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    dots Submission Name: My Bookdots

    Author: CynicalxDreamer
    ASL Info:    31/m/7th Level of Hell
    Elite Ratio:    2.46 - 40/100/64
    Words: 354
    Class/Type: Poetry/Me
    Total Views: 948
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2261

       Had an idea that sprang from recalling some of my favorite books growing up and slowly realizing there were a lot of things I missed out on.

    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsMy Bookdots

    Remember that time
    The time that I scored the winning goal
    People reaching out to just touch my hand
    To touch my soul
    To share that crystal moment of greatness
    To tell about again and again how it changed me
    Changed us
    Yeah, I don't remember it either. I don't have childhood memories
    Just stories
    These stories aren't mine
    They're from Schwartz and R.L. Stein

    I want to tell you about me
    Not Ponyboy or Maniac McGee
    Or the countless books that I lived in
    Breathed on
    Came to know better than friends
    I didn't read
    I escaped
    I ran from love so suffocating it made me sick
    Or told me I was most of the time
    I hid from love that didn't know the right words
    Of how to be a better man
    Just told me "Yes I can"
    But never showed me how
    I didn't want love that was hand-me-downs
    Given because we were kin
    Caine loved Abel and it didn't stop that sin

    Stories were sold to me
    Hooked on the hypeline that I could be anyone
    I bet my folks never saw 'me' coming
    Dogged down by their dreams of my destiny
    Escape became my reality

    Read between the lines
    These aren't words to say this was their fault
    Its not God, fate, or a grand plan
    This is from running away
    Tossing the script of choices made for me
    Choices that might have been better
    This from still being unsure what it means
    To grow up

    My room is still buried in books
    I am still buried by books
    Word-vomiting academic theories
    In the voices of bones and dried ink
    Trying to get others to think
    That I'm deeper than a book spine
    When I don't know my own voice
    Don't know how I got to be here
    I have read so many stories
    Even written a few of my own
    The only story never told
    The only song I've never sung
    Is the one that will tell me
    Who I am supposed to be

    Submitted on 2014-12-02 19:32:20     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      This had great flow and rhythm of beat poetry. The words spewing forth with childish abandon only to be reigned in by by your adult self looking back.
    I haven'd decided if there was a script and if I got it right or not. I too bury myself in books--I think most writers do. Passion is what it's about. When you write or read, do you do it with passion, in full technicolor scenes with voices? The voice of choices past is one of the least profitable for the soul; it's mephistophelian in nature. Don't worry and just BE with Passion!
    | Posted on 2014-12-19 00:00:00 | by jaycee | [ Reply to This ]

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