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Literature Text
what of these words
falling out of flowers
and stars
and a bottle of whiskey
what of cummings
and sexton
and yeats
what of shoddy metaphors
of sex
dressed as love
and death
as an expanse
of horizons
when the world
shuts you
out
what of a relationship
between the pen and my veins
when she acts like a bitch
trying to hold herself together
with my hands
what with trying so hard
to get thoughts out of my skull
when the bone is trapped
in skin
like i'm trapped in a war
with the infinity
of madness
what with pouring everything out
all at once then
remold it again
and again,
softening the cracks-
too much pasting
and scissors too tired
to cut paper
why is a poet a poet?
Literature
Hate
I hate
I hate well
I hate feverishly
I am the churning acid in your stomach
I am the blood pounding in your head
I am the white-knuckled fist clenching to strike
I am the red haze dimming your eyes
and clouding your mind
I am the rage that lashes out at the weak
the small and defenseless
justified by tears and fueled by alcohol
I hate passionately
I am the shaking in your hands
and grinding teeth
nails digging into your palms
I am everything you hate
boiling to the surface in a froth of
bile
blood
and excrement
I am the indiscriminate spray of bullets
at the school
church
nightclub
I am the madman raving on the news
heaping blame
Literature
just words
The truth is
I dont just miss you
I miss the person I am with you
I am different when you are here
I am different when you arent
Its not about being together
Or happily ever afters
Its about waking up and knowing
You are in my corner
There were a lot of truths in those last words
Tossing out that box of old hurts and regrets was necessary.
The problem is, there were other boxes
A friendship and trust that had developed
A bond that we didn't resurrect..but that we created and protected from everyone but ourselves
You are bigger than the puzzle piece
That fell out when you left
I am more than the sum of my parts
But Im not the answer I've b
Literature
attempts
this afternoon
unresponsive to the sunlight
lying in bed like summer afternoons and white sheets
still moments in our room
so quiet i can hear your ribcage shifting with each breath
but winter -
winter is coming,
the air is so cold,
my bones break inside.
your remove yourself from me,
turn your head away,
hand slipping out of mine,
curling into yourself.
this morning
waking up to brightness outside
the crisp air is singing with potential but
i am quiet
i am inside
i am by myself on this big bed.
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3/11/14
I don't sound evil with this poem, don't I? I see these 'why i write' or 'how i'm a poet' in dA so much I decided to make my own...twist out of it? Sort of. Plus I'm in this kind of phase in my life where everything's black and grey.
My take on death may be the reason this is ideologically sensitive, so should I put a filter on this or not? I know people beyond 14 in this generation understand (or are aware of) profanity and it doesn't use much but should I?
Thoughts?
I don't sound evil with this poem, don't I? I see these 'why i write' or 'how i'm a poet' in dA so much I decided to make my own...twist out of it? Sort of. Plus I'm in this kind of phase in my life where everything's black and grey.
My take on death may be the reason this is ideologically sensitive, so should I put a filter on this or not? I know people beyond 14 in this generation understand (or are aware of) profanity and it doesn't use much but should I?
Thoughts?
© 2014 - 2024 brokengod--veins
Comments25
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I don't think think this needs a filter. This a quite a profound piece overall; "why is a poet a poet?" – indeed.
The third stanza is my favourite.
The third stanza is my favourite.