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Literature Text
i. The air is thick and I'm drinking you in like sunlight through a silver straw,
I'm feeling like my spine has come unzipped and my crayola red innards have become exposed to the cool air,
you're like the slivers in my fingers that I can't pull out,
maybe I should try scraping off layers of skin with tweezers,
goodbye dead cells, hello fresh meat,
damn, why are you so fresh as fuck.
ii. A whirlpool has developed beneath my chest so there goes my sense of sanity,
actually it's more like boiling water, bubbling, spewing out passed my eyes,
and all I've been asking for is for you to either take me or let me go,
let's be honest, I could try to say I am over this whole thing
but I'm not and I don't even want to be.
iii. So let's forget the world,
get lost in each others skin,
tracing ribs like jail bars,
running hands over heartbeats,
brushing lips with lonely aches.
Literature
Haunted
I hear this haunted voice; it whispers lies
It keeps me up at night; it plays my fears
Allowing no sleep for these tired eyes
Telling me things that I don't want to hear
Am I really heartless or am I numb?
Is this simply darkness of am I blind?
Try to claw my way back into the sun
Leave a bloody trail for others to find
Following the sound of a lonely heart
Brought only false hope that I might be freed
I was led astray in the howling dark
The one way out is through the blood I bleed
I've given up hope of living in peace
I only wish now that my heart would cease
Literature
The Ghosts of Words
Words are for men
and women's minds will twist them.
They may speak, permission granted,
but the pen in all its might
is for men alone.
She knew better. All around
were women writing letters, books, lives.
Her brothers learned, and she listened.
One or two took pity, taught a, b, c
and she remembered.
And she read in cramped dusty rooms
where father never went.
Writing was next, with some practice.
Page after page of letters until her marks
looked like theirs. Until she truly wrote.
From then on it was all hers,
friends and family, towns and journeys,
words and worlds.
Love and denial and despair mixed in
carefully cramped
Literature
Census of Ghosts
he now resides in susurration:
shaken from our summer sheets,
flags drawn taut and shuddering,
and wispseeds rising into the light
with their dressing gowns unbuttoned,
planting onto my lips that name
i've tried to hang with himself;
on a late morning,
while folding your laundry,
i found him again and held his tongue
when he yearned to speak of love
that once transpired in his passion,
or maybe it was the infatuation
of surrealists: brown skin but touched
upon each other,
marking the insignificant with brands
of remembrance: like the crinkling of
tinfoil or the crisping of smokers' lungs
or the thought that cigarettes are only
romantic i
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not sure why i titled it this, but it just felt right?
© 2012 - 2024 blackdahlia911
Comments23
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I agree that your imagery is phenomenal. It's a darkly beautiful piece, really.