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Literature Text
your patchwork empire of cerulean concrete
is turning into the wine
poured at your feet;
tell me, goddess, is this
bright enough for your candle-shaped
shoulders, strong enough to turn stone
to bitter flesh
lay down those arms of granite second thoughts;
fingers crack and floors snap
beneath glue-coated
second hands, clocks are breathing while you stare
at red cloaks, softened faces, hearts
upon their sleeves, visual reminders that
immortality is all at cost
but breathe, breathe, breathe, dear -
the glass is ever greener when the sun is rising, this prison
and it's crimson bearers are only
symptomatic synchronicities, golden on their lips and in their eyes -
reminders that even perfection
can hurt you
is turning into the wine
poured at your feet;
tell me, goddess, is this
bright enough for your candle-shaped
shoulders, strong enough to turn stone
to bitter flesh
lay down those arms of granite second thoughts;
fingers crack and floors snap
beneath glue-coated
second hands, clocks are breathing while you stare
at red cloaks, softened faces, hearts
upon their sleeves, visual reminders that
immortality is all at cost
but breathe, breathe, breathe, dear -
the glass is ever greener when the sun is rising, this prison
and it's crimson bearers are only
symptomatic synchronicities, golden on their lips and in their eyes -
reminders that even perfection
can hurt you
Literature
Directionality
I kiss the forehead of another dream,
cast away for different lives--
all my fields of green
seen through shutters
of different lenses, different eyes
that belong to me a half-step left
of the one I stand mirroring today.
These reveries--
revered to me;
refused of me,
refused by me.
Reflections of things
confused with me,
things yet to be seen.
When I die,
will I look back at trails I've cast,
branching worn, winding over grass,
a tree of life carved in the earth
by my unknowing feet?
Even better,
can I linger
over every second maybe,
reveal lives all hidden to me as I rise,
rise past the sum of every choice
and every right-hand
Literature
sandpapered
even after I polished myself again
and again I still
splinter. by now I am flatter than I ever
planned, but I guess that's not enough
(the last time someone stepped on me they
still bled. they told me that saying
sorry wasn't going to fix the wound so I
swallowed it back, ran sandpaper through again because
what else could I do?
and now I'm not sure if I'll ever stand up again)
Literature
Who Put the Eggs There?
Mama Hen did not usually make much noise, but this morning she clucked so loud that she woke the entire house up. Papa Rooster was the first to come into the kitchen, where his wife stood wide-eyed in front of the fridge. It was still early in the morning, even for chickens, as Papa Rooster had only finished cock-a-doodle-dooing ten minutes ago.
He had no idea what could’ve caused such a ruckus, “What is it, my darling?”
Mama Hen clucked again, pointing her wings frantically at the opened fridge, “Who put the eggs there?”
Sure enough, Papa Rooster saw half a dozen of newly laid eggs lining the fridge’s s
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and if you live forever,
well
well
edit 10/17/13
I've been rewriting the last few lines of this over and over to try and make it feel right. It might be there, finally? Also, removed and adjusted some other stuff.
© 2013 - 2024 creativelycliche
Comments4
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"reminders that even perfection
can hurt you"
<3 lovely last two lines