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Literature Text
i.
"no," you said
"people aren't perfect,
problems aren't plot devices
this is real life
and I need you to
stop
thinking it can be
something else"
ii.
I am cutting you out of my head
for being right
(for me), but not for
being mine;
iii.
you can't learn to love
until you drown yourself in it
and if it kills you,
well I would say you don't understand it
yet
"no," you said
"people aren't perfect,
problems aren't plot devices
this is real life
and I need you to
stop
thinking it can be
something else"
ii.
I am cutting you out of my head
for being right
(for me), but not for
being mine;
iii.
you can't learn to love
until you drown yourself in it
and if it kills you,
well I would say you don't understand it
yet
Literature
lightkeeping
As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
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
Stepfather
his hands painted me purple
along my jaw, under my eyes.
i would freeze to his rigid words
his dark stare, to a frown
oh my silence
when i could run, i surely ran
when i could fight,
i still took to flight
shame is a ghost
i freeze to the thoughts
of some young days
when i
abandoned her to him.
-
With him boxed in
pinewood, she asked;
Are you glad?
I said; I don’t know enough
about death to answer that.
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Comments11
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Wow, Josh this poem is striking!
I the emoticons depict how I feel about this!
I the emoticons depict how I feel about this!