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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
I'll Tell My Secrets To The Moon
So long as you furnish me with a window
And a steel frame bed in a corner of a room
I’ll endeavour to keep the pane transparent
To give my eyes a crystal clear view of the moon
Regardless of what phase you are going through
Whether it be half, crescent, full, blue or new
You have never once shown me your dark side
But so many times I have shown mine to you
But tranquillity can be seen on a clear night
Tides roll through my veins as thoughts flood to my pen
Of all the ancestors that have gone before me
Who've had the same moon looking down over them
So long as you furnish me with a window
And a steel frame bed in a corner of a room
Yo
Literature
five second suicide
and as i pour myself out on these canvases
i drip over the edges, spilling dots of
absence on the hungry earth.
they call me jane doe,
and i am not art.
every evening, i close the door,
close my eyes, disassemble.
slowly, i've become fleeting.
i float, my feet don't touch the ground.
how can i crash?
i fade, i dissolve,
but i've lost the motive to explode.
there's no glory in my death;
i leave no trace of the dramatic.
a man on the train last tuesday
nudged me, apologized, and carried on his way.
he's the last person who's
spoken to me since then.
we hit a notch in the tracks,
the car wobbled.
i stared at him silently,
counting the infini
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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.