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Literature Text
the sun is melting away,
we call it romantic when
all good things die quietly;
I feel like I’m always transitioning
through different levels of sobriety:
spent up on the people in my life
like the girl who doesn’t remember
my name and the boy who thought
I was joking.
(I will care for myself, and
then the world will stop and
spin in the right direction;
the mirror will blur and
I will finally see me,
unfiltered and beautiful)
I just want to believe
that somewhere there’s a boy
ready to sing my bleeding ears
to sleep
with a cinnamon voice, he
will tell me I couldn’t
possibly be human: something
otherworldly, a moonmaid with
starry eyes come to make
reality surreal
and it would be almost perfect,
floating in that jagged gap where
devotion seems to breed and
where I could finally sleep,
untouched and sober.
we call it romantic when
all good things die quietly;
I feel like I’m always transitioning
through different levels of sobriety:
spent up on the people in my life
like the girl who doesn’t remember
my name and the boy who thought
I was joking.
(I will care for myself, and
then the world will stop and
spin in the right direction;
the mirror will blur and
I will finally see me,
unfiltered and beautiful)
I just want to believe
that somewhere there’s a boy
ready to sing my bleeding ears
to sleep
with a cinnamon voice, he
will tell me I couldn’t
possibly be human: something
otherworldly, a moonmaid with
starry eyes come to make
reality surreal
and it would be almost perfect,
floating in that jagged gap where
devotion seems to breed and
where I could finally sleep,
untouched and sober.
Literature
on yearning to be something I'm not.
I think in a previous life,
I must have been a coyote.
An ugly beast with an
ugly heart, with howls
echoing across ten thousand
canyons.
"Please, give me the moon;
I can no longer stand the heat of
the sun."
This world mocks me.
More love for a
night alone in
a winter's forest than
the lonesome aching in
my heart, I only
want to run with the
wolves; always.
But,
I fear,
this desert-weary soul is
merely chasing rabbits across
empty highways. A coyote only
deserves putrid carrion and
not the thrill of the hunt—I am but a
song dog keening into the night for
the fangs of wolves to keep me cold.
Literature
A lesson in realism:
you are
only human.
There is no such
thing as stardust
floating in your veins or
gloomy poetry stitched
right into your heart.
Your blood is made of
iron - unbreakable,
unbending and unmatched
by any other stronghold,
for you are a fortress
that they will never invade.
Stand up,
darling;
wipe those tears away
and know that
you are the only one
who can reinforce these walls.
Literature
My Perfect Mistake
As he drew,
His pencil slipped,
Leaving an undesired mark upon his canvas.
Erasing leaves shadows,
And the mark he left was far too heavy.
He began to think to himself.
Something familiar was there,
Something he simply could not shake.
He had seen this before,
He had seen it and forgotten.
This particular memory was destined to be lost forever,
Forever lost in the depths of his mind.
He then started to think deeper.
How many "mistakes" were thrown away?
There was something quite incredible here,
And he was seconds from tossing it aside forever.
Fate had given him another chance
To reclaim this gem that had been tossed careles
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sometimes I wonder if he knows I exist
(sometimes I doubt that I do)
(sometimes I doubt that I do)
© 2013 - 2024 intricately-ordinary
Comments49
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I love this and I admire you for writing with such brutally raw emotion. Most of my drafts start like this but I'm too chicken to expose that side of myself entirely.
Btw this totally broke my heart "where devotion seems to breed and
where I could finally sleep...." The knot in my throat's still won't budge.
Btw this totally broke my heart "where devotion seems to breed and
where I could finally sleep...." The knot in my throat's still won't budge.