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Literature Text
Blackness at three AM
Dead stars
Mason jars
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
And
Think
Of
As
I
Drown
Dead stars
Mason jars
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
And
Think
Of
As
I
Drown
Literature
comatose.
i never told you:
i hated the way you smelled
like winter, like
fog or listerine or
something long forgotten.
i guess i miss you the way
i miss brooklyn,
all thirsty for a song
i've never heard, pining for
a place i've never been.
homesick.
--
i never told you:
i keep your old promises all tucked up inside,
like bruises sleeping fallow
along my hipbones.
i promise i'll love you always, i promise
i'll fix the coffee machine tomorrow,
and if you let me,
i'll fix you –
well, you never were a fixer.
what you are is tired, and you never understood
why this fucked-up little town
unmade its bed, swallowed an
Literature
Drive
"Are we nearly there yet?" Michael asks
His head pounding
His eyes closing
The parents sigh
Their minds on the map,
The road ahead
The pressure to reach home before nightfall.
His eyes rest on the falling droplets on the window where he rests his head.
The cars behind
Blow their horns
Preventing Michael from falling into the
Dreamworld
In which he is so familiar.
The cars beside theirs,
Identically stranded on the motorway
Each provide a different story,
A different life
A different past and future.
Michael's eyes wander into each of the square windows
Drinking in the wonders
Of Human Life.
A young woman,
Suit-wearin
Literature
Waldeinsamkeit
A murder of ravens
spits black
on a vermillion coloured day,
as a spine of leaves
crumbles under the pressure
of ghostly weight;
its pieces of autumn,
borne by a whirling breath,
brush a lonely thought:
This winter will be cold.
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Damned insomnia.
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Comments76
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WHOA. All your poetry is just so... deep, and emotional, and painful, and... AMAZING.