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Literature Text
His lips were
always bitter
blue; his
lungs spent
so long drowning
in the weight of
his gasping
windpipe he
didn't know what
calm seas felt
like.
(breath slowly, slowly, slowly
was all they ever said.)
Washed-up on
empty shores, his
driftwood
body lay broken
on the sands at
dawn, feelings
in two and lips
still bitter blue,
but this time there
was no
movement as the
waves lay weeping,
finally
calm.
(and the lonely sailor
wandered forevermore, never
again to touch the distant shore.)
always bitter
blue; his
lungs spent
so long drowning
in the weight of
his gasping
windpipe he
didn't know what
calm seas felt
like.
(breath slowly, slowly, slowly
was all they ever said.)
Washed-up on
empty shores, his
driftwood
body lay broken
on the sands at
dawn, feelings
in two and lips
still bitter blue,
but this time there
was no
movement as the
waves lay weeping,
finally
calm.
(and the lonely sailor
wandered forevermore, never
again to touch the distant shore.)
Literature
you.
I'd say
you remind me
of a flower
but to do so
would be an injustice
when I pick flowers,
they die-
you've only shown me how to live.
Literature
here are my words
i used to dream whole cityscapes and skylines,
ocean cities and coves washed over with waves,
terrifying, brilliant, unable to touch me.
i used to be able to talk to trees,
to speak in palms and eyes-closed silences
and the sure roughness of bark under my fingernails.
i used to be able to sing
and believe that believing made me better,
believe that joy sounds bright and crescendos.
i used to be someone who tripped on her words,
spilled out in sloppy sentences and sentiments,
used to be someone who could 'sit at a typewriter and bleed'
and in bleeding turn the hurt beautiful.
i used to close my eyes and fall into feeling,
trace the right word
Literature
This is Irony
I count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,
and stillness in the words of dead poets.
We write our secrets on the inside of our lungs
and hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,
because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,
but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.
I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,
to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.
A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivion
we press back, back
because death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,
and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
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"Sing me a song
of a lad that is gone,
over the sea to Skye."
of a lad that is gone,
over the sea to Skye."
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This is breathtaking