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Literature Text
bear witness to the tragedies i cause:
dancing on the fire escape,
confessions, paranoia &
eighty cents (metaphorically speaking).
i am trying to be honest,
scraping the horizon
on morning's birth.
it's not enough.
dancing on the fire escape,
confessions, paranoia &
eighty cents (metaphorically speaking).
i am trying to be honest,
scraping the horizon
on morning's birth.
it's not enough.
Literature
starry eyes implode
she cannot recall all
the things she's
swallowed:
pretty pills, rancid
razor blades and
wasted words coat
her sorry throat
she can't count her
fingers, like she can't
count the days again--
it's zero to zero, in it
to spin it:
time is measured in
lengths of abandonment.
she comes home empty-
handed; defeated,
depleted, repeated:
"I gave up again
I gave up I gave it
away I gave up"
repeated like some
makeshift lullaby
and once more she
apologizes to a
broken window,
shattered, scattered,
just hoping to
know somewhere
better to go
and when she walks,
she holds hands
with the yellowed
skeleton of a
forgo
Literature
The Ghosts of Words
Words are for men
and women's minds will twist them.
They may speak, permission granted,
but the pen in all its might
is for men alone.
She knew better. All around
were women writing letters, books, lives.
Her brothers learned, and she listened.
One or two took pity, taught a, b, c
and she remembered.
And she read in cramped dusty rooms
where father never went.
Writing was next, with some practice.
Page after page of letters until her marks
looked like theirs. Until she truly wrote.
From then on it was all hers,
friends and family, towns and journeys,
words and worlds.
Love and denial and despair mixed in
carefully cramped
Literature
She is
She is
the idea of smoking,
hot tea in the afternoon,
a pool in the shade,
poignant poetry,
the person in personality,
chalk on a sidewalk,
blue skies and a rainbow,
shorn hair and an answered prayer;
music in the mountains.
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I'm doing pretty rubbish at keeping up at my own challenge with the lovely *fernknits, so here's a title poem. Technically I think it still counts as a response piece, since it wouldn't exist without the amazing titles of 10 different poems.
All of these pieces were found in *haphazardmelody's favourites gallery. Please give some love both to her and the original poems.
bear witness to the tragedies i cause
dancing on the fire escape
Confessions
Paranoia
eighty cents
Metaphorically Speaking
I am trying to be honest,
Scraping the Horizon
Morning's Birth
it's not enough
This poem has been included in the following feature:
All of these pieces were found in *haphazardmelody's favourites gallery. Please give some love both to her and the original poems.
bear witness to the tragedies i cause
dancing on the fire escape
Confessions
Paranoia
eighty cents
Metaphorically Speaking
I am trying to be honest,
Scraping the Horizon
Morning's Birth
it's not enough
This poem has been included in the following feature:
spring break endings + featureschool starts again on Tuesday and i'm not quite ready to go back. i haven't seen zoia in two weeks, and i can feel myself slipping slowly. it's not very healthy but i can't seem to get a hold of her. can't really seem to get a hold of myself either.
not much has really been happening. writing a lot. reading just as much. failed to do my english lit assignment due in six days and totally screwed for.
anyways; feature because these people are absolutely fantastic;
Pictures of Him by ~JaredHowe
also, a huge shout out to the ever lovely *intricately-ordinary. she is one of inspirations, and a damn good one:
this won't end up as a suicide note by *intricately-ordinaryon unlearning how to die by *intricately-ordinaryeverything I'm becoming by *intricately-ordinarycasual blasphemy by *intricately-ordinaryin which I try to forget my dreams by *intricately-ordinary
that's all
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