I try to be the bookshelf for the soul
that needs a vacation from their ordinary homes.
Trying to manifest themselves but couldn’t,
where am I supposed to hide pieces that are broken?
They have sometimes torn apart and glued by people that are found of them,
sometimes it’s out of love, sometimes resentment.
The ink running through their veins knows,
that I am a beautiful soul protecting
words of wisdom they have composed.
Some with memories of the past,
and heartbreak that tore them apart.
Work that is now called art has teardrop on every page that survived,
I am a bookshelf to the soul that isn’t satisfied but in love with life.