Library
Off to bury
Minds, spending time
Reading, soaring to imaginative levels
Harvesting curious ideas, challenging the devil
Experiencing many worlds, action always in a swirl
Around their setting, where the conflict can be upsetting
But when, the story comes to an end, happiness wins over the sin
If not in a hurry, destiny, visit the library, where the imagination will come alive, and cry
A good book is the way, to carry a day, under the sky blue, enjoying fantasies that are cool
Of this I am certain, a poet is no saint.
Fine words flow easily,
rubbish is articulate.
Malignant sugar highs,
silver tongues run wild.
That endless supply,
half finished lines,
just one more rhyme,
top shelf experimental.
Stanzas gain control,
mood manipulation.
Such a sly logophile,
faces are transfixed.
Power’s a schedule 1 drug,
a clean buzz for any artist.
All you need is that mic,
prepare for an addiction.
A poet is no saint, of this I am certain.
Good morning bookstore owner,
here my new book is a loaner.
It is a must read,
it will turn your young readers head.
It is about silly yellow ducks not red,
shaking their feathers and counting ahead.
The kids will love this fun book,
fill your shelf so they can take a look.
we sit on the what knot shelf
thinking we are all that the first week
feeling the woman’s excitement in finding us
But week after week goes by
the glass doors open and she pushes in new finds
thimbles, bells, miniatures, marbles,
most of us have not been taken out since day one
when she was excited to purchase us
“You’re welcome.”
The words ring through my head.
The words I knew were soon to come.
My eyes fill with dread.
I knew he would see through my lies.
I knew that he would talk to my father.
After countless cries,
I seemed to not be bothered.
Nothing can stop me.
The sting makes me feel alive,
It brings me back to reality.
I’ll talk to him,
but it won’t make it better.
The light in my eyes is dim,
I want to beat my head with a hammer.
But alas the night is here,
and I can sit in my room.
It’s so very clear,
it’s so very gloom..
I’ll sit in my ocean of tears,
My silence wonder.
I only want to hear the cheers,
when I’m 6ft under.
“You’re welcome.”
Blood falling
Down
Down
Down
Onto the little glass shard
of my dads broken
shot glass
I don’t know
why I do it.
I never have real answer
when people ask..
“To forget”
“To punish”
“To feel better..”
Those are the most common answers..
But I had a reason that night..
Everything was failing..
My friends
My relationship
My grades
My room was a mess
I kept getting grounded..
That night my uncle was in town
He was my dads friend but him and
my dad were so close they
were blood brothers.
I don’t remember how he found out..
If I told him
If he saw the glass shard
from the shot glass
I can’t remember.
All I remember is him taking it from my hands
And telling me that I was gonna be ok..
“This will go on my shelf”
“It has my blood on it.”
“That’s alright sugar”
“Why on your shelf?”
“To show how far you’ve come from this moment”
“Don’t tell my parents..”
“I won’t.”
That was the first time
I’ve seen him cry.
And when he isn’t here on earth anymore..
Well..
I don’t want to think about that.
To my Uncle Robert.
The crazy old man
I’m happy to have.
Elf on a shelf watching.
I think he reports my every move.
Santa’s spies have eyes everywhere.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
God placed you on that top shelf
for a reason
know your value doesn't shrink
and you're not here to always be pleasing
don't ever water yourself down
and don't ever dim your light
you're not here to make others comfortable
nor settle for less in life
just because some are not willing
to climb up to reach your star
just know the right people will always rise up
to meet you where you are
God placed you on that top shelf
because you're a child of the King
you're precious, you're royalty, you're an empress
and yes, you are a queen
for to be in your presence is a privilege
and people need to understand
that you function on a higher plane
and on integrity you firmly stand
God placed you on that top shelf
because you move with finesse
you're one of one and not one of many
you're a cut above the rest
A giggle escaped from the shelf
as Santa was tossing himself,
his face very red,
'I'm coming,' he said
and smirking, he shot on the elf.
I woke to see disoriented infinite shelves,
Enormous books lay with utmost silence.
In the floating dust, identity was found,
And under the endless meanings, the self was buried.
The turning pages reminded me of the unremembered hands,
Meanings were blurred, voices were invalidated.
Every dawn made me welcome to enjoy the curse,
For time had lost its aim.
Sometimes I met sufferers, while others were not counted,
Their tired eyes seemed to be of the weariness of traveling to eternity.
Voices filled with vain efforts, unable to be comprehended,
Since the mind was stuck in endless letters and pauses.
I understood that hell is not about fire or pain,
Though punishment was given through endless reading or searching.
I looked for a respite but was forever denied,
When properly ordered, souls drift astray forever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
old shelves bow
like old priests
holding up confessions~
stories too heavy to tell
out loud.
cracked leather
spine cracks yawn
paper lungs inhale time
the atlas breathes:
still lost?
insular worlds
stand guard in maple frames:
atlas of seas, botany texts, star charts.
each shelf a compass
pointing elsewhere.
empty spaces where
paperbacks once huddled—
loaned, but never returned.
absence breathes
louder than the stories kept.
new oak shelves wait,
unvarnished and expectant.
Fill me with life, they whisper.
she stacks poetry first—thin spines
bearing thick truths.
Every morning, he wakes up alone.
Having dreamt of a feeling, one he’s never really known
expecting a message, but there’s nothing on the phone
this garden was once exciting, now it’s all overgrown.
He sees them in the town, not an inch of a frown
fuelled by the beauty of a blessed promise
to always be there, when the world is not fair,
to hold each other’s hands regardless of fate’s plans.
His friends discuss their busy months ahead, while he lays there in his cesspit of dread
left with the wanderers, the ones who said
that they had boyfriends as they sat on his bed.
He sits with his thoughts, night into dawn
dreams of the arms and how he’d bathe in the charm
of just one that could hold, a heart once so cold.
Because no matter what he’s been told, to find refuge in self, to brave through the cold,
the self is a lot to hold.
My soul is on your shelf,
Nobody's catching that.
Next to your photo frame,
Which gives me a heart attack.
Did you wanna tell me something?
Oh, I could make it clear.
Open the door, B-I-R-D-I-E,
My soul is on your shelf.
Sad to see so many books
for want of being read
dying on the library shelf
some look as tho' they're already dead
and to think I could devour them all is fiction
I would be fooling myself instead
I've consumed all the classics Shakespeare complete
but science and mathematics have me completely beat
with all the thought authors put in hate to see it go to waste
can't put a good book down once I've had a taste
the silence of the written word
drink in the view something on which to chew
speaks volumes there's so much to tell
literacy is as the Trojan Horse inside my heart the citadel
don't want to see them fall by the wayside
thrown in the weeds on the seedy side of town
not wanted around
dropped in the dump out of sight out of mind
take a look there's so many books check them out
and oh so little time
I keep my memories on a shelf
Each one a book, a spine, a name
A library of all I've lived
Of all I've felt and seen
Some volumes end too early
Some, stretched across my years
And I pull them out when the night feels empty
Open to a chapter I thought I forgot
Some, I've tried to burn away
They still echo in my ears
Each one, a piece of the plot
Each one, writing me, even now
For every memory, bound in time,
Shapes the soul I know
And the shelf I keep within myself
Lines the spine of each tomorrow
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