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Literature Text
poetry is:
i.
regurgitated words,
chewed and swallowed
and spit back out again,
layered with
our own spit and our own stories
ii.
recycled stanzas filled with
reprocessed metaphors;
just another well-chewed bone
to pass on to the next set of teeth
iii.
a cry for help, or love, or happiness,
or the attention of a world
too distracted by its own misery
poetry is:
i.
lowercase letters
of the peaceful sort:
soft tranquility
nestled under my tongue
ii.
most of all, the roman numerals
iii.
to list out my thoughts
iv.
as if there’s any sense of order to them
v.
order is an illusion
a trick that we all fall for
as if we don’t exist
under the monarchy
of chaos
(let’s not forget:
chaos is beautiful
or so it is said)
vi.
let me tell you:
don’t squander breath
on periods or
roundabout words —
in essence, poetry is:
i.
the blood pouring from
our paper cuts
ii.
the bandaids we slap
haphazardly
over them
iii.
and the pain that
nevertheless
leaks out from
underneath
i.
regurgitated words,
chewed and swallowed
and spit back out again,
layered with
our own spit and our own stories
ii.
recycled stanzas filled with
reprocessed metaphors;
just another well-chewed bone
to pass on to the next set of teeth
iii.
a cry for help, or love, or happiness,
or the attention of a world
too distracted by its own misery
poetry is:
i.
lowercase letters
of the peaceful sort:
soft tranquility
nestled under my tongue
ii.
most of all, the roman numerals
iii.
to list out my thoughts
iv.
as if there’s any sense of order to them
v.
order is an illusion
a trick that we all fall for
as if we don’t exist
under the monarchy
of chaos
(let’s not forget:
chaos is beautiful
or so it is said)
vi.
let me tell you:
don’t squander breath
on periods or
roundabout words —
in essence, poetry is:
i.
the blood pouring from
our paper cuts
ii.
the bandaids we slap
haphazardly
over them
iii.
and the pain that
nevertheless
leaks out from
underneath
Literature
To Consecrate
When you first met me,
All you could see was a snow white glove
jutting up from the filth I let them bury me in,
digits half curled
wrist arced and carpels tangled
as if I had once strained
to reach up for something more,
but had long since given up...
Your fingertips were my Autumn
as I walked backwards through Winter-
A sleepwalking shadow
spurred on only by sound of a melodic voice
and the faint whispers
of a promise
that I was worth more than ash and dust;
It's been two years since you first coaxed me up from the mire.
I opened my eyes into a hurricane,
reached out to grasp at the hem of your dress
only to come up short
when I found
Literature
the science of sleep.
i don't sleep anymore. or at least i don't think i do. it's one of those things i stopped keeping track of like the number of words that make my mother cry (cancer, lists). if i'm being honest, i stopped sleeping (maybe) around the time i started thinking in a series of parentheses.
because i don't sleep, my arteries demand too much air (oxygen, clean) from the space outside my window. i make my room my heart, cold. it fills with a wind only bricks can breathe, an ice only soil is willing to withstand. i am winter's soul.
the world becomes a different place when you stop noticing sound (mute, black and white film) and start noticing every m
Literature
pollen
wasp-waisted beauty
pray into my collarbone
let your snake tongue slither
with the syllables.
i wish for soft-chested nights,
and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.
poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,
nurse my coiling tongue with yours;
tap my scalp like a silent drum,
and wind my hair in between your fingers
like broken guitar strings.
(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
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dedicated to s.b.
i might scrap this. i don't know if i love it or hate it but it is what it is.
i might scrap this. i don't know if i love it or hate it but it is what it is.
© 2014 - 2024 escap-ing
Comments10
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this is lovely.
also, congrats on the DLR feature. (:
also, congrats on the DLR feature. (: