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Literature Text
When you walk away from
Someone you love,
You feel a thousand, tiny, iron hooks,
Attached to the spool of memory,
Dig into your heart
And pull it out through your back,
Cracking every rib and spine-bone
As you go.
And once you've got away,
You've got to clean the wound,
And plunge your heart into boiling water,
So it doesn't fester
And turn your head rotten.
After the kind of storm
That wails around the corners,
And up the stairs,
You can sit on your bed
And feel the hollowness
In your chest-cavity
Suck at your collarbones.
Once the salt rain has stopped
Stinging your eyes and echoing in your ears,
Go outside, and carry the emptiness
Until you feel your new heart
Blossoming again.
Someone you love,
You feel a thousand, tiny, iron hooks,
Attached to the spool of memory,
Dig into your heart
And pull it out through your back,
Cracking every rib and spine-bone
As you go.
And once you've got away,
You've got to clean the wound,
And plunge your heart into boiling water,
So it doesn't fester
And turn your head rotten.
After the kind of storm
That wails around the corners,
And up the stairs,
You can sit on your bed
And feel the hollowness
In your chest-cavity
Suck at your collarbones.
Once the salt rain has stopped
Stinging your eyes and echoing in your ears,
Go outside, and carry the emptiness
Until you feel your new heart
Blossoming again.
Literature
Beetle
I am a beetle trapped between w p i a n n d e o s w suffocating glass and body f o l d i n g The shuttering, s h u d d e r ing — then finally still.
Literature
Dream Invasion
In the dead of night the culprit stole;
Into your dream to take you whole,
Lacing thoughts with such blight;
Stealing your heart for its own delight.
Within your head it creeps and lurks;
Placed by terror and dark’s deep quirks,
Cold and sharp behind your eyes;
Pouring up in incriminating cries.
The blank of white streams in tears;
Forcing out your primal fears,
Twisted into targeted hate;
It strips you of your chosen fate.
Now you are but to paint the lines;
A story to tell of her crimes,
Prose written in desperate plea;
Unable to hide, unable to flee.
Forever stuck in the cold tide;
A surge which you are forced to ride,
It was but
Literature
nest of thought
every day I see these doves perched outside
my window. they are as blank as bleached sheets of paper--
crinkled at the corners and piled into a flock.
i want to eat them--sip at the burning rot of my
columbian-blend coffee and dine on their pretty poem hearts.
my hands would catch frail bone-song, breaking them into
a rejuvenated verse of something earthbound--in a single snap of
little wings, the birds become flightless, half-way uttered phrases.
their bunched up feathers curl into pause.
i’d move to the second line--the throat, crushing windpipes
to taste the rumble of a dying note. i’d plunge through the fibers
of mus
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Written for Wielders-of-the-pen's last contest. Not sure if it fits the prompt, how you feel when you're depressed, but yeah.
Look, emotional prompts are not my thing. I want to get the prompts flowing again!
Look, emotional prompts are not my thing. I want to get the prompts flowing again!
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Comments8
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Wow! Very beautiful and awesome words!