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Literature Text
I'm counting friends
the way I thumb pages and read ahead.
I prefer being able to hold my friends,
I'm old fashioned -
nothing quite like
the creaks of reading an old friend.
Old fashioned rites
are what my hands lack;
laying a friend flat,
paper settling,
satisfaction the colour of pages
- a distant brown.
Satisfaction like
a second look at
a freshly rearranged bookshelf,
and cats,
sitting in windowsills,
afternoons to yourself.
There is an art
in friends.
Knowing them,
just right.
the way I thumb pages and read ahead.
I prefer being able to hold my friends,
I'm old fashioned -
nothing quite like
the creaks of reading an old friend.
Old fashioned rites
are what my hands lack;
laying a friend flat,
paper settling,
satisfaction the colour of pages
- a distant brown.
Satisfaction like
a second look at
a freshly rearranged bookshelf,
and cats,
sitting in windowsills,
afternoons to yourself.
There is an art
in friends.
Knowing them,
just right.
Literature
Liminal Depression
liminal depression
your ecstatic expressions
are lost on me
when I see your unreachable face
my eyes glisten
I wish you could reach into my mind
and read all the thoughts I’ve left behind unspoken
you might be surprised
at how long I can listen
when you pour out your thoughts
to my open ears
and your open arms
were always my favorite place to be
and you know you can always stay over
and you know
I love you more than anything
even if I can’t bear to show it
liminal depression
when I can’t tell you everything I think anymore
and honestly I never could though I wanted
so badly to try
I’m afraid
of everything you say and
Literature
Her Life
I saw her life in those eyes
with cut-throat stares
and withered looks of daze,
each lid half open
and their cores darted where
they thought it was safe.
Her pupils swirled as hurricanes
with streaks of rain
maroon across a razor blade.
Sharing what words can't speak
and luring in the
sting of the day.
I saw her life in that skin,
painted with a tiny needle that could
delve deeper in what she knew
and who she was, then what.
Like an apple tossed aside to rot
darted across were plum-hue stains
and beautiful scars, an abstract dance of
healing and hurt.
Covered in what she screamed,
her body was masked in poetry,
long-tol
Literature
Never Forgotten
You are pushing...
Trying to erase...
But you refuse to wipe away those words that rest gentle on the lines.
You can't do it.
They are written in pen.
You won't rip the well designed paper either.
You will have to paint over those honest words.
You will always know that underneath those vibrant colours lies a hidden script.
A secret code that whispers in your sleep.
You have become a spy.
Undercover, in your own world.
What are you searching for?
Is it your treasure which you have tucked away?
Hopefully you will find that which you have intentionally lost,
And at its appearance,
You will forget the tears you shed,
And once again remember
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