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Literature Text
The whites of my eyes turned red
I was caught like a child in a swing set
As she pulled me under
White lies make up the sky
In the fantastic
I can see with my eyes and my mind
In a valley void of shadows
My eyes burn back into my head
For the light was not of god, but his muses
I was caught like a child in a swing set
As she pulled me under
White lies make up the sky
In the fantastic
I can see with my eyes and my mind
In a valley void of shadows
My eyes burn back into my head
For the light was not of god, but his muses
Literature
i could be nothing
some days you look at me as if i am
worth remembering,
glances studying my face like a road map.
but mostly, i find your eyes stuck in the static
of the pavement, or lost
in the clouds
gathering before lightning.
and we never promise anything, just share the air like strangers
when we don't know what to say.
(it always ends with a silence more desolate
than broken trust.)
you said this is the calm before the storm
but what if
it never slows down
enough for me to notice
that there are days when we can exist
without doubting every second. you have a tendency to whisper
too quietly, leaving room for me to imagi
Literature
Elsewhere
Nights like these I stay awake watching glass shards
shine in heaven-light, and my mother says that I should go, Elsewhere.
Rain doesn't stop for the little losts—underwater at one o'clock;
still the streetlights blaze like midnight suns, and whale song drifts
past parked cars.
Nights like these I am waterlogged, wandering, and I don't find
Atlantis just a sofa downtown where the whale lovesongs are raindrop-borne,
slipping through the window and dripping onto hands. I remind myself I am
only alone, though missing—the weight of my cat on my feet and my
sister's soft sleeping.
Literature
Lean Over The Rail
A wood and steel bench on a pier
where the tourists have no reason
to go (that makes it home, that
makes it mine). It is chained to
the boards with seafoam rust
as if someone expects it to collapse
in the wind-
or to somehow preserve
all those pale carved hearts.
Like the one on the underside
of its leg, kept out of
sight (someone bent over
for this, someone wanted
this secret and forever).
(A tattoo, kept
from the family).
I can't read it anymore,
I can only touch it with
the top of my hand
and wonder if the ocean I'm
watching extends past
my eyes.
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The blue eyed devil inside on me
He won’t leave, he’s buried deep
He won’t leave, he’s buried deep
© 2012 - 2024 dy-ad
Comments5
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I love the last stanza. Nice job, dear.