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Literature Text
my words struggle to reach you
I feel them claw the air
desperate for breakthrough
as if still you're there
rendezvous prescription
waiting for refill
adrenaline affliction
addicted to the thrill
I feel them claw the air
desperate for breakthrough
as if still you're there
rendezvous prescription
waiting for refill
adrenaline affliction
addicted to the thrill
Literature
Over
To be over something
is to ride a speed bump
up to its crescent
and crush it
under tire
until the road is wrinkle-free.
To be over, some
tires have to lose
their grip
on past reality.
To be over someone
is to drive a car
through potholes
to find smooth road
ahead.
To be over, some
one has to say
those potholes
don't feel like quicksand
anymore.
Because it is over -
you are the speed bump
that can become
a level crossing.
You can watch
your train of thought
passing by, lay
a thumbprint upon the ground
and cry
Then step back,
let the vision vanish
into dust
Let the life tracks
left behind
form a new railway.
Then,
drive away.
Literature
here are my words
i used to dream whole cityscapes and skylines,
ocean cities and coves washed over with waves,
terrifying, brilliant, unable to touch me.
i used to be able to talk to trees,
to speak in palms and eyes-closed silences
and the sure roughness of bark under my fingernails.
i used to be able to sing
and believe that believing made me better,
believe that joy sounds bright and crescendos.
i used to be someone who tripped on her words,
spilled out in sloppy sentences and sentiments,
used to be someone who could 'sit at a typewriter and bleed'
and in bleeding turn the hurt beautiful.
i used to close my eyes and fall into feeling,
trace the right word
Literature
Tinderbox
I left my deconstructed self
in tidy piles on your still-warm bed sheets,
not a bone out of place;
every piece of me sorted and stamped
so at least you’d see
what you were getting yourself into.
You gave me your fingernails;
the stardust beneath them
leaving gritty, sparkling trails on my palms
that made my hands tingle:
half panic, half desire.
I sometimes wondered how we’d fit together;
both of us quiet and awkward and luminous,
collecting kindling like belly button lint
in all our empty spaces,
just waiting to start ourselves on fire.
I hope you find a safe place to shine.
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Comments19
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I am addicted to poetry.