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Literature Text
There is a crack in the door,
A fissure in the musty wall,
A break in the monotonous white.
The eyes of the night stare in,
Dilated pupils stretched into slits,
Looking for a soul to collect.
I am the artist,
A tangle of hair tied into a knot,
Bent over an old desk.
There is a light in the corner,
A broken spectrum,
Blanketed by matted spider webs.
They watch me as my hand moves,
Painting the world in word,
Cracked lips deprived of moisture.
My eyes have become the night,
Opening and closing to the world,
Only seeing a story.
It is unfolding,
Building like the new highway upstate,
Unfurling like a new blossom.
I am learning how to become,
Learning how to fly with the masses,
Learning how to use these broken wings.
They fold behind me and haunt me,
Follow me as I scrawl a story,
Never leading, just submissive to my movement.
I wish the night was blind,
Destroyed lenses like the camera,
Cracking to pieces in my white hands.
It sees me as I begin to fall into the world,
The beautiful dream in my mind,
Everyone dances and sings.
There is a world of evil,
It hovers over me like rising smoke,
Eats it's way into my thoughts, a hungry vulture.
The darkness is beautiful,
The light could not exist without it,
The pure could not believe.
There is a hope,
One we grasp onto with our lives,
One we wish would take us away.
The eyes keep watching me,
They soften as I turn to gaze at them,
Blue meets black.
An outstretched hand,
I am the artist,
I am a corrupt existence with a voice.
A fissure in the musty wall,
A break in the monotonous white.
The eyes of the night stare in,
Dilated pupils stretched into slits,
Looking for a soul to collect.
I am the artist,
A tangle of hair tied into a knot,
Bent over an old desk.
There is a light in the corner,
A broken spectrum,
Blanketed by matted spider webs.
They watch me as my hand moves,
Painting the world in word,
Cracked lips deprived of moisture.
My eyes have become the night,
Opening and closing to the world,
Only seeing a story.
It is unfolding,
Building like the new highway upstate,
Unfurling like a new blossom.
I am learning how to become,
Learning how to fly with the masses,
Learning how to use these broken wings.
They fold behind me and haunt me,
Follow me as I scrawl a story,
Never leading, just submissive to my movement.
I wish the night was blind,
Destroyed lenses like the camera,
Cracking to pieces in my white hands.
It sees me as I begin to fall into the world,
The beautiful dream in my mind,
Everyone dances and sings.
There is a world of evil,
It hovers over me like rising smoke,
Eats it's way into my thoughts, a hungry vulture.
The darkness is beautiful,
The light could not exist without it,
The pure could not believe.
There is a hope,
One we grasp onto with our lives,
One we wish would take us away.
The eyes keep watching me,
They soften as I turn to gaze at them,
Blue meets black.
An outstretched hand,
I am the artist,
I am a corrupt existence with a voice.
Literature
anorexia for beginners
Step one:
everyone is prettier than you.
Step two:
don't you hate yourself? you're so fat.
Step three:
don't eat all of that, pig!
Step four:
you're so fat! why are you eating that?
Step five:
don't eat that. or that. or that.
Step six:
you're so hungry...
Step seven:
remember food? it tasted so good...
Step eight:
well, maybe only a small bite...?
Step nine:
LOOK HOW FAT YOU ARE
Step ten:
refer back to step one.
Literature
Letter for You
Dear watchers, deviants, readers, friends, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters and strangers:
I've walked the surface of earth for around 20 years and in this short time I've been alive, I've seen the millennium change, money changing, babies born, old people die, wars being made, peace being made, first kisses, break ups, marriages, divorces, all kinds of weirdness.
Also, I've seen my own world crumble in front of my eyes, fire and stone raining down from the skies, destroying and burning all structures, my body cells fighting amongst themselves and I... I was just a stranger passing by with no answers for all those q
Literature
Husks of the Past
Yellow Jacket flannel hangs
in the back of my closet,
an active memory hive.
I put it on sometimes,
deep pockets engulfing me
and buttons pressed to my skin
like a threat.
A trace of your cologne
still lingers,
the promise of spring
snatched away too soon.
I dream of being suffocated;
it always smells like you.
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Okay, I'm mad at myself for doing this but I simply couldn't resist uploading this! It's my poem for today for NaPoWriMo. This poem-a-day thing has been killing me a bit. It's hard for me to sit down and say "Okay! Now I'm going to write!" I'm sure any writer, or any artists for that matter, would sympathize with me. If you can turn you creative talent on without any effort and whenever you want, I am seriously jelly.
Anyway, this poem was inspired by the countless times I don't shut my door all the way and my cat scares the crap out of me by pushing the door open. I also don't like hearing my parents walk by knowing that all they would have to do to see me would be stare in. It's not like I'm doing anything illegal or anything (I promise!), but being an only child has made me like being alone a bit more than normal people. I also don't like being able to see darkness at night when I'm in my room (which is why I tape my blinds to the window...). This poem is pretty much true. A friend of mine and I were writing poetry one time and she informed me that I slouch a lot while writing. I guess it's a part of my creative process?? I also don't like my hair falling in my face when I write so I knot it up on top of my head. Lastly, I'm always thirsty when I'm writing. I require tea in order to be productive. Jasmine or Earl Grey is preferred. Oh and I usually only write at night when people won't bug me and when I'm more creative (because I'm more delusional!)
Yeah. So. This belongs to me so, like, don't use it. Duhh.
Peace out! To see the rest of what I've been writing for NaPoWriMo, wait until the end of the month when I get to spam everyone with30 29 new poems! (Unless, of course, I decide to be an impatient prick again and upload another poem)
Anyway, this poem was inspired by the countless times I don't shut my door all the way and my cat scares the crap out of me by pushing the door open. I also don't like hearing my parents walk by knowing that all they would have to do to see me would be stare in. It's not like I'm doing anything illegal or anything (I promise!), but being an only child has made me like being alone a bit more than normal people. I also don't like being able to see darkness at night when I'm in my room (which is why I tape my blinds to the window...). This poem is pretty much true. A friend of mine and I were writing poetry one time and she informed me that I slouch a lot while writing. I guess it's a part of my creative process?? I also don't like my hair falling in my face when I write so I knot it up on top of my head. Lastly, I'm always thirsty when I'm writing. I require tea in order to be productive. Jasmine or Earl Grey is preferred. Oh and I usually only write at night when people won't bug me and when I'm more creative (because I'm more delusional!)
Yeah. So. This belongs to me so, like, don't use it. Duhh.
Peace out! To see the rest of what I've been writing for NaPoWriMo, wait until the end of the month when I get to spam everyone with
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Your lovely poetry has been featured here: fav.me/d6ogtjc