What is a Book?

You're nothing but the mushed, crushed pulp
of bloated, water-logged trees past help,
Pressed into thin sheaves that whinge and yelp,
Black barnacle spreading on it like kelp.

Nought but sheets of paper, ink bled through-
A potent drug of highs and torment. (Why aren't you taboo?)
Causing rich, drawn-out hallucinations untrue.
So vivid and lifelike- no wonder I'm addicted to you!

It's all a matter of fickle, fickle perspective.
Are you degenerative or miraculously corrective?
No doubt you're sweet, zealously addictive.
There's nothing I haven't done under your influence.

You lay so innocuously. Spine languid and stretched.
Mine too as I breathe you, consume your every inch.
To some, you may be wicked, or an inanimate wretch.
But to me you're pure awesome-nothing more, nothing less.

You're awesome as I flip your fresh and finefront cover,
As I finger past first one and then another chapter.
When I flip the last page and you're finally over,  
You're still awesome as you wait for another reader.


This poem is about: 



"Nought but sheets of paper, ink bled through-"

"Causing rich, drawn-out hallucinations untrue."

"There's nothing I haven't done under your influence."

These lines are golden. I love the poem overall and the imagery was great. books are the best type of drug. I think most readers on this site will relate to this poem.

this poem gives me that old English ode feel and i like it.

Good work. keep writing =)

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