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Literature Text
I count sheep
And clocks and other
Glorious things to pass
The time before
The clock strikes midnight
And I fall into a slumber
Atop a pumpkin patch,
My splendid gown a
Burlap sack,
And my hair a nest
For mice.
Yet I sleep away
The tangled mats
And I sleep away
The Hessian-induced burns,
Drifting away to
A green pasture where
There are snow-white sheep
And a ticking sun
Lies in the red-rose sky,
The pendulum swinging and
Shining brightly, a star
To wish away the day.
And clocks and other
Glorious things to pass
The time before
The clock strikes midnight
And I fall into a slumber
Atop a pumpkin patch,
My splendid gown a
Burlap sack,
And my hair a nest
For mice.
Yet I sleep away
The tangled mats
And I sleep away
The Hessian-induced burns,
Drifting away to
A green pasture where
There are snow-white sheep
And a ticking sun
Lies in the red-rose sky,
The pendulum swinging and
Shining brightly, a star
To wish away the day.
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
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
thyroidal cartilage
i held a bird between my hands,
swallow's throat twitching in laryngeal spasms.
when i whispered gently,
lips millimeters from its ear,
'you are mine; there is nothing you can do'
it struggled, beak clicking like talon-fingernails on porcelain
i didn't mean to let it free, i swear.
it beat me back with a single shining look;
beaded gaze bruising, breaking capillaries and
bringing blood to the surface.
i would have gotten a black eye if i wasn't careful.
i wasn't.
careful, i mean. i was never careful.
with mirrored eyes i watched it fly,
wings beating in time to my heart.
my breath was a cloud of smoke,
droplets condensing
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I was inspired by Salvador Dali's The Persistence of Memory.
© 2012 - 2024 Irrelephantlovesyou
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