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Literature Text
i fill my lungs with blackberries
& nicotine because it is the only way
I can stomach the taste.
a phoenix told me once
that he could teach me
how to burn properly,
as if scolding
had preferences
[ like the intercostal
spaces of a ribcaged
embrace. ]
he fell in love
with my words
first,
before he knew
the height of my
cheekbones
or the annoying
sound of my laugh.
he said he could count
all my scars on one hand-
even the ones that wake me
at 3 am with an itch i swear
begs me to rip them open
again.
& i told him he could keep
his pretty words and fiery fingers
creatively away from me.
i am tired of smelling of hell
& ash when -
Literature
She always fell for boys who needed saving.
She always fell for boys who needed saving.
Giving them kisses in the dark
to numb their headache from
drinking too much and yet
not enough to kill lust.
She was always adored by boys, who,
if given the chance, would rebuild
the world for her.
But she wanted to be the heroine
and refused to see
she needed saving, too.
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
Literature
How to pretend that you are a writer.
Act like you're not
okay when you are and
that you are when you're
not. Run barefoot in
the snow. Stand out
in the rain for an hour
and think about anything
and everything you can.
Fall in love with
riddles and things that
aren't real and the
way some stars
shine. Cry when
you realize that life is
just one big sham and write
one hundred cliché poems
about it, and then write one
that you actually mean.
Use profanity. Be the
one fucking introvert
in a room full of
extroverts and scream
shit just for the fun of
it. Swallow every goddamn
metaphor you ever dreamed
of and write them down
with your own blood.
Eulogize your own
misery. Put a
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This is a beautiful piece.
Enchanting.
To me, good poetry is like a blanket on a cold day: I want to wrap myself up in it and somehow there's never enough of it.
You parenthetical phrase was absolutely stunning, and I really related to your speaker, though I've never actually felt that way myself.
Blackberries and nicotine: genius. Poetic genius.
I would like to offer some advice on how to make this better, but there's not really that much I can say. The ending left me wanting more, but that happens will most good poems, so it's nothing new.
This is absolutely fantastic.