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Literature Text
tell me, boy
who is your god.
do not say it
is the limbs
that spread you
between knowing
and comfort;
do not tell me it is
hands wrapping a head
board, nor a mouth
tugging your name
for salvation.
i want to know who it is
that makes you lucent,
bent beneath the dark,
weeping,
because there is no divinity
like the one that makes
you bleed
who is your god.
do not say it
is the limbs
that spread you
between knowing
and comfort;
do not tell me it is
hands wrapping a head
board, nor a mouth
tugging your name
for salvation.
i want to know who it is
that makes you lucent,
bent beneath the dark,
weeping,
because there is no divinity
like the one that makes
you bleed
Literature
I can't write poetry for dead girls.
there are too
many pills in this
world and too
much misery in
the human heart
but that didn't mean
that you could just
up and leave when
we both know it
could have gotten better
and i miss you like
a wolf misses her pack
or a goddamn dragon misses
her fire and i'm sorry
that i can't give you
a bouquet of jasmines
(they were your
favorite, after all,
because that was
the only princess
with a pet tiger)
because poppies are
too cliche and i'm
sorry i wasn't there
when all you needed
was a hug and for someone
to whisper "it's okay,
you're perfect enough
for me, don't listen
to that junkie bitch
who just happened to
give birth to you" and did
Literature
ENOUGH!
There are times when I feel like tearing these pages apart,
Or perhaps, throwing this BLOODY song into the fire and watching it BURN!
Maybe I'll start plucking the keys from my keyboard,
Or simply swipe everything off the desk.
Each item shattering into a hundred pieces,
Much like the fragments of my dying inspiration.
Literature
Spineless
My mother always told me I was born with four spines. They stay there, side by side, in my ramrod straight back, the reason for my very correct posture. So when my back began to arch, people noticed.
My parents were first. You look different, they would suppose as I would approach every morning for breakfast. Is something wrong? My mother would question. Are you ill? My father would ask.
I had a gift with the vague and I used it to my only advantage in this scenario. Because telling them the truth would be a lot more devastating. How would I tell them about the fact that my bones, my spine, the very part of me they admired most, was depreci
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a poem i wrote a while ago, resent to me the other day by =KissTheSunrise
© 2013 - 2024 KaitForest
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WHY ARE YOU SO GOOD.
I missed your work when I was gone.