I see the books,

I touch the books,

I smell the books.

They are a wonderful presence to me.

The books are printed and bound works,

filled with history and precision.

I touch the books spine, hard and firm.

Their pages filled with knowledge.

The scent of the books is wonderful,

filled with an aroma that gives you a sense of comfort and relief.

Books help my imagination grow,

they help escape into a different world.

As I stare at them, leaning against a wall,

the gravely, gritty feel of the carpet under me feels oddly nice.

Some books tell you of past times.

Some books tell you made up stories.

I observe people when they read,

their eyes soaking up every last bit of the pages,

their expressions show their emotions.

Sad, happy, intrigued.

When I flip through the pages, the dusty smell of the shelves grabs me.

Everything here has a story to tell.

Books of foreign countries, language.

The light of the lamps above me are warm against my skin.

Books about life and love, fantasies and mysteries.

People laugh and giggle, some silently cry.

Some books make me quietly die.

Books each are a gift themselves,

ready to be opened, to be discovered.

Traditional stories and classics, fiction and real life situations.

All written books change me as I read.

They help me gain a certain perspective of how I see everything.

I think authors meant to do all of this.

To change me, inspire me, maybe even provoke me.

Books tell petty stories.

Some make me think twice about this world we all live in.

Mistakes you made are in the past.

Look ahead of you, not behind you.

Memories are wonderful, keep them forever, hidden deep.

As the books I’ve read and the stories I’ve written,

will always have a special pace in my heart.