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Literature Text
I wish
for my sadness
to be like the cloud of drizzle
that passes over roofs at night
and doesn’t wake up
anyone.
For my grief
(the thing with dark fur
that curls up between
collarbones and hisses at strangers
and purrs when I sleep)
to never bite.
See
the evening sky -
with its purple mist -
looks hurt,
wounded, like my hands
when I tried
to hold on to things
that didn’t want to stay.
It could rain,
the morning will come
anyway.
Dark times
carry on
the way cello chords do,
pouring harmony after harmony
into a yawning chasm.
I used to tell myself
to stay strong,
now I think, the point is not
to start digging
but to sing along -
maybe to learn
a new dance.
I wish for my sorrow
to feel soft
and sweet
against your tongue,
like warm cotton candy
from forgotten town fairs
where we’ve known
strange bliss.
I want my sadness
to rhyme gently
in your ears
with the colors and names
of your favorite lovers,
so you might smile
in passing
and remember
something bright.
for my sadness
to be like the cloud of drizzle
that passes over roofs at night
and doesn’t wake up
anyone.
For my grief
(the thing with dark fur
that curls up between
collarbones and hisses at strangers
and purrs when I sleep)
to never bite.
See
the evening sky -
with its purple mist -
looks hurt,
wounded, like my hands
when I tried
to hold on to things
that didn’t want to stay.
It could rain,
the morning will come
anyway.
Dark times
carry on
the way cello chords do,
pouring harmony after harmony
into a yawning chasm.
I used to tell myself
to stay strong,
now I think, the point is not
to start digging
but to sing along -
maybe to learn
a new dance.
I wish for my sorrow
to feel soft
and sweet
against your tongue,
like warm cotton candy
from forgotten town fairs
where we’ve known
strange bliss.
I want my sadness
to rhyme gently
in your ears
with the colors and names
of your favorite lovers,
so you might smile
in passing
and remember
something bright.
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Literature
bridges of mist
we've built our lives on
ghosts: whispers of truth, shadows
of fact, pixie-dust
dreams daring us to find a
solid foot-hold in the haze.
Literature
Winter Ghost
The new evening chill
grows darker still
on late autumn ground
dry leaves abound.
The tiny and furry
they scamper and scurry
they gather and hurry
they wonder and worry.
Always on their mind
when glancing behind
the pale winter ghost
is stalking its host.
Literature
misty mo(u)rning, foggy mind
darling, you're dripping sadness and
everyone can see it;
you can feel four-month-old scars
burning into your hips
just along the bones.
your bronze eyes have oxidized,
and you taste ruby-red copper on your tongue because
you keep biting it but
never quite hard enough.
you've got honey-sweet words
going sour in your mouth and
you feel yourself pouring out everything
you didn't say before.
but you are so soft,
so quiet,
walking around with splinters in your (soles/soul)
and shrapnel in your heart.
hazy-eyed, hazel sighs,
the world shifting and vision drifting
until everything is blurry,
until blurry is blue,
until blue is you.
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Comments28
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Dark times
carry on
the way cello chords do,
pouring harmony after harmony
into a yawning chasm.
You have an amazing gift, keep going.
You touched my heart and soul.
carry on
the way cello chords do,
pouring harmony after harmony
into a yawning chasm.
You have an amazing gift, keep going.
You touched my heart and soul.