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Literature Text
He isn't wishful paper cranes,
or Paris dreams during cold
Autumn nights. He isn't You.
But, he's trying so hard to
make me forget [ you you you… ]
like pressed flowers hidden
between the bindings of
unfinished books, placed
at the top of dusty shelves.
His eyes are supernovas,
dead and lonely.
They don't sparkle like
your blue ocean irises.
But…He loves me.
I can feel it through
shy smiles and the way
he touches me with
gentle artist fingers.
[ He makes
me want to write
p o e t r y. ]
or Paris dreams during cold
Autumn nights. He isn't You.
But, he's trying so hard to
make me forget [ you you you… ]
like pressed flowers hidden
between the bindings of
unfinished books, placed
at the top of dusty shelves.
His eyes are supernovas,
dead and lonely.
They don't sparkle like
your blue ocean irises.
But…He loves me.
I can feel it through
shy smiles and the way
he touches me with
gentle artist fingers.
[ He makes
me want to write
p o e t r y. ]
Literature
a thought
love: the art of
seeing what is invisible
to others
Literature
Colorblind
I gave away my name today
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and
Literature
we don't sound like a whisper.
The sun never sets over the water, but you still take me there whenever dusk comes to meet the horizon. We sit out on the rocks with me tucked tight against your chest, while you count stars like other people count blessings, but we're only half lucky with all these city lights ruining your chances. I know you're tired, love, but I'm terrified. I'm running out of ways to stop myself from telling you I miss you because twenty four hours isn't a long time to be separated and I'm really just more afraid of what you're doing when I'm not there -- and of what you're thinking when I am. I've been burnt enough times before to learn that loving with
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Handwritten version of this will be in my scraps.
July 9, 2011
July 9, 2011
© 2012 - 2024 DearPoetry
Comments6
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So beautiful with a hint of sorrow. Lovely!