Upon the book shelf over there, are many different worlds.
Each one has it's own life, it's own victories, it's own souls.
A world built and re-imagined by it's reader.
With guidelines and descriptions given by author.
Upon the bookshelf over there, lays a photo of a friend, long since forgotten.
A friend I once loved and have long since forgiven.
We drifted apart due to this world we live in now.
Trapped in a mundane world, forced to bow.
Upon the bookshelf over there, is imagination.
A jar full of it at your disposal.
Poured into cold reality, or into hopeless visions.
Or into the wounds on your hearts, the decisions.
Bookshelves right everywhere and every time.
They hold so much weight and carry so much burden.
Too little, and they're lost. Too much and they're broken.
They are much like us, rated by their stories.
Made for both failures and glories.
And yet, still just ignored until the next time someone wants to read a book.
Sometimes the book is put back but I'm still missing the story you took.
Empty and incomplete, I yearn to live in a world written.
Imaginary and in a jar, somewhere I can fit in.
Not by the books here, there's no magic.
Just the bookshelves, oh so tragic.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Of A Broken Heart And A Poisoned Mind
PoetryThe title might seem a bit morbid but the poetry here is simply made. These are in the form of SPOKEN WORD (and some other things) and might have many different meanings for many different people. In this book, there are both light and dark verses...
