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Literature Text
I collect things
they may resemble some of your traits
or be loosely associated to those things
that moved you,
I worship these little cadavers,
they rot out my heart,
send me to an earlier grave.
I collect things
and become them,
dirty artifacts to guide me through
life,
dirty emsembles to bless these
storms.
But
I'm going to get over you
for once and for all
and
collage new collections
to richer
the consequences.
they may resemble some of your traits
or be loosely associated to those things
that moved you,
I worship these little cadavers,
they rot out my heart,
send me to an earlier grave.
I collect things
and become them,
dirty artifacts to guide me through
life,
dirty emsembles to bless these
storms.
But
I'm going to get over you
for once and for all
and
collage new collections
to richer
the consequences.
Literature
Puddled Gasoline
Hear me read it! Puddled Gasoline
Someone left the car on
with the garage door closed again;
mother-of-pearl rainbows
streak the harsh winter concrete
as I breathe past the fumes.
Your son,
forgetful seventeen
at its finest,
blares Grunge
or Punk
or some other form of noise
I'm not familiar with.
He will not hear me screaming
when I tug open the door
and you spill out like a puddle
onto my freshly-buffed shoes,
because I will not be screaming
at all.
For the first time
in almost twenty years of marriage,
you've silenced me.
Literature
l'hiver.
(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
the grand church of dizzying space - )
and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.
listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.
and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.
listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.
and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.
(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space w
Literature
saudade
Last week, you showed up with the thunder on my doorstep.
Your voice was so drenched with the rain that I almost didn't recognize the way you said my name. It hung in the air like an incomplete sentence, like something unfamiliar, like you were so lost from trying to find everything we left behind and piece it back together that you couldn't find me in your heart anymore. It was pouring and the power was out and I was so tired of watching the world fall apart from outside my windows that I let you back inside my arms and inside my senses, and your bones were shaking as you clung to me and told me how good it felt to come back home.
There wa
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I've made some stupid choices to love stupid people and now i'm taking it back...I hope for good. It's time to move on. Fuck, i feel so juvenile.
© 2012 - 2024 Piscesandthediamonds
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I collect things
and become them
and become them