Library, sitting quietly with a coffee, inconspicuously people watching, wishing you had more money to buy what sits on that shelf, perusing, thinking.
my bookshelf is full of books that i never read. I really wish that i could say that i’ve read all my books. the shelf helps me hold on to other things that i like to show off. just not books. or at least books that i’ve read. i need a new book shelf and more books, full of pages that I’ve never glance at. I really don’t have time to think about reading about my books either. Honestly, I’d rather just stare at them, with the aspiration of someday reading them. Its like having a mystery always nearby. the mystery of not knowing whats inside them.
love. ideas. escape. favorites. classics.
there’s nothing more real, tangible, yet still so imaginary.
i can’t believe i don’t have one. i need more books.
reading is my action. it has defined me, developed me, created me. i owe myself to the bookshelf.
Glass and nails and dark stained wood
In a corner the bookshelf stood
Within it lay books so dusty
Dirty, torn, moldy, musty
In a corner, these forgotten goods.
As I looked around the room I noted how the pile of books in the far back corner were leaning slightly to the side, almost too close to the tack next to it. Books piled on top of the desk, covering the entire surface. There were books in stacks at the foot of the bad, you had to move the bedspread carefully to avoid nocking them over. There spilled over the tops of drawers, sometimes create a slope where a few stacks had toppled over, there was hardly any room to walk, you had to precariously choose your footing as to avoid knocking over the many stacks on the floors. It was a crude understatement to say that the owner of the house needed a bookshelf.
in book self we can keep all the books and all the books which we like.and also in book self we can keep the books in order wise.and also by that they take the book and read correct where they kept it.
Bookshelves are a marvelous thing. They hold the most precious thing to my hear tin a crafty an sometime elegant way. They can be new or old, polished or rugged. Whether they are decorated or plain, they all hold their books with a familiar respect, as if they have known each other for a long time and are still able to appreciate each other.
Pilled on top of her head were soft waves of blood red hair
a few wisps no longer trapped in the rubber band, fell past her chin.
In and out of the shelves crammed with books, she wove.
Looking for something that would satisfy the needs within her own heart,
Searching for hours among the dust filled shelves,
Was she finding anything?
my bookshelf is stacked high with books. I don’t have places to put them anymore, so they’re wedged in any open space available. They are a testament to the things I like. Futuristic stories, prairie romances, good literature, ramblings.
easy for life to unfold when written in the historic pages of books. History holds no such certainty but the guarantee of knowledge. Life. Love. Proceed.
Bookshelf. It’s the thing sitting above my desk. It keeps letting my books fall over sideways, though – possibly it isn’t full enough? But how much should you have to put on your shelf in life, anyway? Some things need to be taken down and read once in a while; it can’t always be full. After all, what’s the point of collecting memories and books and experiences if you’re not going to do anything with them?
Looking up, all I could see was shelf upon shelf, they reached up high into the sky, past the clouds and into the great abyss above the earth. Every book I ever read sat on the shelves, but they only filled a small handfull, I wanted to read enough books to fill every shelf. In my life’s library I wanted there to be thousands of books, enough that the universe could hardly keep track.
My dad made me the coolest bookshelf for Christmas – all out of red and black encyclopedias. The night before, I was forced to go to bed early, and I could hear them hauling up… something from downstairs. I also heard all the commotion and fuss made when this “thing” knocked over the Christmas tree.
where i put my most prized possessions. keeps all my favorite books. up there would be happy potter series, pride and prejudice, jane eyre, the highlander series by karen marie moning
three. wood and metal. 18. dust. torn. unread you are. inside i once knew the thing you were trying to tell me.sentence not finished. you are the chapter after the last chapter. the end of the book.
Her bookshelf was overflowing with books. Classic books, magazines, newspaper clippings, and diaries. But it seemed that her bookshelf should have been empty. She never read. She just lived her life as a fantasy.
my book shelf is the happiest place in my life. thats because I have a lot of friends and possibilities tied up in that books that sit on the shelf. I go to it when i need sustenance inspiration or escape from the Maya of life, My mother used to ask me why do I need to read all that stuff .i used to curl up in a overstuffed giant chair with my books piled at one arm a glass of mils and ham sandwich on wonder white and commence to read It was the way i got away from the ugliness and fighting in my grandmothers house. Mom used to call me mousy uncle john used to say nose in a book but none of them could touch me when i was there. Ooh the characters i lived through the places and adventures i had,
exgirlfriends house. reading. I never want to read tiny print it hurts my eyes. I need glasses though I refuse to get them. I can’t find them at walmart. I need groceries from walmart right quick.
i love the smell of books.. the way that the spine of old books blend together and look like a sliver of history embedded into your shelf. It’s astounding the words and meanings simply shoved inside of these skinny spines.
i like to display myself on my bookshelf. some are books are about things i am some are things i want to be some are things i want people to think i am or can be. I am not my bookshelf but i would like you to see my bookshelf and pick a book to read from.
ive owned many a bookshelf. now a days a book shelf exists in a digital space, files floating and waiting to be accessed and downloaded. where once ink weighed down pages of a book and that book found home on a shelf, now is e-ink. and thats whack,
i like bookshelves. they make my life easy. they make things look organized unlike the clutter which i feel is my life. it gives me a sense of calm to come home to my books and graphic novels and journals all neatly stacked on to my shelves amidst the mess in my room.
i like to display myself on my bookshelf. some are things i am some are things i want to be some are things i want people to think i am or can be. I am not my bookshelf but i would like you to see my bookshelf and pick a book to read from.
A bookshelf. Eh, what do I know about it. I don’t know about anything. All I know is I know nothing. Oh, how today was bad. I can’t even think straight for a minute about a bookshelf.
It stood against the wall, chipped and peeling. The musty smell of it drew people to it, noses prepared. The books were old and well-read. Only a few hadn’t ever been touched. The glass on the doors was chipped in places, likely caused by children’s careless toys. The wood’s paint was chipped and dinged, causing the bookshelf to look worn in and well-used.
the bookshelf sat at the far end of the room. it’s many stacks of books staring back at her through the darkness. It was a gift from her father from his old apartment. His death had ripped her to shreds. And now she was torn apart by the death of her husband.
The bookshelf stood next to the wall, back flat against the paint. The wood was chipped, the books old and worn, the paint peeling. It was a part of the home. It made the room feel warm and inviting. It’s glass doors had cracks from children’s toys and they seemed ready to fall apart at any moment. The smell of the shelves warmed the room, adding a distinct flavor to any company in the room.
He ran his fingers slowly along the spines of the books until it rested on the title in question. He read it out loud. “How to Have and Eat Cake in Thirty Days or Less.”
“Hmmmm…” she said lightly.
God, how he loved hearing that. Her thinking. And flirting.
He pulled the book from the shelf and looked at her. His whole face was alive. It was so easy to see, particularly in her company. He had a smile in his voice when she heard him ask, “Is this what we need?”
Bookshelf. Shookbelf. I love doing that. I bet that it has a name. A name for switching the letters at the beginning and the start of the second syllable. ANd i bet there’s a book for that, and you can find it on a bookshelf. Shookbelf
i had four book shelfs on one side of the house, the more I stared at it the more it felt wrong, just wrong. I then decided to tear the entire thing apart and try and rebuild it somewhere else and in a different way. a way that can better display the beauty of words. Reconstruction, de-construction of something plain jane, sarah plain and tall. I needed depth, I needed an abos
Gerald pulled the book from the bookshelf, turning the case around to reveal his secret headquarters. A crime fighter he intended to be: Captain Bunny. He put on his fluffy white suit and got on his pogo stick to start his evening patrol. Seven hours of hopping around Tenney, Minnesota revealed a gum wrapper littered on the road and one raccoon stealing garbage.
The bookshelf looks back intimidatingly, asking whether I’ll be brave enough to approach it today. Regardless of if i want to, I can’t muster up the courage. I don’t have the time nor the faith in myself to manage my time. How am I supposed to succeed if I’m not well read?
Today my bookshelf was pink. I don’t know the reason, and I don’t even care about it, I just wanna read more about Moby Dick, or any story with alternative ends and a little bit of romantic places, like Italy or just for having fun, like school. Yes, today I felt in love again.
rows and rows of them, stacked with books. All of the books hold a piece of my heart. They’ve become a part of me, and to think of them is like breathing. The characters from those books walk out of the pages and into my life. I talk with them, converse, repeat their stories back to them which I know by heart.
Library, sitting quietly with a coffee, inconspicuously people watching, wishing you had more money to buy what sits on that shelf, perusing, thinking.
my bookshelf is full of books that i never read. I really wish that i could say that i’ve read all my books. the shelf helps me hold on to other things that i like to show off. just not books. or at least books that i’ve read. i need a new book shelf and more books, full of pages that I’ve never glance at. I really don’t have time to think about reading about my books either. Honestly, I’d rather just stare at them, with the aspiration of someday reading them. Its like having a mystery always nearby. the mystery of not knowing whats inside them.
love. ideas. escape. favorites. classics.
there’s nothing more real, tangible, yet still so imaginary.
i can’t believe i don’t have one. i need more books.
reading is my action. it has defined me, developed me, created me. i owe myself to the bookshelf.
I love my life. And it certainly doesn’t lie down on the bookshelf. Isn’t it great? What a relief!
Glass and nails and dark stained wood
In a corner the bookshelf stood
Within it lay books so dusty
Dirty, torn, moldy, musty
In a corner, these forgotten goods.
As I looked around the room I noted how the pile of books in the far back corner were leaning slightly to the side, almost too close to the tack next to it. Books piled on top of the desk, covering the entire surface. There were books in stacks at the foot of the bad, you had to move the bedspread carefully to avoid nocking them over. There spilled over the tops of drawers, sometimes create a slope where a few stacks had toppled over, there was hardly any room to walk, you had to precariously choose your footing as to avoid knocking over the many stacks on the floors. It was a crude understatement to say that the owner of the house needed a bookshelf.
in book self we can keep all the books and all the books which we like.and also in book self we can keep the books in order wise.and also by that they take the book and read correct where they kept it.
Bookshelves are a marvelous thing. They hold the most precious thing to my hear tin a crafty an sometime elegant way. They can be new or old, polished or rugged. Whether they are decorated or plain, they all hold their books with a familiar respect, as if they have known each other for a long time and are still able to appreciate each other.
Pilled on top of her head were soft waves of blood red hair
a few wisps no longer trapped in the rubber band, fell past her chin.
In and out of the shelves crammed with books, she wove.
Looking for something that would satisfy the needs within her own heart,
Searching for hours among the dust filled shelves,
Was she finding anything?
my bookshelf is stacked high with books. I don’t have places to put them anymore, so they’re wedged in any open space available. They are a testament to the things I like. Futuristic stories, prairie romances, good literature, ramblings.
easy for life to unfold when written in the historic pages of books. History holds no such certainty but the guarantee of knowledge. Life. Love. Proceed.
Bookshelf. It’s the thing sitting above my desk. It keeps letting my books fall over sideways, though – possibly it isn’t full enough? But how much should you have to put on your shelf in life, anyway? Some things need to be taken down and read once in a while; it can’t always be full. After all, what’s the point of collecting memories and books and experiences if you’re not going to do anything with them?
Looking up, all I could see was shelf upon shelf, they reached up high into the sky, past the clouds and into the great abyss above the earth. Every book I ever read sat on the shelves, but they only filled a small handfull, I wanted to read enough books to fill every shelf. In my life’s library I wanted there to be thousands of books, enough that the universe could hardly keep track.
My dad made me the coolest bookshelf for Christmas – all out of red and black encyclopedias. The night before, I was forced to go to bed early, and I could hear them hauling up… something from downstairs. I also heard all the commotion and fuss made when this “thing” knocked over the Christmas tree.
where i put my most prized possessions. keeps all my favorite books. up there would be happy potter series, pride and prejudice, jane eyre, the highlander series by karen marie moning
three. wood and metal. 18. dust. torn. unread you are. inside i once knew the thing you were trying to tell me.sentence not finished. you are the chapter after the last chapter. the end of the book.
Her bookshelf was overflowing with books. Classic books, magazines, newspaper clippings, and diaries. But it seemed that her bookshelf should have been empty. She never read. She just lived her life as a fantasy.
my book shelf is the happiest place in my life. thats because I have a lot of friends and possibilities tied up in that books that sit on the shelf. I go to it when i need sustenance inspiration or escape from the Maya of life, My mother used to ask me why do I need to read all that stuff .i used to curl up in a overstuffed giant chair with my books piled at one arm a glass of mils and ham sandwich on wonder white and commence to read It was the way i got away from the ugliness and fighting in my grandmothers house. Mom used to call me mousy uncle john used to say nose in a book but none of them could touch me when i was there. Ooh the characters i lived through the places and adventures i had,
exgirlfriends house. reading. I never want to read tiny print it hurts my eyes. I need glasses though I refuse to get them. I can’t find them at walmart. I need groceries from walmart right quick.
i love the smell of books.. the way that the spine of old books blend together and look like a sliver of history embedded into your shelf. It’s astounding the words and meanings simply shoved inside of these skinny spines.
Bookshelf above my bed,
the one full of memories,
and a secret heart, carved, but not really,
in pencil…
Do you know whose name is there?
We are books in the world, stories on one shelf, and we may never cross paths.
We sit, side by side, with our own secrets to hold.
my mom she has the big bookshelf, she is always reading ….she smells like books, soft and dusty
i like to display myself on my bookshelf. some are books are about things i am some are things i want to be some are things i want people to think i am or can be. I am not my bookshelf but i would like you to see my bookshelf and pick a book to read from.
Its a little treasure trove of memories from throughout my life. All my favourite books are there, its a good friend when times are tough.
ive owned many a bookshelf. now a days a book shelf exists in a digital space, files floating and waiting to be accessed and downloaded. where once ink weighed down pages of a book and that book found home on a shelf, now is e-ink. and thats whack,
i like bookshelves. they make my life easy. they make things look organized unlike the clutter which i feel is my life. it gives me a sense of calm to come home to my books and graphic novels and journals all neatly stacked on to my shelves amidst the mess in my room.
i like to display myself on my bookshelf. some are things i am some are things i want to be some are things i want people to think i am or can be. I am not my bookshelf but i would like you to see my bookshelf and pick a book to read from.
A bookshelf. Eh, what do I know about it. I don’t know about anything. All I know is I know nothing. Oh, how today was bad. I can’t even think straight for a minute about a bookshelf.
It stood against the wall, chipped and peeling. The musty smell of it drew people to it, noses prepared. The books were old and well-read. Only a few hadn’t ever been touched. The glass on the doors was chipped in places, likely caused by children’s careless toys. The wood’s paint was chipped and dinged, causing the bookshelf to look worn in and well-used.
the bookshelf sat at the far end of the room. it’s many stacks of books staring back at her through the darkness. It was a gift from her father from his old apartment. His death had ripped her to shreds. And now she was torn apart by the death of her husband.
Bookshelves hold the key to another world. They hold the keys to my heart. They keep what I keep locked inside safe.
The bookshelf stood next to the wall, back flat against the paint. The wood was chipped, the books old and worn, the paint peeling. It was a part of the home. It made the room feel warm and inviting. It’s glass doors had cracks from children’s toys and they seemed ready to fall apart at any moment. The smell of the shelves warmed the room, adding a distinct flavor to any company in the room.
They were in the self-help section.
He ran his fingers slowly along the spines of the books until it rested on the title in question. He read it out loud. “How to Have and Eat Cake in Thirty Days or Less.”
“Hmmmm…” she said lightly.
God, how he loved hearing that. Her thinking. And flirting.
He pulled the book from the shelf and looked at her. His whole face was alive. It was so easy to see, particularly in her company. He had a smile in his voice when she heard him ask, “Is this what we need?”
Bookshelf. Shookbelf. I love doing that. I bet that it has a name. A name for switching the letters at the beginning and the start of the second syllable. ANd i bet there’s a book for that, and you can find it on a bookshelf. Shookbelf
i had four book shelfs on one side of the house, the more I stared at it the more it felt wrong, just wrong. I then decided to tear the entire thing apart and try and rebuild it somewhere else and in a different way. a way that can better display the beauty of words. Reconstruction, de-construction of something plain jane, sarah plain and tall. I needed depth, I needed an abos
Gerald pulled the book from the bookshelf, turning the case around to reveal his secret headquarters. A crime fighter he intended to be: Captain Bunny. He put on his fluffy white suit and got on his pogo stick to start his evening patrol. Seven hours of hopping around Tenney, Minnesota revealed a gum wrapper littered on the road and one raccoon stealing garbage.
the book lie sleeping there while i decide what to read next… what to read… i can’t decide… so much to read and so little time… twilight zone…
The bookshelf looks back intimidatingly, asking whether I’ll be brave enough to approach it today. Regardless of if i want to, I can’t muster up the courage. I don’t have the time nor the faith in myself to manage my time. How am I supposed to succeed if I’m not well read?
Today my bookshelf was pink. I don’t know the reason, and I don’t even care about it, I just wanna read more about Moby Dick, or any story with alternative ends and a little bit of romantic places, like Italy or just for having fun, like school. Yes, today I felt in love again.
rows and rows of them, stacked with books. All of the books hold a piece of my heart. They’ve become a part of me, and to think of them is like breathing. The characters from those books walk out of the pages and into my life. I talk with them, converse, repeat their stories back to them which I know by heart.