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Literature Text
yellow books with spines breaking
and deteriorating. cold red floorboards
under bare feet. wooden thrones meant
for one night stands but end up being
a grandmother at times where summer
seems too far away. windows thrown open
for only one to enjoy. the things that
are beautiful. small badge blossoms
growing on sticks, swaying in the breeze.
the sun and the sound of laughter. the
small things in life no one else sees.
and deteriorating. cold red floorboards
under bare feet. wooden thrones meant
for one night stands but end up being
a grandmother at times where summer
seems too far away. windows thrown open
for only one to enjoy. the things that
are beautiful. small badge blossoms
growing on sticks, swaying in the breeze.
the sun and the sound of laughter. the
small things in life no one else sees.
Literature
i'm still waiting
it is an abortion, you
know, something that leaves
us clutching at swayback
skin and innards emptied like
a gourd; for the rest of our
lives we will never look at
goslings with their drumbones
sifting sky and
be able to pretend.
it is a derailing, a seismic shift,
a quiet damnation. you know
how some believe people are
most beautiful at twenty-five
and others think eight;
how i believe we were never
really beautiful
at
all.
Literature
not charm or up...
when you left
i poured fireflies
down my throat
to burn away
your lips' echoes
but all it did was make them spin
like ballistic quarks
reversing creation
Literature
we only had the time to fall
one.
i met you in the early autumn on the shortest day of the year.
your eyes matched the drying leaves hanging loosely on the barren trees, and your skin reminded me of the warmest cinnamon. i can't remember what you were wearing, but i can recall how you walked in late, like you lived life in slow motion.
shouting at the top of your lungs, your voice echod against the stone walls of what came to be our chapel and you shattered every glass mind in the room.
you were a walking tragedy and i loved every second of it.
two.
you crawled under my skin every time snow settled on the ground and you found shelter in my silence when you prattled
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Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one
that goes on small adventures that are crossed
off my bucket list.
If I'm the only one to miss my hand on your skin,
and to contemplate what it means to be alive.
that goes on small adventures that are crossed
off my bucket list.
If I'm the only one to miss my hand on your skin,
and to contemplate what it means to be alive.
© 2011 - 2024 MissSarah15
Comments44
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ah!!!! So so so sorry.
I totally didn't mean to like septuple post.
Please forgive me.
Computer of mine, I curse you.
I totally didn't mean to like septuple post.
Please forgive me.
Computer of mine, I curse you.