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Literature Text
I first tried to stymie the creeping loneliness
Of my missing, adventurous
Inhabitant by pretending she was still there
A phantom of a long gone memory
That I could still declare
As my very own unabsentee
I pretended her feathers still ruffled
With a yellow delight
A frightfully bright
Blur that stirred all emotions within me
But I can't anymore
The colors are too muffled
Every day I lose more and more detail of her
First it was her face
Then her lyrics
Now I've even mindfully misplaced
The brand of her favorite birdseed
I can't do much anymore
I try to hold on to her
But it has become a threatening chore
A refusing challenge
Because I think
Even in death
She hates being
Within grasp
Of my missing, adventurous
Inhabitant by pretending she was still there
A phantom of a long gone memory
That I could still declare
As my very own unabsentee
I pretended her feathers still ruffled
With a yellow delight
A frightfully bright
Blur that stirred all emotions within me
But I can't anymore
The colors are too muffled
Every day I lose more and more detail of her
First it was her face
Then her lyrics
Now I've even mindfully misplaced
The brand of her favorite birdseed
I can't do much anymore
I try to hold on to her
But it has become a threatening chore
A refusing challenge
Because I think
Even in death
She hates being
Within grasp
Literature
What Am I?
Lingering in that photo...
In that simple shot
I look, and I see a woman.
I am not a woman.
I have never worked for a lifestyle,
given birth for an allowance
I have never truly loved a man.
I am not a woman.
I do not have the means to
Transport
myself
to wake, feel the calling..(oh, it calls, but I do not answer)
and move, move, move
until I reach a place of
astonishing beauty.
I am not a woman.
Sometimes, I still take the
Weight
of my childhood and
place it on shoulders of
self-doubt.
and
Sometimes, I remember the way
lifting builds me up.
But I am not a woman.
Lingering in that photo...
A wisdom of some sort
has t
Literature
plumbum
she has a heart of gold
and she, a heart of lead
and she, a heart of uranium.
and they go walking sometimes, the three of them.
gold is confident in her worth,
untarnishable
bought and sold and bought and sold
the virgin whore
and lead behind,
heart heavy in her chest
guilt from bullets
and pride from pipes
and anxiety from irreparable brain damage
and somewhere off to the side treads uranium,
tumors growing,
white skin glowing,
thin frame for a dense core.
Literature
Crayon Child
Younger Me,
still fending off nightmares
with plastic swords
and MONSTER-B-GONE lights.
I was rarely gentle with you.
I blistered our hands with blacktop;
I choked our sandals with mulch.
Yet you remained untouched
by life's failures and faults,
only marred on the skin
by two frolic-scars.
There are seven chin stitches
from a monkey bar mishap,
and three on your upper lip
from disgruntled floor tiles.
But that never halted
your gap-toothed grins.
I fought by your side
during alien invasions,
where broccoli trees swayed
beneath the 1% lowfat Milky Way.
We cradled dirt-stained snowmen
that lasted weeks in the f
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A birdcage copes with losing its prior inhabitant.
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Comments5
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It's very sad. At first I didn't think the way you used rhythm was ineffective, but it very much is. The strange pauses make everything emptier.