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Literature Text
i wish i could write something smooth,
something anchored to explain that this isn't
your fault, but my own insecurites that are shining
through our love like a spotlight looking for fugitives.
forgive me for this.
it's somewhere along the lines
of sprinting down a hill
and not being able to catch
my own god damned feet.
it's spinning out of control and
crashing in the snow and bleeding
red all over the white because it's
one step forward, two steps back.
i'm counting the days until you see that my january eyes
are liars and this sculpted smile is only pretty because
of $2,000 braces. my face is nothing but practiced perfection
and all the scars are in the last place you'd think to look.
you're loving the idea of loving me when all that's in my head
is past loved, dark haired, freckles-and-hate-and-devil-may-care
destruction. when my mind revolves, he is the sun that won't
burn out, even when i'm screaming and throwing fists against the walls.
this isn't a confession, but a fact.
i'm coughing up vowels and rhymes
to match his name, and imagining
life if we did survive that storm.
i'm spitting up choruses and throwing down maddness
through poetry because i can't shake this unforgiving
feeling that the only thing separating you from him
is a colt .45 and bad idea.
something anchored to explain that this isn't
your fault, but my own insecurites that are shining
through our love like a spotlight looking for fugitives.
forgive me for this.
it's somewhere along the lines
of sprinting down a hill
and not being able to catch
my own god damned feet.
it's spinning out of control and
crashing in the snow and bleeding
red all over the white because it's
one step forward, two steps back.
i'm counting the days until you see that my january eyes
are liars and this sculpted smile is only pretty because
of $2,000 braces. my face is nothing but practiced perfection
and all the scars are in the last place you'd think to look.
you're loving the idea of loving me when all that's in my head
is past loved, dark haired, freckles-and-hate-and-devil-may-care
destruction. when my mind revolves, he is the sun that won't
burn out, even when i'm screaming and throwing fists against the walls.
this isn't a confession, but a fact.
i'm coughing up vowels and rhymes
to match his name, and imagining
life if we did survive that storm.
i'm spitting up choruses and throwing down maddness
through poetry because i can't shake this unforgiving
feeling that the only thing separating you from him
is a colt .45 and bad idea.
Literature
To fall to wither
Convoluted skin
Tells a tale involving
Decline and decay.
I watch eyes rendered lifeless,
As lifeless eyes render me.
Literature
A Lover of Sorts
A wandering ace roamed far and wide
Hoping to catch some education in stride,
But Western Wedding University, dead set,
Asked her, “Have you found a lover yet?”
She said, “I am looking for one, of course,
But they must only be a lover of sorts.”
“Of sorts?” McVay curiously replied.
The ace only smiled, heart filling with pride,
For he knew not everyone could understand
That all he ever wanted was to hold someone’s hand
And cuddle at sunset on a cold winter’s night
While drinking hot cocoa by the campfire light.
A kiss or two but nothing more,
Anything else he would abhor.
A lover of sorts woul
Literature
Rosebush
If I were to tell you,
"Life is not a bed of roses."
Would you still continue
To pull the weeds from beneath the rows?
If I said,
"There are some wounds that cannot heal."
Would you still reach between the brambles
And allow the thorns to pierce your skin?
Were I to mention,
"Even the brightest of flowers
Will eventually succumb to time."
Would you still cut the heads
In preparation for the new spring buds?
You simply smile and say;
"Yes.
For even the most vapid vine deserves to be cultivated.
Only then can it bloom
And truly enjoy its time in the sun."
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Comments20
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I really love your style, I do. This is so easy to read but the way it is written kept me interested. I like your imagery and your wording... and yeah, your writing. Great piece!