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Literature Text
You lost your voice one day.
Poised on tiptoes, a
good night’s sleep bleeds
like melting icicles.
Let’s get lost in a photo booth,
your clockwork appendages
clinking like an abacus.
Again.
You exist in the
morning rain, thunder;
looking for the thumbprint
to his blue eyes.
Your fingers are scythes,
bygone photographs;
they gently take your life
like rice grains at a wedding.
Poised on tiptoes, a
good night’s sleep bleeds
like melting icicles.
Let’s get lost in a photo booth,
your clockwork appendages
clinking like an abacus.
Again.
You exist in the
morning rain, thunder;
looking for the thumbprint
to his blue eyes.
Your fingers are scythes,
bygone photographs;
they gently take your life
like rice grains at a wedding.
Literature
Sad Poem (Written on a Monday)
Inside our house, surrounded
by plants, that soft light—
the weakest shade
of gray and waiting
to turn it all yellow.
I have slept and slept
for days now,
unfolding into small
moments, only to see you
orbiting our mattress,
waiting for some type of
human reaction, any
kind of movement.
I need a haircut.
I need to shave and go
to work and forget these
days of no control
where I’m a child again,
reeling and afraid that it
will always be this way,
that I will always be in my room,
alone until someone calls me down
for supper, and then a bath,
some prime time television,
and straight to bed.
I am locked outside of something
Literature
continual wandering
i'm going 80 on i-80 until i see the sun behind me
leaving the glow of
skylines and streetlights far behind
moving west towards the iowa sky
there's a stretch of the west coast
my feet have yet to roam
and it's been years since
i've filled my lungs
with pacific air
there's a cloud over i-5
passing through portland
a peaceful grey sky awaits me
i'm miles from my bed
but i've never been more awake
the ocean whips waves
in my direction
the pacific spray
rejuvenates me
i feel as young as i did
the first time around
i'm looking at the moon
from a different angle
this may not be home
but in this moment
it feels pretty damn close
Literature
sandpapered
even after I polished myself again
and again I still
splinter. by now I am flatter than I ever
planned, but I guess that's not enough
(the last time someone stepped on me they
still bled. they told me that saying
sorry wasn't going to fix the wound so I
swallowed it back, ran sandpaper through again because
what else could I do?
and now I'm not sure if I'll ever stand up again)
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This is for #ProjectDFC's May Mixup Madness. I hope it follows the guidelines.
=SilverInkblot kindly let me use her as my guinea pig. I had fun gathering all the beautiful lines I used in this poem. Here are the deviations I used them from in order:
Stories of feelings with no names - Revision
Snowflakes
Bled Dry
Burning Low
Photo booth
The Watchmaker's Lover - Revision
Turquoise
On creating lifelike characters
beaut(if)ul
six a.m.
Messages
Silver Fox
Harvesting
Glory-Be Bits III
Senescence
Glory-Be Bits IV
=SilverInkblot kindly let me use her as my guinea pig. I had fun gathering all the beautiful lines I used in this poem. Here are the deviations I used them from in order:
Stories of feelings with no names - Revision
Snowflakes
Bled Dry
Burning Low
Photo booth
The Watchmaker's Lover - Revision
Turquoise
On creating lifelike characters
beaut(if)ul
six a.m.
Messages
Silver Fox
Harvesting
Glory-Be Bits III
Senescence
Glory-Be Bits IV
© 2013 - 2024 LionesseRampant
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