To help the books that I am myself
I put the pieces on my inner shelf
arrange them nicely and organize
so they‘re neatly placed by date and size
Run them over with critical eyes
plaster their pages with analytical whys
take them out, one by one
and wonder, to better them, what could be done
The covers more sturdy, the spines robust
the forms of these books I could adjust
the sentences could be much more concise
and some of the books, well they must be lies
The printer ink has faded in places
and in some books, my finger traces
words that I can‘t read anymore
we‘ll shut those behind the backrooms door
The syntax could be optimized
and there‘s far too much rambling of sunset skies
another one will probably bore you
wait, I‘ll shorten the description for you
I rewrite the stories, letter by letter
hope that someday they‘ll all be better
and fit the spots they have on the shelf
there‘ll be no more mistakes inside myself
But for every book I correct I just see
another error-filled one thats waiting for me
and never will I ever have time to read
those books about the life I lead
At the break of day and in evenings shade
in midst of the bulwark of books I laid
in front of me so they can be perfected
I lost count of which ones I had corrected
As soon as one stroke of my pen is done
I assure you, there will be another one
that waits for me and make me see
another mistake I missed in paragraph three
So in a cold and starlit night
sleep seeps throug, then holds me tight
cradles my tired and shaky hands
sleep, between me and my books it stands
As I wake, i take up where I stopped before
my eyes still burn and my muscels are sore
so sleep trickles back in and picks me up
puts to my chapped lips a cooling cup
I awake, and once more, take up a book
but for the first time, really look
and miss the blanks that fill the page
and feel the paper and its age
Slowly red ink disappears
and I see and touch the long-dried tears
on the letters like soul-felt paint
as all the error signs‘ glows grow faint
Coloured like honey on a breakfast table
are the book covers that I labeled
in black and white and wrong and right
the prologue is touched by simmering light
Warm is the feel of a book I hold
and I let myself float in the story it told
I caress the letters and spell them out
the sentences a stormy route
My ears they hear the melody
that as a child, you told me
and by you this time I mean myself
who wrote each and every book on this shelf
When I grow old, a library
might be what my eyes will see
I hope that they will tenderly smile
and pick up a book once in a while
And sit there underneath the hearth
and read of stories that are worth
writing even if there‘s a mistake
writing for the story‘s sake
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