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Literature Text
I am a walking, talking universe of dead poets
who tattoo their stanzas into my flesh
with ghostly, typewriter fingers.
I live and breathe their worldly disasters
like a nicotine addiction I've never had.
Drowning in their scribbles
I kiss their shoreline romances,
envy their Annabel Lee's,
& carry their hearts in my heart.
I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings:
a half drunk, hungover limerick
waiting to happen.
I am jealousy:
nothing more than weak words,
& a tongue-tied cliche-
but death becomes me.
who tattoo their stanzas into my flesh
with ghostly, typewriter fingers.
I live and breathe their worldly disasters
like a nicotine addiction I've never had.
Drowning in their scribbles
I kiss their shoreline romances,
envy their Annabel Lee's,
& carry their hearts in my heart.
I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings:
a half drunk, hungover limerick
waiting to happen.
I am jealousy:
nothing more than weak words,
& a tongue-tied cliche-
but death becomes me.
Literature
This is a Song
This is a song for the lost, the broken and the damned,
This is a song for the hopeless, the outgunned and the outmanned.
This is one for the sinners, and the non-believers too,
This is a song for all those people, people just like YOU!
This is the anthem of the normal, the oppressed and the abused,
This is a song for those people hidden from everybody's views.
This is the prayer of the unwanted, the unneeded and the small,
This is one for the unheeded, so let's give it our all!
This is a song for the people, who always just want to cry,
This is the anthem for those who have once wanted to die!
This is a song for all the people, tha
Literature
Constructive Criticism
"Tell me what you think."
"Of the poem?"
"No, of my face. Yes, the poem."
"I was going to say, because your face is just stupid."
"Very funny. Read."
"..."
"What did you think?"
"Why did you write this?"
"I wrote it for you."
"For me?"
"Yes."
"You make me self conscious when you say things like that."
"I know."
"I'm not worth this you know."
"What does that mean?"
"I am half a girl, and I deserve half a poem."
"That is not true, and you still haven't told me what you really thought about it."
"It's as broken and complex and half hearted as a sad song about the way you feel ink trail between your fingers like it's blood. There
Literature
Writers Block
There is a heart in a ribcage
And a brain sitting in a skull
There is a history that is void
And potential which is null
Just puddles of inspiration
Where the vast ocean once sprayed
An endless tide of moonshine
Swelled upon my parchment page
There's a brain sitting in a skull
There is a heart in a ribcage
There is ink in my fountain pen
But still no words on my page
Just embers of inspiration
Where a great fire once roared
I'll stoke it with those memories
I've been afraid of and ignored
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Comments95
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love the reference!