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Literature
primal scream therapy.
you were seventeen with your
nicotine knuckles and
hollow smiles and
we were running into the light together. just us.
and the light.
i think we’d melt into decembers or
go to the movies, just two lisping teenagers with
funny accents and fidget hands.
we clawed ourselves out of our skins and called it poetry.
we weaved images out of ink pens and
took shaky disposable camera polaroids
in the name of photography.
you’re lighting fires off the walls
with a click of a lighter and
angel wings spun out of gauze.
the city could burn down and
we’d just smoke it up.
metaphorically.
kids like us are made of fog and other dark t
Literature
apprehension and inadequacy
i almost cut my hair, saturday.
but for some reason,
i just didn't.
i almost told my dad
that artistic freedom
isn't the only thing
he left (with me).
but for some reason,
i decided against it.
i almost messaged you tonight,
but it's been a long time since i have.
so, i decided i shouldn't.
(may as well make it longer.)
i almost named you
in this poem,
but i think maybe
that would be a bad idea.
Literature
tread quiet, tread deep
night is the stale scent
of collected breaths
leaving the light on
in spite of despising it
the almost never silent
the blood
and the body
hope is a half-truth
hope lies in hiding it
the days rest their weight
in the lines of your face
imperfect permanence
they age
and they ache
skin's a scribbled-on postcard
sincere and unsent
and a memory's
forever
(where you left it)
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i'm in here with you and it doesn'tscare me anymore; what does isknowing this might be it, what does isfeeling it getting so cold, what does isthe lights coming on, what does is
the thought of someoneloving you with half the vigor i haveor painting my bruises ontotheir own skin
and it feels wrong, to write
love, to keep my lips shutlike i'm dead, to breathedust, to do somethingyou don't know about,to feel lost in the finding
but i just feel so stranded. and
if you'd asked me before i could havegiven you a number and told you that inmy mind that number wasnothing atall, but here we are - here we are,sitting in the same room, sitting quiet;here i am, writing poetry for the first timein two months because i'm scared enough and
lonely enough for me to feel it. here i am,
without a quoteat the ending, with too manytransitions, with something about toburst from my chest but
if i letmy voice go i will
ramble myself intoa panic
---
more later; i'm reconstructing all my music - recreating my whole history - and it's taking days.
today turned out to be good. this was written before that happened.
thank you. ♥
© 2016 - 2024 peaseblossoms
Comments12
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Absoutely fantastic!