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Literature Text
for too long, I have taken words as my lovers.
my heart clutches music in its hands, but
my lyrics-stained skin glows in the dark
why, if I lived in a city like dreams,
the streetsigns and graffiti would grapple
up the stairs and into my apartment
I cannot rest my full weight against their
shoulders, sparse and transparent. but I'll
take their empty promises anyway; the letters
are nothing if not sensual. day after day,
I worry that they will leave me. on my knees
I will swear, conspire my life away if only
they let me write them just one more time.
for no matter how far I get away, how unlonely it
becomes, I always go back to their abuse
my heart clutches music in its hands, but
my lyrics-stained skin glows in the dark
why, if I lived in a city like dreams,
the streetsigns and graffiti would grapple
up the stairs and into my apartment
I cannot rest my full weight against their
shoulders, sparse and transparent. but I'll
take their empty promises anyway; the letters
are nothing if not sensual. day after day,
I worry that they will leave me. on my knees
I will swear, conspire my life away if only
they let me write them just one more time.
for no matter how far I get away, how unlonely it
becomes, I always go back to their abuse
Literature
Funeral
Funeral
A funeral was no place to have an epiphany. Epiphanies galvanise people into action and the only action you could get away with in a church pew was discreet fidgeting. Even that was considered unseemly when a heart-felt eulogy was being delivered by the deceased's mother, as Mary was finding out to her discomfort. The priest was beginning to shoot her dirty looks.
But really, as epiphanies went, it was a brilliant one. She couldn't believe she had taken this long to realise it. She was fat. Plain and simple. Mary was much too fat. It explained everything. Her husband had left her for a skinny bitch because she was fat, the universit
Literature
Questions I Never Asked My Grandfather
My grandfather sits in a wheelchair by the window in the old people's home with his chin leaned into his chest, mumbling incessantly and unintelligibly to himself and drooling a little from the right corner of his mouth. Mom can't come here anymore. She just breaks down at the sight of him so I sometimes come by myself and sit with him in silence for a while.
It's a sad end to a long and hard life, and I morbidly think to myself that if a political party stepped forth now with the legalization of euthanasia on its agenda, I'd vote for it. After two strokes and a hemorrhage, topped with severe senile dementia, what is the point of letting peo
Literature
Loss
It is more than death: a loved one
vanishes into a gathering of ashes,
and still they are not immortalized
by that lump in the throat, that sense
of wrong, that homesickness, that love-
sickness--the unnameable, named. Baudelaire,
I am an unhealthy man now--
this is past forgetting, past frailty.
Age has whitened the crass lines
of my hair; apathy has sewn through
my thinning lips, has stilled each finger
from touching keys, or ink to paper.
Although I've shown the eye of each grape,
how they watch from a neighbor's unkept yard--
I care no longer about the sweetness
of their juice, or the miracle of finding
sense and hope in l
Suggested Collections
Late edit, but I find potential in this poem!
I'm thinking of titling it "the composed lover" or "a composed affair"
--
Full title: "Written Romance, or Why I Am Still Single"
I'm thinking of titling it "the composed lover" or "a composed affair"
--
Full title: "Written Romance, or Why I Am Still Single"
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Comments17
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This speaks to my very soul; thank you so much for creating this, it is truly wonderful stylistically, structurally--it resonates on so many levels for me. <3