The monsters don't hide in the closet, or under the bed, or in your head all full of juice. They roost. It's not their fault, following through with some innate longing they're called to.

It's a simple, impish existence, these monsters, who might prefer to be doctors or lawyers or sound designers for Alice Cooper or Rob Zombie or Blondie; alas they burrow and nest inside my ***** laundry.

A wise person might have said, "Take care, kiddo, and guard your head against the evil that so easily nestles there." I reflect on this through the cloudy density of my beer an wonder, could he have been right? Might I fallen intrigued, ensnared, by the casual taunt of an apple's dare?  

We climb the beanstalk for the giant only; the goose is second hand. The giant's defeat is the glory. It doesn't matter what the stakes contain, live or die, princess or mother or cow or land, as long as a marching band greets us at the end of the ride.

The monsters don't hide in the closet, or under the bed or in you head full of juice. They roost, and they can't help us themselves in a world full of books gathering dust on shelves overlooked where their hardcovers guard against  stray shells unloosed.

I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
He pecks
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!

I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
I’ve mountains
Of heaps
Over which he bounces and skips.

“Shoo! Shoo!”
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!

I haven’t been outside
In forever.
He hasn’t been outside
Since he flew in.
He must, like I do, like it here.

I read him a book.
He likes the tale;
The one of the windborne bird.
He seems not to like the one, though.
The one about the caged singing bird.

I read a book.
About sunlight
And moonlight
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.

And I’m curious.
Curious enough.
And so I set about
with him flitting here to there,
picking, unpiling, unstacking.

Most books I shove into a trunk.
Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf.
I use it mostly for things.
Many things.
And a book or two.

The window.
This solitary window.
I open.
And there’s a flutter.
He’s gone.

But when I leave the apartment,
I always come back.
I always come back because I’m tired of walking.
So, I imagine that he will come back.
Yes, he will be back,
When he’s tired of flying.

they're all hardcovers and I'm just a paperback

but it's a metaphor, you see

everyone else isn't necessarily "hard," but rather definite, and they are wanted

I'm merely a paperback; easily ripped, torn, shaped, a 2nd choice, and forgotten in the back of a dusty, old attic

I’m the hidden book,
Leather bound
Threads fraying
On the top shelf.
You like the paperbacks
And hardcovers,
Pretty titles
And modernity.
But please know
I’m collecting dust
and I deserve a chance.
Just this once,
Brush me off
And open my pages.
Read my story.
I promise I won’t leave you hanging.

You are my saving grace
duct tape
the medicine that helps me bear the pain of stitching my soul
You are the teacher
with the most important lesson
how to become strong again
You draw me in
with conversations of fictional lives
that are just as important as our own
We share pieces of our souls through
hardcovers and paperbacks
in a way that makes me feel whole
repaired
less like shattered glass and more of a mosiac
Saving grace
the three syllable manifestation of
healing
                          and
                                                  happiness

that summer I tasted music for the first time
I loved a boy who said my knees knocked together like

commuters during rush hour
in his eyes were waves against Barceloneta
and

he slid lyrics in between my ribs at every traffic light

when we made love I saw sound
and

his breath coated me

like varnish

I dreamt I lost him between books at the Rylands;
sliding in and out between hardcovers
I found him soaking

in a clawfoot
masked in steam, coaxing me to slide in

there is a bustle of him in the square,
gradient beard and all

I visit it when we’re apart

despite the stone,
I feel his warmth

I am from libraries,

from shiny hardcovers and worn paperbacks.

I am from the neighbor’s squeaky swingset,

Green seats, rusted chains,

The setting of a thousand shared stories and kingdoms.

I am from the cottonwoods,

The soft seeds soaring in the Kansas wind to tickle our noses.

I’m from mega-churches and minivans,

From Celinda’s small town and David’s many neighborhoods.

I’m from private-school indoctrination that kept me “in”

And a hidden identity that kept me “out,”

From bubble-wrapped protective prejudice and a distrust of progress and change.

I’m from the grief of spiritual deconstruction

And the joy of rebirth and new knowing.

I’m from suburban Wichita and lush Ohio valleys and downtown Oklahoma City,

From spicy, hearty chili and soft, sweet cinnamon rolls.

I am from the love and relief in my husband’s embrace,

From the choice to be who I needed when I was younger.

I am the new generation in my family — the safe space in the organized chaos.

I am from the hurt of conformity and the honesty of rebellion.

I flip through the leaves of my literature,

I listen to the leaves of the cottonwoods,

And I reflect and I learn and I accept

That where I’m from is nowhere near as lovely as where I’ll go to next.

The girl was only eleven,
when she first thought

                            "What if I went?"

When even escaping
to magic-filled hardcovers
could not ease her descent

School bullies were not all
that pulled her
towards the yawning void,
on eggshells she walked
around him,

being careful not to flip
his switch
He'll twitch -
see red
It filled her with dread
Better to stay tight lipped -

                Better to be

                                     His pet

I value the little things
The way the sun bounces off trees
The way I smile when I get mail
The way dogs jump when you talk to them
The way people smile in crowded places
The way people drag their fingers across the spines of books
The way little kids go down slides
The way the air stings my throat in the winter
The way business owners call me "Love,"
The way people get excited when they smell candles
The way people dance when they eat good food
The way music sounds in good headphones
The way cats rub their faces on plants
The way hardcovers crack when you first open them
The way pages smell with fresh ink
The way your eyes glitter in the sunlight
The way you look at me
The way you love me
AJBusse

Hey everyone.
My book is free today only on Amazon.  Here's a link.  It's the Kindle version that is free, but there are paperbacks and hardcovers available as well.

putting the tracks i liked
out there, on my stories
hoping, wondering,
maybe they'd see me for how i dream
and not for how i've been coping

except a step further
a path up ahead
i realized, they didn't really care for all that i had
prized possessions of mine, these lyrics so simple
they don't deserve bits of me, if the surface excites them sole
if they don't like it whole, not worth the lengths i go

a girl's room is her own museum
or so they said
mine's a beautiful chaos
trust me, a letter to self

and so i stopped
a step further even
ahead i moved
watched, smiled, told them they had all i could
share without breaking, without giving them the key
that could threaten my volatility—my being
and i hoped they'd accept

except fools require everything whole
even if they can't accept it, they need it only
for the pleasure it brings, the joy of knowing
not to like, to love—but to show—
the world always required proving

i have my own cocoon
won't term myself ready to bloom
or a butterfly for that case
but i hide, intending to forget the world
my room, the paradoxical mapping
the stars chart their own course during the nights
up on my ceiling as i turn the lamp and let it burn bright
it's simple, heady space
there's posters and pictures on one wall
the other holds a heart collage of all sorts
lomographic detailing, i've always found myself dreaming
one picture, and i tend to stare deep
whenever this head gets too loud, i sit and stare at all of the meanings

there's a magnitude that hides
read every picture, uncover—but it comes with a price
safe spaces, meant to be kept hidden
posters—the movies that stayed, the artists looking back at me
quotes, written in an unhinged manner
my favourite, i'm yet to choose
but it all kind of gives away what i can't hammer
across my skull and at myself every time i go out
i wish to carry it all, to show them what i'm all about

don't try to rewrite my scars
just don't add any new ones to the already existing
and you could wrap a bandage
i'll keep all the rough edges sealed
and edited for flow

there's carts—more like shelves weakened with a multitude of books
i counted them, turned out to be a lucky 151
now i wonder which i ought to read
to throw caution to the wind and forget all my seams

there's stands, holding tiny little things
a layer of all my bracelets, of all that i intend to wear
one with the skincare, and other little prizes i just keep
there's pens, a vast multitude—I could never have enough
in all colors, i think half of them already dried up
a couple things for journaling stay at the very back, at the very bottom
right above, it holds all the things i could use to paint—to bring my dreams to mortal realm
except the skills lack, i tend to procrastinate
so they stay, gathering dust—unless i air it out—once a day
every day

the last compartment holds a stack of pencils, a glass quill—intended for magic
couple washi tapes—perhaps i'll wrap them around my wrists
and a few paper cutters, having gathered rust from being washed—every time i stuttered

a red ribbon, and a golden one, tied around both my shelves—reminding of who brought them to
vines hang in one corner, right beside the balcony
i'm yet to minecraft the windows, perhaps i'll let them be
there's pages stuck to the walls, and a multitude of sketches
nothing all too special—but there's this one of an eye that speaks
couple stars, the phases of the moons—waning and waxing,
full one too!
a paper leaf string—maple leaf except i made little hearts
hangs over the bathroom door—completely out of place, held in a purple thread
the pages wall is of a comfy book—before the coffee gets cold
the curtains are a shade of violet and silver in the middle, indication of what couldn't have been told
silver almost looks like a grey, a bit shiny, a bit neutral
but then there's another book stand and it holds a few candles
hardcovers at the bottom, they hold too much weight
the paperbacks balance the top however
and wrapping its corners is a string light—a heavy mistake
it goes over my wardrobe
multitude of tiny bulbs if i were to turn it on
phases of the moon again, cut out
and beneath—like scribbles on a notebook—stuck album covers in tiny, varying shades

a sign that says smile—i can't say i do
but it stares back at me, every time i sit on my bed—so i try to
a blue ribbon bow—gifted, i remember just who
stuck to the handle bar, i grip it every time i pull the door through

my desk is a messy messy affair
to put a name to things would be like listing down what i couldn't bear
but here it goes—
my laptop, the one i barely use—it's new
yet to find my way through, i rely on the old one
tho it's been barely working
comfort i guess—is one step away from despair

fake purple tulips, standing in a lilac bottle that i'd painted
a pastel of the same shade except it's an hourglass
30 minutes, i'm yet to check if it lives up to its truth
three scrapbooks, incomplete, the kits emptied halfway through
a candle, a chalkboard, tiny—a slate of all sorts
with one side a black, the other a white
i tend to use it black over white

a clock, stuck on the wrong time, currently giving 11:11
some wisterias kept in a green plastic vase
and a succulent that's as real as it gets
i water it every now and then, the bubbles breathing a sign of life in the room
there's a bunny enchanted almost in a glass sphere—a lamp i don't turn on
a shell, one you'd find at the edge of a sea—except it's a gift too
sets of little trinkets i opened in kinder joy
pen stands holding my sketch pencils that i rarely use
my keyboard is a heavy affair
doesn't really fit in the room with its peachy aesthetic
it seeks repair

a bowl, huge ceramic one i'm yet to find the perfect place for
it carries several stones, i think i'd use them someday to break a skull or two
kidding—
the wall above—black and white, epiphanies printed on pictures
"human being"
"anxious person"
"creative block", "parental advisories"
"life of an artist", a quote between viktor & jayce  and big moon

a wall hanging on the wall, carries a humidifier i don't use
the three figurines of harry, hermione and ron from the wizarding world
the second ron hides just behind the three
a kuromi sits atop a small tin, holding bracelets that specifically need no calling

there's a couple fake plants, sure
books everywhere—on my bed
a set of few that i personally cherish
a dictionary of dreams, a history of time, grimms' tales and a comfort book to carry
it all together

my current read, a lighter for some reason, a diary i write poetry in
and a notebook to remind me why i do it all
add to it- a pen in white, one in blue
a highlighter just to mark the lines i already knew

oh the plushies!
a penguin, a bunny, a koala, a seal
an octo changing moods, a slytherin pillow, and a kuromi
a strawberry hiding a bunny again, and teddy—ages old from when i was a child
three pillows, and two comforters, i think i might get a weighted blanket
the grip feels familiar

there's a tapestry, right above my bed—i tend to forget its existence
since i'm always facing away
the sun and the moon, staring at each other
and a couple random trinkets that define me
don't ask of my drawers, or in between my books
my cupboard, or my wardrobe
i'll mention downturned black butterflies, a cloud with a storm symbol
a party mask, and a phone charm hanging off a circle
a small stool holding japanese authors' best works
a snowflake candle and a few marbles

it's all my own
sacred, hidden
drapery of the lights—different moods, different nights
why i wonder i hide, or spend so much of my time
but it's a galaxy here within
like in my eyes and in my being—whole

my brain resets, works to a rhythm—on nice days
i tend to keep the balcony open and wind flows
everything whispers and takes a breath of relief
the rain pours outside, as i sit and speak
little secrets to my walls
lying on my bed or sitting at my desk
wondering, circling—the reasons to live

the grandest—my baby bunny
wondering, sleeping, napping away or speaking
she stays with me
her own space, her own world a part of my own
we've got an ecosystem in here
the most prized possession

and every time i step
i carry this armor
laced with all the time i spent in this room
gathering strength, putting a piece anew
even if you're not it—
would you like to come see my room?

why'd i let the outsides visit and steal it solely
to murmur of how it all seems obnoxious
it's bits of me, pasted, put together
clumsy, messy, chaotic
i'm quite a few issues when you hear
so close your eyes, listen to my speaker
as i play the playlists i've kept hidden
tonight's the turn for prologue by cloud koh
and if you haven't even tried to read mine
how can i let you read the story directly just for show?

Definitions of paperback adjectives (of a book) bound in stiff paper or flexible cardboard. Noun, a book bound in stiff paper or flexible cardboard.
I have to remind myself it was only a book - mass-market paperback, pristine condition though bought used. Synonymous adjective; paperbacked, noun soft-covered book, soft-cover, paperback book; softback Examples, The cover was what initially attracted me to this very slim paperback on the shelves. They have re-issued as a large-scale trade paperback Kurt Wilhelm's 1989 book on Strauss.
Parsons says that as a rule of thumb, writers get 50p from every paperback sold and £1 for every hardback. I'm toying with setting a requirement for third year students to read this paperback over the summer. I have to remind myself it was only a book - a mass-market paperback in pristine condition though bought used. It's available in paperback; This yellowing paperback has sat on my book shelves since my student days. Each of them had the look and feel of a good trade paperback in a plain cover.
Every finished paperback, every empty packet of ****, was normally followed by two or three kids rushing to sell me a replacement. It was a musty smelling paperback with yellowed pages and a bent cover.
On any bus or train, it is Dan Brown's paperback that mesmerizes passengers. The paperback edition of her biography is a nicely bound
and illustrated, a paperback that can be obtained at modest cost.
He was reading a dog-eared Raymond Chandler paperback instead
of the anatomy text he planned to study. I guess you could print the whole book and read it that way, but the cost of printing would hardly be less than that of the high quality paperback. When she got back, she quickly ran up
to her room to grab the ****** romance paperback she'd brought along.
The hardbound is for collectors and paperback for those who just want to read.
The recently published paperback of Jackson's memoir is kinder to Bryant than the original hardback edition. I began collecting them as second-hand paperbacks and then updated them: first as new paperbacks, then as hardbacks and finally, first editions. The book brawl started fifteen years ago when mega bookstore chains deeply discounted bestsellers, as well
as other hardbacks and paperbacks. I'm not talking about quickie paperbacks, the kind that publishers toss off in a matter of weeks in response to an event or news story that captures the popular imagination., bookshelves lining the walls, overfilled with paperbacks, hardcovers
and textbooks.