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Literature Text
When my duodenum
isn't crawling with moths,
I feel like the deep color blue
that cannot express itself.
When my lungs no longer feel
like they are collapsing,
my eyes must cleanse
the salt from my body.
When my thoughts finally
stop racing so I can fall asleep,
my cerebrum fills me with strange imagery
about sexual repression and guilt.
It's as if breathing away the pain
also breathes away my happiness.
isn't crawling with moths,
I feel like the deep color blue
that cannot express itself.
When my lungs no longer feel
like they are collapsing,
my eyes must cleanse
the salt from my body.
When my thoughts finally
stop racing so I can fall asleep,
my cerebrum fills me with strange imagery
about sexual repression and guilt.
It's as if breathing away the pain
also breathes away my happiness.
Literature
Writer
I am a scientist;
Pinning down ideas
like butterflies
preserving them in
their fragile beauty
as I take away their freedom,
their life.
I am a parasite;
sucking the soul out
of music and leaving it
a hollow shell
that plays like
the noisy silence in
my ears.
I am a thief;
taking what is not mine,
the world around me,
and pouring it into
a mould that
I claim is
my own.
I am a blasphemer;
playing God in a
sacred place, changing
the world to my
liking when the orchestra
is not under my
conduction.
I am a liar;
selling false havens
to lonely runaways,
giving them a glimpse
of a world more glamorous,
more fantas
Literature
things I never told you.
some poems feel like water.
this one is more like sand,
and I'm suffocating in the maw
of a desert that was better left
rusting its clairvoyance.
it started one night when I remembered
that I've kept everything you've ever given me:
roses, faces, promises.
I never really understood
how to let things go,
and when the thought of
turning the things you'd touched
away from my doorstep
choked the poetry from my throat,
I realized why.
I keep reminding myself that
I should probably be nicer to you,
but I think you already know
that I'm only capable of being nice
when I'm cornered and out of ideas.
and despite what you claim,
you've never been
Literature
It's not hatred, it's incredulity.
when i was ten years old my
teacher asked the class,
"if you were god, what would
you change?"
and i remember
biting my lip so hard
that it bled. carefully,
i wrote about
how i would teach
kids from an early age on how to
love yourself and no one
else and that there is no such thing as
an almighty power that will pity
you and answer your desperate prayers
at three a.m. because you're the only one
who has that kind of control.
when i handed it in she just looked
at me like i was the
monsters under
her child's bed. the next day i
was sitting in her office wondering
why it was so wrong to
talk about what's in your heart at a catholic
school
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