a barren parking lot

a quiet bookstore

in the middle of a summer week

where the righteous work

and the unrighteous

read

poetry.

How can an emotional man deal with an emotional world?

a world of individuals

who all want something, confused, and believing

it must be given

to them

but it’s never given

the right way.

a parent loves, their own way—it’s the way, their parent loved them

We give advice, we can’t take

Our vice,

is the one we can’t talk about

A world separated, by misunderstandings

conversations, that can never happen

I never open a book and get mad

I wish I could open a person

the way, I open a book.

Maybe, I don’t get mad very often

but it’s not safe to open a person

even a little bit.

The feelings between the thoughtful pages can’t be read—

they must be respected

and for the book to open, they must trust

You

and for them to trust

You

You must open your book

willingly

and if read, wrong

their book will close

maybe, forever

it’s a journal, with a lock.

Rather than reading our books to each other

we share emotions

between our pages

that never say

precisely, what we mean

because it’s not safe to share our words…

Subtlety says, what isn’t said, but not quite

“good for you” and they don’t mean it

what they mean is, you think only of yourself, “good for you”

When love is a command, I don’t follow orders

and perhaps, that is my problem…

If I don’t feel love, I can’t give it

you can restrain love, and you can restrain hatred

but you can’t give what you don’t have

Maybe that’s why I like an empty bookstore

the books are full of courageous truth

people keep writing them

thank God

I wouldn’t know what to do

if they didn’t.

You only get a few good friends

in this life

and the rest are written down.

4 thoughts on “the books we open, and never do

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