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Literature Text
maybe that's the problem, that when it all
comes down to it we're a bunch of selfish
motherfuckers— the lot of us,
that maybe we'll be a little better off with fresh flowers
on the kitchen table, raspberry jam for breakfast,
cellophane sunsets & tangerine skies, holding hands
for too long, sharing yourself with a stranger until you
no longer regard them as such, waking up the next day
and not being too afraid of ourselves to let it happen again;
spending all our money on appleseeds, planting them and
taking a nap until spring, watching as the earth sucks the snow
from the frozen sidewalk; reading books, books with spines
that break and then picking up the pieces, one by one, as we learn
to crawl and then dance on this spiral staircase of an existence;
climbing up to high places to try and get a better outlook on
life, peeking over the side and regarding the horizon as the
majesty that it is; telling stories beyond the campfire, loud
enough for everyone to hear, staying the night and watching
the sun wink the sky in the morning, telling people that we
love them, even if we only mean it for a little while, because
sometimes the most beautiful things of all are just that—
temporary; actually meaning it, holding hands for too long,
and I know I already said that but that's because it's damn important,
maybe the world needs more laughers, more late night sharers
and shower singers, more broken things
I believe that too many people don’t believe in anything anymore,
that the sky is not where we should aspire to go, no matter
how many times we try to grow wings, and darkness
is not the beast we have made it out to be
maybe life is a game & we're all losing to ourselves, failing to
see god in the childspeak we've left behind, learned that though
you can open your eyes underwater, you will never be able to
take a breath and now being unwilling to try;
maybe life is like a box of chocolates, only after you've eaten
all of the ones that you actually like,
but try one, my god, help yourself
maybe you'll find something, if not
what you've been looking for all along
comes down to it we're a bunch of selfish
motherfuckers— the lot of us,
that maybe we'll be a little better off with fresh flowers
on the kitchen table, raspberry jam for breakfast,
cellophane sunsets & tangerine skies, holding hands
for too long, sharing yourself with a stranger until you
no longer regard them as such, waking up the next day
and not being too afraid of ourselves to let it happen again;
spending all our money on appleseeds, planting them and
taking a nap until spring, watching as the earth sucks the snow
from the frozen sidewalk; reading books, books with spines
that break and then picking up the pieces, one by one, as we learn
to crawl and then dance on this spiral staircase of an existence;
climbing up to high places to try and get a better outlook on
life, peeking over the side and regarding the horizon as the
majesty that it is; telling stories beyond the campfire, loud
enough for everyone to hear, staying the night and watching
the sun wink the sky in the morning, telling people that we
love them, even if we only mean it for a little while, because
sometimes the most beautiful things of all are just that—
temporary; actually meaning it, holding hands for too long,
and I know I already said that but that's because it's damn important,
maybe the world needs more laughers, more late night sharers
and shower singers, more broken things
I believe that too many people don’t believe in anything anymore,
that the sky is not where we should aspire to go, no matter
how many times we try to grow wings, and darkness
is not the beast we have made it out to be
maybe life is a game & we're all losing to ourselves, failing to
see god in the childspeak we've left behind, learned that though
you can open your eyes underwater, you will never be able to
take a breath and now being unwilling to try;
maybe life is like a box of chocolates, only after you've eaten
all of the ones that you actually like,
but try one, my god, help yourself
maybe you'll find something, if not
what you've been looking for all along
Literature
remuneration
there were dreams of abasement, tearing up at the thought of
the noxious corners of your eyes. i saw them at a glance and fell
headfirst in the Styx, catching billowing waves of uncertainty and
heartache. they crashed with a decade-begrudged mind that was far
from healing -- far from me.
and though the fall was abrasive and the
waves, their own harangue, their heartache
and toxins faded & found graphite talismans
engraved in a red wrist warmer.
the ground that my blood decorated, with a history of broken bone
marrows now showed how unnecessary a transplant w
Literature
Anaphora
I am from unanswered letters and retro postcards tucked into a hollow book. I am from clacking copy machines beaming white light and stagnant, chalky air. I am from soundproof recording rooms. I am from oven-baked toast dusted with cinnamon; from bergamot and earl grey; from German chocolate that I never eat. I am from dead leaves on campus walks and words of encouragement given on the corner of “you deserve it” and “I’m proud of you.” I am from stained dry-erase boards. I am from mountains of colors and valleys of fog. I am from strands of unworn necklaces and earrings I’m allergic to and rings too small f
Literature
Undelivered
or:
how to write to peter
i. sprinkle pixie dust on
one feather of a whisper
ii. blow a kiss to nudge
the dictations of your heart
from a fourth-story windowsill
iii. crawl (sloth-toed) onto the roof
& stretch your third eye
to watch your letter cross state lines
iv. shiver restlessly until
v. suddenly!
vi. you feel your feather of a whisper
nestle in his concave
mailbox:
the space where his left collarbone meets his neck strings
"if i were you i would want me back"
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bits n pieces
EDIT: changed the ending. thanks to *glossolalias and *ssolaris for the input.
i still wouldn't say i'm totally satisfied, but it's a stream of consciousness piece anyway, so fuck it (right?)
edit2: fresh air
EDIT: changed the ending. thanks to *glossolalias and *ssolaris for the input.
i still wouldn't say i'm totally satisfied, but it's a stream of consciousness piece anyway, so fuck it (right?)
edit2: fresh air
© 2013 - 2024 successwithhonor
Comments17
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and darkness
is not the beast we have made it out to be
...
That pretty much sums it up. Best poems on deviantart.
is not the beast we have made it out to be
...
That pretty much sums it up. Best poems on deviantart.