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Literature Text
snow capped conundrums
leaking invisible lies among images
holding close impassable pain
at leak they learned to enjoy
that which came so easy.
ice pick headaches - poems by fire
leaking cold melted wax
white short skirt
gone in a flash
bed covers only to match desire.
late night frozen instantly
leaking unkempt thoughts colliding
over bed sheets and blank paper
I ruined the mood, distance
cant you still reach me? spent.
cold shadows burning free
green ink perfecting these images
stained to mind
throbbing temple
stabbing away dignity
rushed writing thawed
too ruined to decipher
under streaked melted tears
metallic wonder collected
hidden beneath solid shining memories.
leaking invisible lies among images
holding close impassable pain
at leak they learned to enjoy
that which came so easy.
ice pick headaches - poems by fire
leaking cold melted wax
white short skirt
gone in a flash
bed covers only to match desire.
late night frozen instantly
leaking unkempt thoughts colliding
over bed sheets and blank paper
I ruined the mood, distance
cant you still reach me? spent.
cold shadows burning free
green ink perfecting these images
stained to mind
throbbing temple
stabbing away dignity
rushed writing thawed
too ruined to decipher
under streaked melted tears
metallic wonder collected
hidden beneath solid shining memories.
Literature
Succumbing to Water
"Succumbing to Water"
A million snowflakes descending,
each one
different.
Which watery design
is your death?
Perhaps it is
the foamy monstrous walls
rising
rising
falling.
You're crushed by an ocean.
Or the river pulls and
you drift along.
Deaf ears don't hear
the resounding smash
of water
breaking like glass on deadly rocks.
Blind eyes refuse to see
the edge.
Maybe a drop of rain
touches you, tracing
a line on your face
and
you
Literature
water
i am not afraid of death.
i did not want
the boy beneath the apple trees,
or the cherry petals
in the orchard, touched with invisible fingers
leaving brown indentations, bruised
with your inflection even on the brink of spring
not the one littered under the sunlit twigs
grappling for heaven
But the one lying exactly center field
staring straight at the sky--
waiting for a crash of thunder
for the paper flowers, metaphor for holding
over the sills of everything transient,
and left for erasing-- like a soul brimming
over the bridge of an emotion
strong enough to overcome itself.
brave boy with a thousand faces-- i see
Literature
Digging
Miriam always looked worse in hotel mirrors. There was something about the lighting in these places. Maybe it was the drying effect of the unfamiliar water or the biological washing powder on the sheets and towels. Maybe it was the aging effect of a full English breakfast every morning, clogging her arteries and colon, writ large across her pores.
Whatever the cause, a pallid, dry, wrinkle-faced hag with frizzy greying hair watched Miriam brush her teeth.
It was 6am according to her elderly Nokia. The wall clock in her room wasn’t working. She wasn’t sure what year it had stopped at roughly quarter past three, but the hands
i read things i write late at night and i become afraid
-----
a creature is born beneath the flames. candle light bed stand, hiding in the corner. never let go, to afraid to live. swallow away the pain, just wish something would happen, convulsing on the floor.
-----
wrote it last night at 2 am when i couldn't sleep. i don't know what to think anymore other then the fact that i need to write more at night. there's another side of me unseen hiding in the corner. i doubt you'll understand, but maybe i like it that way.
-----
a creature is born beneath the flames. candle light bed stand, hiding in the corner. never let go, to afraid to live. swallow away the pain, just wish something would happen, convulsing on the floor.
-----
wrote it last night at 2 am when i couldn't sleep. i don't know what to think anymore other then the fact that i need to write more at night. there's another side of me unseen hiding in the corner. i doubt you'll understand, but maybe i like it that way.
© 2001 - 2024 sanguru
Comments18
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ice pick headaches... how true... beautiful imagery here... i like stuff that smacks the face like a prefectly pulled espresso at 7am...