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Literature
about
i.
i want to tell you
why i always write
about my mother and
not my father.
ii.
i love poetry but
i hate words;
it’s like loving
air but hating
breathing –
(loving breathing
but hating throats)
words are what
ruin poetry. they
mean nothing, and
poetry means everything.
words talk, but
they don’t say
anything.
(words reduce poetry
to nothing.)
iii.
time slips through
my fingers like
breaths through a sieve
because i don’t
grasp onto it.
i have no will –
the thought makes
me suffocate from
exhaustion,
sinks into the black
circles under my
eyes while i lie
in bed.
time passes.
(time is crema
Literature
sepulcher
your body is jerusalem,
he’ll tell you
coveted first, then plundered.
– you’re my backwater bedroom
martyr, he’ll tell you
as he nails your wrists
to bedposts,
seizes your tongue like
a white flag,
pulls stones from your parapets –
little sister,
i’ll tell you
the children’s crusade
is lost:
and you’ll kneel at his sword and know
you were always his
to take
Literature
lacunae of longing, loftiness of words
inked and reaching, this is my remembrall flesh
and if we were to never speak again
you'll find the rest of my bones in the graveyard eaten by a dream
i hear knives in the wind and earth inside me
survival is a balancing act-
a selection of extrasensory impulses
a fracture in late august
a week of kisses
sunday skeletons
and i am crying out for time not yet lost
when stars collapse,
the sunshine shaking heart of the unive
Suggested Collections
i never am with words
i am a liar
also known as: writer
i am a liar
also known as: writer
Mature
© 2014 - 2024 KaitForest
Comments6
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This is truly beautiful.