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Literature Text
III
I go out and dance in the rain,
Because the ice cold drops
Sting my skin, kiss my lips
And make me think of you.
II
The pitter-patter of the rain
Wakes me up at night.
For a minute I think it's you
Whispering the secrets of love.
I
A kiss in the rain
Always was a bit too cliché for us.
And apparently, so was love.
The rain is falling harder now.
I go out and dance in the rain,
Because the ice cold drops
Sting my skin, kiss my lips
And make me think of you.
II
The pitter-patter of the rain
Wakes me up at night.
For a minute I think it's you
Whispering the secrets of love.
I
A kiss in the rain
Always was a bit too cliché for us.
And apparently, so was love.
The rain is falling harder now.
Literature
Self Righteous Suicide
Self Righteous Suicide:
We're sleeping,
In a cold world,
That has long denied the light.
We isolate,
Each other,
As we walk alone at night.
We plot,
Unholy vengeance,
As we dream of endless death,
We hate,
Our reflections,
As we choke away our breath.
We sleep,
And suffer,
Tormented by our dreams.
Alone,
And frightened,
None shall hear our screams.
So sick,
So vengeful,
A taste that is sickly sweet...
Let me end,
This life,
For hope I shall not meet...
"Why should we alone cry, when angels deserve to die?"
-Chen Yuan Wen, 24th February 2012
Literature
So, I lied.
I am a poet.
At least,
that's what my
skin tells me when
I bleed.
I'm slowly melting into
bed sheets not worth
lying in twice.
Half sick of shadows,
I think I've lost my mind.
My thoughts are s p i n n i n g
and my bones are shaking.
But I keep repeating re-peating
repeating your name like a mantra.
All I want to do is sleep.
But you see,
I bleed more than red
and there is this ink pen
digging through my skin.
Literature
Failure
She was the Thief Girl with no faith and half a heart, and she didn't care if they never ever saw her soul anyway. She was almost content in the half broken life she had created for herself. Her fingers were always drenched in ink, her mind was always preoccupied with her treasure. Words stolen from conversations, from homes, from mouths that didn't need to speak any more.
She found the Lost Boy somewhere in an alley of poetry and a war of lyrics, fighting for his life with a broken piano and a worn tuxedo. She stole him before the bass viols, the gleaming guitars and the thrashing drums could kill him.
He fought with her all the way, telli
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She requested a poem about rain.
So here it is.
I hope you like it.
She requested a poem about rain.
So here it is.
I hope you like it.
© 2011 - 2024 Irrelephantlovesyou
Comments4
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This is beautiful. It flows very elegantly, yet so simple. Hats off to you, good sir.