Crooked Book

You’re a funny little book,
torn pages and crayon scrawls,
dog-ears and nothing smells

And big meanings in little words
(and little meanings in big words)
you make me want to get up and do things,
sit down and cry

the smell newness, eagerness in your pages,
other times, an oldness

(old book smells choke me)

People tell me how my books should be,
I know I have a strange collection
(I know reading in the dark damages my eyes)

But still I read. I forget. Until someone reminds me,
“The sun has set.”

Posted in Poetry.


  1. I think books bear testiment to the trnasformation in our lives…the frustration, angst and joy…its almost like they're spectators in our lives.

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