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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
I Like To Play With Skin
I Like To Play With Skin:
Breathe -
My dear friends and watch,
As the feeling of life itself
Crumbles beneath each ounce of pain.
Needles slowly piercing into the body,
Paralyzing nerves and expressions.
A mask of pure horror; living terror,
Kept alive on the barest limit of the border.
Such tempting features,
Leave me eager to slip a knife beneath flesh.
Ripping soft layers of epidermal mache,
Tanned and dried, woven slowly into a loving mask.
And with my latest acquisition complete,
Only twenty spaces remain...
-Chen Yuan Wen, 28th April 2013
Literature
for once
Cold
blackempty
like the cavern where crimson vellum once resided
Drenched in reticence,
your empty blue eyes do nothing
but freeze the blood in these veins
surrounded by phantoms,
i lie in the dark next to your fading silhouette
between sheets that hold so many memories,
they are empty,
like the chestnut eyes that bore into yours
And as the rain falls harder
as it falls faster
washing down the streets
through deep alleys,
down endless roads,
for
once
just
once
i pray it takes me with
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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.