My bookshelf was made by my dad,
over a decade ago.
And when I'm feeling blue,
its the uplifting place to go.
It sits proud against a wall
in my upstairs bedroom,
Awaiting my next visit,
which is bound to be quite soon.
But every time I pull out a book,
the others fall right over,
The only way to fit one back in,
is to wish on a four-leaved clover.
I get tired of seeing the covers,
arranged in the same way.
So I try to reassemble them,
so that everything can stay.
I've tried alphabetical,
and my favorites on the top
But there's always that one cover,
that won't fit without a chop.
My closet has to house some titles,
though I try my best,
And it bugs me how the middle shelf,
is taller than the rest.
There's some trash that finds its way beneath,
the bottom piece of wood.
And once its there its going to be
living there for good.
Its a little short for me,
and I always have to crouch,
And its no where near any place
I can read on a comfy couch.
But I love that old thing just the same,
and I always will,
If my new e-reader takes its place,
I will love it still.
Years and years its helped me,
done its job quite well,
When I think of our time together,
how my heart does swell.
Yes, my bookshelf has some problems,
but they make me love it more.
Its one of my best friends,
not just a piece of decor.