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Literature Text
I'm memorizing your knuckles again
screaming silently
to a god that does not exist
to never dare let this end.
The silk of your skin
sends my senses
cascading in shivers and
I lose grip.
You sleep in peace
as dusk slips quickly
through my fingers that
you do not squeeze.
screaming silently
to a god that does not exist
to never dare let this end.
The silk of your skin
sends my senses
cascading in shivers and
I lose grip.
You sleep in peace
as dusk slips quickly
through my fingers that
you do not squeeze.
Literature
The Green of my Heartbeats
5: Red, rude, a bully.
She was bored, propping her face up on her palms. Her teacher, high-voiced and chirping in fuzzy green flurries, was writing rows of sevens on the board. White chalk. The sevens were glimmering in turquoise, and she smiled.
Sevens were nice, friendly. Seven would never eat nine. Nine was just a baby, like her brother at home.
She was only five. Fives were bullies, nasty. Bright garish red, like B. B was red, but he was not as rude. He forgot things though. Like his keys. Impatient.
She sighed, her head slipping and resting on her wrist. She could feel her pulse on her cheek.
"Seven!" said her teacher, continuin
Literature
I Mean to Get You Alone
You have sharp
pulse-elevating teeth
the stuff I imagine heart attacks
are made of
I'm bent on selling you a handful of smiles
specifically crafted
to distract you from the fact that
I have almost nothing to say
and now you're steering this conversation
in a direction that suggests you've
forgotten that I
don't watch movies or do much of
anything but work which maybe
explains why one glass of wine gets me
wrapped around you
car to streetlight
crash style
mangled limbs
breeding curious onlookers and my insurance has
expired
you're leaning in and all I can think is
I don't have insurance
Literature
The nature of inspiration
When was the last time
You heard the word 'erection' in poetry?
I think it was a while back
Between the pages
Of reform
And Odyssey.
I mean "humans" don't even play
Bogies anymore,
Or just rise to the thirteen year old tree-house
Inside us all
Where politeness is a foul facade
And we aren't afraid of our fingers.
No...
Instead
We prioritise the silhouettes
And forget
The way pressing pen into paper
Made us so
Steamy
And out of
Breath.
Inspiration isn't a pretty, pristine river...
It's magma
Flowing
With taboo,
Glowing
Like irradiated
Lemonade
And it's about time we became
Mutants too.
It's about time
We l
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"I've got a heart still stuffed up in a bag well protected by the clarity that nothin' ever lasts."
~ Getting Over It by Cryptic Wisdom.
Written on 06.21.12.
~ Getting Over It by Cryptic Wisdom.
Written on 06.21.12.
© 2012 - 2024 theshadowkissedgirl
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Awesome! I love the images you create. You're so talented!