes and life itself is temporary but books will always be infinite.
If you enter my grandparents’ house and you take a left on the first door, you will come across a long hall. The wooden floor will crack beneath your feet no matter how light you step on them, if you look to your right you will see and hear my grandmothers birds, always chiming as loud as they can, the smell of her never-ending food will get to you before you can reach the kitchen on the left, and at the very end of the hall you will meet with two of the most cozy and cushy green sofas. Green as in the most horrible green you can imagine, designed, as my grandfather will tell you a thousand times, to brighten the room. But never mind that, when you settle into these green sofas that’s when it all starts, there you can fully appreciate it. The bookshelf. So big it makes the room look small, covered in books and books of all colors and designs, waiting to be read. The only way you could reach the dusty old books on the top is if you used the fragile ladder on the side. But we were never allowed to touch it. I think my grandparents were afraid that we were going to mess up their carefully and perfectly categorized and alphabetized collection. You might live as twice as age as my grandfather did but it wouldn’t have enough time to finish all those stories. My greatest memories come from that place; it was in those green sofas that we, my two brothers and me, spent our nights at our grandparents. There she grab a book from the “kids section” and began unraveling its mysteries to us. My brothers and I always listen to her words, paying close attention to the prince that was going to save his kindred or the ugly and fat witch that got misunderstood by her friends, always a new story, always a new adventure. It was thanks to my grandmother and her many hours spent on those green couches that led me to appreciate reading. She took it upon herself to show us that magic can come from a book. Now, no matter where I am, when I open a book I can see myself on those couches staring at the big bookshelf, another day, another story.