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Literature Text
A long road, smudged out
by the fingerprints on my eyes
left by millions of painful
people prying them open;
and my thoughts like moths
leaving behind their silver dust
as they flutter, away,
finally free from the darkness they suffered
inside of me, never feeling the warmth
of a candle or the death of sunlight,
as they leave, i am grateful, sad.
but moreso i am afraid;
as they disappear into whispering pillow talk
i come to hear an echo
i am not who i am supposed to be.
by the fingerprints on my eyes
left by millions of painful
people prying them open;
and my thoughts like moths
leaving behind their silver dust
as they flutter, away,
finally free from the darkness they suffered
inside of me, never feeling the warmth
of a candle or the death of sunlight,
as they leave, i am grateful, sad.
but moreso i am afraid;
as they disappear into whispering pillow talk
i come to hear an echo
i am not who i am supposed to be.
Literature
notesleep
playing my emphases like harp strings
your voice smokes thru the oaken bramble
pour a carbonated apology, a sun-stained
mile marked envelope, two ill-fitted birds,
hands small holes right before a rush of river
what it feels like being swallowed from the outside
crushing rings into truth serum, pretend
to be out of tune with that deception
I have been unable to parse my own persona
a pink cotton voice I remember thru the phone
I remember because it formed me into a granary
one crop after another of patriarchal idioms
whisper my secrets so softly into a glint of red hair
a saucer-eyed lace pattern cut into pine paper
I practice radical self lo
Literature
offerings from the day
a gift: despair & sunlight
loving me wrong
climax compels a risk
be it love, an ache,
teeth transforming,
the extinct alone
the isle path hatches into
toying labyrinth into
electric current into
hedgerow growing roses
finally still
I am wrong (a gift)
repentance tastes like shame to the tangled
a little magic outspread
cry doubt on a disgusting moon
my body holds a tempest
my mouth holds a century
Literature
Fields and Fields and Endless Fields
He looks on across sprawling fields
of futures and possibilities.
Behind him is a pin prick--the past. The
linear thing that happened.
It's there, like a root, underground,
surrounded by dirt and worms.
It's there, bursting from seed and
pressing to the surface. Always pressing
into the fields.
The past is the root. We are the tree.
The fields make up the rest.
And the fields are where the
magic happens. They're a playground of sorts.
Full of possibilities. Governed by illusions.
Ruled by nothing that can be controlled.
Dangerous and deadly and too
big to comprehend.
So he looks across them all, fields and fields and
endle
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and it never ends it never ends
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Comments1
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This is beautiful.