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Literature Text
we are not a fairytale.
I am not the strong lead with a heart of fire,
bones of steel, and eyes of vapid curiosity;
motivation seeping through
my every last intended action because
I was written this way
(the heroine falls only to rise again:
proverbial phoenix, burning out
because it is the cycle of my
life) and you, you are not
the beautiful travesty, perfectly composed
to strike me where I’m weak and
[almost]human, delicately woven
like the tapestry of my dismantling—
a subtle irony where somewhere, a writer
chuckles softly, understanding
we are blinder than church mice, born
in a makeshift world of darkness where
I’m not sure whether or not the sun will
rise again tomorrow, because it won’t exist
until someone breathes life into it,
but no. we were never so lucky
to be carefully orchestrated,
a composition rendered for
another’s satisfaction. I am not the
climax, nor the resolution, but a lamb
with Stockholm Syndrome and
a tendency towards people
with sharp teeth. and you, you
are not word and reason but
flesh and blood, the unimaginative
catalyst for my undoing.
I am not the strong lead with a heart of fire,
bones of steel, and eyes of vapid curiosity;
motivation seeping through
my every last intended action because
I was written this way
(the heroine falls only to rise again:
proverbial phoenix, burning out
because it is the cycle of my
life) and you, you are not
the beautiful travesty, perfectly composed
to strike me where I’m weak and
[almost]human, delicately woven
like the tapestry of my dismantling—
a subtle irony where somewhere, a writer
chuckles softly, understanding
we are blinder than church mice, born
in a makeshift world of darkness where
I’m not sure whether or not the sun will
rise again tomorrow, because it won’t exist
until someone breathes life into it,
but no. we were never so lucky
to be carefully orchestrated,
a composition rendered for
another’s satisfaction. I am not the
climax, nor the resolution, but a lamb
with Stockholm Syndrome and
a tendency towards people
with sharp teeth. and you, you
are not word and reason but
flesh and blood, the unimaginative
catalyst for my undoing.
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Literature
Asphodel
A beckoning:
watercolour sky shrinking,
too late, teeth fall; pearls
from a broken string.
Blink and the moon ignites—
but the sheets are still
envelope-stiff.
Literature
curiouser and curiouser
seventeen years &
still chasing white rabbits,
it's no wonder i've never
been in love.
we're all mad here;
no one can find the road to
yesterday.
(i don't know
where to go)
let's fall down a hole.
(i'm just a chrysalis
with no butterfly wings)
off with my head when it
can only imagine nonsense
& clockwork hearts.
give me a cheshire's smile-
i want to know
what it feels like
to be in wonderland.
Literature
suicide risk
i.
you are six shades of sadness
on a too cold, too big seat,
a shrunken apostrophe and
paroxysmal, the balls of your feet
strumming the hours gone
("i want to go home,
please, please, i just
want to go home").
ii.
it is your relief and your regret
that she knows you so well.
It is she who brings forth a doctor
then, when you are past talking-down, done,
wrung out and horse-footed in your need
("let me go home, please,
please, i just
need to go home")
iii.
softly accented words spoken off to the side:
"Yes. Let's keep her voluntary now,
it will be quicker: but if her wings sprout
and itchy feet sample corridors,
we'll make it an order."
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it'd be a lot easier if you could screw up and say "sorry, I was written this way; but don't worry, there's a happy ending eventually"
edit: DLD Pick of the Day [link]
edit: DLD Pick of the Day [link]
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Comments68
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nicely done, if you have time you can read my poetry as well it will mean a lot.