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Literature Text
there's something about those little broken
dreamer girls with misproportionate promises
and lingering whispers,
who walk like angels, lost, and trying
to find a way back home;
whose hearts bleed abnormally loud
and resonant- those girls with
shadows like ghosts [dead and haunting],
that make them a flavor
to taint your tongue.
if you listen close, you can hear the
unraveling words that once knit the hollow space
between their bones,
you can hear their shallow sighs like
sun sets for a final time.
you can hear their ticking time bomb lungs
and you can touch their secrets, because they
wear them on their skin. not like wounds,
more like sun kisses or wispy tattoos
ingrained into who they are; you won't know
what they mean until you connect the dots
and find answers in their questioning stares.
they'd like to remain something unknown, because
they've identified the world as a disease- vile and
insidious, with the capability of sinking
underneath your flesh and changing who you are.
these girls wince like lambs, aware of
wolves at their haunches; they hide
from open sky because they remember the day
it all came tumbling down.
they steal away, for some better purpose yet to be
understood or even explained.
there's something about them- their
moony eyes and mistrusting hands, their withdrawn
ideals that reflect their wilting nature;
those girls whose thoughts tremble when given a voice,
and who have built their foundation
upon a faulty philosophy of wishes
that makes them shine like heaven;
beckoning and enrapturing, more dazzling than
even their dreams had dared
[brilliantly, brightly, right before they
blow out]
dreamer girls with misproportionate promises
and lingering whispers,
who walk like angels, lost, and trying
to find a way back home;
whose hearts bleed abnormally loud
and resonant- those girls with
shadows like ghosts [dead and haunting],
that make them a flavor
to taint your tongue.
if you listen close, you can hear the
unraveling words that once knit the hollow space
between their bones,
you can hear their shallow sighs like
sun sets for a final time.
you can hear their ticking time bomb lungs
and you can touch their secrets, because they
wear them on their skin. not like wounds,
more like sun kisses or wispy tattoos
ingrained into who they are; you won't know
what they mean until you connect the dots
and find answers in their questioning stares.
they'd like to remain something unknown, because
they've identified the world as a disease- vile and
insidious, with the capability of sinking
underneath your flesh and changing who you are.
these girls wince like lambs, aware of
wolves at their haunches; they hide
from open sky because they remember the day
it all came tumbling down.
they steal away, for some better purpose yet to be
understood or even explained.
there's something about them- their
moony eyes and mistrusting hands, their withdrawn
ideals that reflect their wilting nature;
those girls whose thoughts tremble when given a voice,
and who have built their foundation
upon a faulty philosophy of wishes
that makes them shine like heaven;
beckoning and enrapturing, more dazzling than
even their dreams had dared
[brilliantly, brightly, right before they
blow out]
Literature
catch me if you can
i'd like to smear ashes
over bloody heathen lips
and twist burnt corsages
around the maypole.
this rotten witch's heart
would love to curse you all.
disease has never looked so
lovely, i do declare, crawling
up your blistering limbs.
in case you are not aware—
love kills slowly, but revenge tastes so sweet,
so i'll just tip-toe off of this cliff
and embrace the beast awaiting for me below.
phoenix rising,
sunlight fading;
we
all
fall
down.
Literature
catch the stars to remember her wishes
i.
she rememberes the little things first.
her favorite color is purple
she likes blueberry pancakes,
and leaves pennies face-up on random street corners.
even with these pieces, it feels like
a huge chunk has been torn away that she could never retrieve
ii.
there are scars on her person
she does not remember getting.
her body is a map of memories
she does not know how to read.
iii.
they say she used to be calm and collected,
but now she is hot and fiery,
and they don't know her anymore.
but that's okay, because she doesn't know herself.
iv.
she misses the sun,
and the bad school coffee and English projects
and her own b
Literature
She always fell for boys who needed saving.
She always fell for boys who needed saving.
Giving them kisses in the dark
to numb their headache from
drinking too much and yet
not enough to kill lust.
She was always adored by boys, who,
if given the chance, would rebuild
the world for her.
But she wanted to be the heroine
and refused to see
she needed saving, too.
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catch a falling star, put it in your pocket
never let it fade away.
(So, you guys wanted more poems about me.)
I really recommend reading this aloud, if you have the opportunity.
never let it fade away.
(So, you guys wanted more poems about me.)
I really recommend reading this aloud, if you have the opportunity.
© 2012 - 2024 intricately-ordinary
Comments73
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Wow.. this is breathtaking. Your words are very powerful. I'm captivated and amazed. Great job girl!