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Literature Text
gulp & shudder
i am the last sip,
powerful & untainted
tingle with me
one (full-bodied) mouthful & you are
stricken
"actions speak louder" doesn't mean i wanna
fish phrases from your
seathroat
men are not.
men are sharks with bones
i lick the wounds you
refuse
to tend yourself
passive aggression is
hiding in your hometown.
(trying to tackle the ocean current from
under her waves)
& the misfire.
when you cocked your head at me.
to memorize the curvature of my left ear.
i am your last sip.
concentrated,
tingle with me.
i am the last sip,
powerful & untainted
tingle with me
one (full-bodied) mouthful & you are
stricken
"actions speak louder" doesn't mean i wanna
fish phrases from your
seathroat
men are not.
men are sharks with bones
i lick the wounds you
refuse
to tend yourself
passive aggression is
hiding in your hometown.
(trying to tackle the ocean current from
under her waves)
& the misfire.
when you cocked your head at me.
to memorize the curvature of my left ear.
i am your last sip.
concentrated,
tingle with me.
Literature
on the cusp
it is just that when i let go of you
when i let go
it's hard to remain that perfect without you.
--
the in-between of love, buds- so full of potential
our love is written in whispers on the pages
of a book which has not yet been opened.
--
that day, the sun had erased the last lines
of an unforgiving winter from my skin, i was renewed
olive skinned and feeling as if i had just fled the eternal
garden naked as i came- free, fallen.
--
the sky was dark;
nothing but the blood red smile of the moon
cut through the transient darkness of the night.
Literature
Her Life
I saw her life in those eyes
with cut-throat stares
and withered looks of daze,
each lid half open
and their cores darted where
they thought it was safe.
Her pupils swirled as hurricanes
with streaks of rain
maroon across a razor blade.
Sharing what words can't speak
and luring in the
sting of the day.
I saw her life in that skin,
painted with a tiny needle that could
delve deeper in what she knew
and who she was, then what.
Like an apple tossed aside to rot
darted across were plum-hue stains
and beautiful scars, an abstract dance of
healing and hurt.
Covered in what she screamed,
her body was masked in poetry,
long-tol
Literature
Lost Song
I used to think myself grand in the face of the abstract.
I thought myself a poet, a knitter of words which together would create something like music to the eyes, drumming its rhythm in time with heartbeats and telling stories of love that almost was—of heartbreak that was very real at the time, and of thoughts that then seemed profound but—looking back—are laughable.
And I missed the words. They always seemed one step (or several steps—perhaps miles) ahead of me, and I wanted to run after them, to delve into their secrets and wade in their meanings. Alas, I was not worthy then, nor now, and whether or not I can eve
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"your
seathroat" ooooooooooooh
seathroat" ooooooooooooh