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Literature Text
i. sometimes she felt like a coin,
old, rusty,
flung down a well and
sinking to the bottom, surrounded,
but unable to touch.
and while she was looking at lights
she didn’t know were turned on, a
blue bird laid an egg on her
pillow,
and when it hatched it was just
sunshine-colored seawater.
ii. he was a pair of earbuds,
tangled,
stuffed in a pocket and left to be
washed out, lost
on a train station bench, waiting.
he felt like a crooked picture frame
no one bothered fixing,
a burned-out lightbulb
on the back porch that
never gets changed.
A Bit of Love
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Literature
love poem for a poet
and if you ever complain
of writer's block
I will hold you
your chest pressed to mine
close and warm and quiet
and trace every word
that's been eluding you
onto the blank page
of your back
Literature
Ephemeral
1.
i wake up and tear the sun
from the sky like this is a
grade school art project and i
am supposed to share something
worthy of myself-- i think
there is a black hole nestled
betwixt my lonely ribs,
devouring anything alive.
on days like these, my greatest weakness
is weakness and i am my own fatal flaw.
we live by mantras and my ears ring
‘i hate every piece of me’
(he put his head to my chest
and heard me dying;
call me beautiful now)
2.
we are the false ends of sunken
universes, we are pieces of
dead galaxies and you are
stardust, god, you are
beautiful.
i believe that this is all just a dream
by someone with an
Literature
remuneration
there were dreams of abasement, tearing up at the thought of
the noxious corners of your eyes. i saw them at a glance and fell
headfirst in the Styx, catching billowing waves of uncertainty and
heartache. they crashed with a decade-begrudged mind that was far
from healing -- far from me.
and though the fall was abrasive and the
waves, their own harangue, their heartache
and toxins faded & found graphite talismans
engraved in a red wrist warmer.
the ground that my blood decorated, with a history of broken bone
marrows now showed how unnecessary a transplant w
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i don't know, maybe i put myself in my poetry too much.
maybe i should stop putting him in it, too.
maybe i should stop putting him in it, too.
© 2013 - 2024 ghearradh
Comments16
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This is beautifully heartfelt. The last stanza is my favourite.