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Literature Text
take two.
a week past the end of the world,
and there’s something therapeutic
about not caring. I must’ve
really messed up in another life. I
wake up shaking and forget to sleep
shaking and hold your hand, shaking,
remembering the moment I became
poison. I feel crazier than ever; cementhead’s
good and gone with his plastic wrists
and missing soul. the boy who entertains
his unfriendliest nightmares couldn’t
muster up enough innocence
to make it right. (today, he writes
a letter; dear Sophia, he tells me
it doesn’t get better. I’m
locked up for a crime I
didn’t commit. you did it,
Sophia. you built me
wrong.) but you know me,
I fell in love with a problem I
couldn’t fix, a boy blinded
who’s never seen the light.
He was a stormy violet but I
am cyan graying with age--
I spent most of my life dying,
and the rest of it wishing I
was someone else. they tell us
only god will see your ugly;
and the girl who swallowed
razorblades can’t cry, and
the serial killer before her time
can’t cry, and the boy who created
a father out of thin air doesn’t
even remember he exists;
about now, it seems like
I don’t either.
a week past the end of the world,
and there’s something therapeutic
about not caring. I must’ve
really messed up in another life. I
wake up shaking and forget to sleep
shaking and hold your hand, shaking,
remembering the moment I became
poison. I feel crazier than ever; cementhead’s
good and gone with his plastic wrists
and missing soul. the boy who entertains
his unfriendliest nightmares couldn’t
muster up enough innocence
to make it right. (today, he writes
a letter; dear Sophia, he tells me
it doesn’t get better. I’m
locked up for a crime I
didn’t commit. you did it,
Sophia. you built me
wrong.) but you know me,
I fell in love with a problem I
couldn’t fix, a boy blinded
who’s never seen the light.
He was a stormy violet but I
am cyan graying with age--
I spent most of my life dying,
and the rest of it wishing I
was someone else. they tell us
only god will see your ugly;
and the girl who swallowed
razorblades can’t cry, and
the serial killer before her time
can’t cry, and the boy who created
a father out of thin air doesn’t
even remember he exists;
about now, it seems like
I don’t either.
Literature
To be a writer
You taste like decaying leaves
and October's bad habits-
when it’s halfway through February
that still haunts these bones.
I have allowed you to
claw your love
into my arms
and chant into my
uninterested ears
for much too long.
I wish I was one of those girls
who could say wild flowers
grow up through my nooks
and my crannies just to tear
through my skin, screaming.
I’m just that dead eyed deer
on the side of the road dreaming
of shoving a pen down my throat
and writing these verses inside out.
I am no scribe, prophet, or spell caster.
I know it.
My skin knows it.
My pen knows it too.
Years and years
from now
my mind will d
Literature
how to become a writer.
don't.
stay away from
pencils and pens.
don't look
at keyboards
or at blank pages
of notebook paper.
don't submit
to the emerald sigh of
vellichor,
the shredded sheets
of everything,
everything you've worked
your whole life to run away from.
don't live in the moment.
let love and fear float by,
just a skimming whisper,
because a whisper
is better than nothing.
a whisper is better
than the brittle falling-apart
of kairosclerosis.
suffer from catoptric tristesse,
but don't think about it
(for too long, anyways.)
look at the mirror
but never look yourself
in the eye,
because who knows what you've become?
don't write what you're feeling.
y
Literature
dear,
when i first met you,
terror chilled down
the heat
of my
louisiana
spine.
i shivered
& my heart
began to build
walls over walls
over walls-
beating:
fuck this,
i won’t let them
hurt you, again.
i have a tendency
to get knocked
off my feet
& not know
how to get back up.
i’m still crawling around,
searching for your heart
beats under my bed
& between my tangled
sheets.
i am pathetic.
but,
you were all crooked,
misshapen insecurities
& nights of forgetting
to take your zoloft.
i didn’t think I would miss that.
i didn’t think I would miss you.
you fell like a meteor
for him, hours after
you demolished me.
& i ca
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if this is at all triggering tell me and I will put up a filter
this is all pretty real though
I met a boy who smashed his head open with a cement wall,
a boy who feared a man named Wallrider and wrote to his god Sophia,
and a lot more. you know me,
I never sleep.
this is all pretty real though
I met a boy who smashed his head open with a cement wall,
a boy who feared a man named Wallrider and wrote to his god Sophia,
and a lot more. you know me,
I never sleep.
© 2013 - 2024 intricately-ordinary
Comments39
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nicely done, if you have time you can read my poetry as well it will mean a lot.