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Literature Text
There are lovers
I will never be able to
crawl out from underneath;
I’m caving in, lungs
no longer able
to exhale lovely things.
However hollow, I’ve got
these artist hands,
these god hands of mine
that can save lives.
What’s the point
when I’ve got little
writer veins
& no one can ever seem
to find my pulse?
I will never be able to
crawl out from underneath;
I’m caving in, lungs
no longer able
to exhale lovely things.
However hollow, I’ve got
these artist hands,
these god hands of mine
that can save lives.
What’s the point
when I’ve got little
writer veins
& no one can ever seem
to find my pulse?
Literature
Whisper
I want to create an aromatic sea of jasmines
and stardust mountains of silver and —
No.
Inkblot skeletons with paper mache
hearts, whose bones shall burn with one glance at the
sun; gravestones of blood diamonds and tears of thistles...
Harp strings ringing in grotesque harmony, screaming
for slender fingers to pluck and caress with devotion.
I want to write
gods
and
chaos.
Literature
Note Me
They found my love hanging
By a rope from a tree
With a note in her pocket
That was addressed to me
The stains of her tears
On the ripped out blank page
Evidence to my eyes
Of an emotional pain
The last tears she would shed
The last anguish she'd feel
The deepest cut to her heart
This time would not heal
And nor did it need to
Her earthly shackles left behind
Time now has no meaning
And meaning now has no time
Unfolding the piece of paper
Even the fresh air suffocates
Scribbled down , hurried scrawl
'if you're reading this, you are too late'
I fall to the floor frantic
Clutch the note to my face
Trying to catch my love
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
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Oh my God. This is absolutely..Touching. It makes one's heart beat like the warning drum of an Indian Tribe.