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Literature Text
i. all of my friends mean a lot to me,
but you, you meant more than: the universe
the galaxies and every gold mine.
ii. it's January now, and although I feel the world should appear
vastly different, it just comes off as
bleakly the same.
iii. I think I'll miss your hair in the summer, your
lips in the winter and your
fingers every day in between.
iv. caffeine is all that's fuelling me now, mixed in with some
harsh rock tunes, bad poetry and
cheap conversation.
but you, you meant more than: the universe
the galaxies and every gold mine.
(please note the past tense.)
ii. it's January now, and although I feel the world should appear
vastly different, it just comes off as
bleakly the same.
(like a record stuck on repeat,
stuttering over the same broken rhythm.)
iii. I think I'll miss your hair in the summer, your
lips in the winter and your
fingers every day in between.
(they were always too careless and cracked.)
iv. caffeine is all that's fuelling me now, mixed in with some
harsh rock tunes, bad poetry and
cheap conversation.
(you used to be my reason for living.)
--
Literature
the cynic's love song
I will not write love poems because
stars and laced fingers and deep
kisses make me sick. Because dawn
doesnt blossom and the night
always ends. The pillow loses its scent and feathers.
I lose myself in closets, waltzing with skeletons.
The sky fades from violet silk
to rough gray wool filling my throat
until I choke. I will not write love
poems because my soul aches for release,
but there is none. The grass
browns, the trees turn to skinny sentinels, watching
through sleepeyes. Life becomes routine
until I dont notice where my feet take me.
I love yous fall on ears full of cotton balls
Literature
What It Isn't Is What It Is
This is not a love letter.
It's not a reminder of midnight stargazing, kissing under our bright yellow umbrella, witching hour phone calls, or slow dances. Because, my dearest, everyone knows that those are all so cliche like forgotten lace Valentines, broken promises, afternoon walks through the park, and a bouquet of a dozen thornless, dewy, bright, perfect red roses.
This is not a love poem.
It's not memories of Spearmint chewing gum kisses, tic-tac-toe in hot beach sand, you holding me and stroking my hair on Lazy Sundays, or whispers in a dark movie theater, complete with buttery popcorn. Because, m
Literature
hard to see with closed eyes
dear boy,
well, the phone won't stop ringing and the baby's still crying. but you are no longer the fourteen-year-old scene boy i fell for. you cut off your hair and youre now almost a man. you are almost nineteen. you leave lights on because you like wasting perfectly good things like electricity, time, and love. it's like setting a house on fire and just walking away, not watching the beauty in the flames as they twirl. i can't say i'm much better though, because i always want what i can't have. it's lunch time and in the cafeteria line-up, i'm beside the head cheerleader. i look at her tray and say, "i want what she has" because she
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January 19th 2008, 1:14am.
a lot of the time my writing doesn't make sense.
a lot of the time my writing doesn't make sense.
Comments10
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i love this. esp. iii.