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Literature Text
Sometimes the antidote
Is its own poison
It tells us that it will help
But it only amplifies the pain
That we’re already suffering from
But it insists
That it’s making everything easier
But we don’t know any better
Than to accept its help
All we know is pain
So we’ll open the door
At the slightest knock
Even if the person on the other side
Will only bring us more pain
Is its own poison
It tells us that it will help
But it only amplifies the pain
That we’re already suffering from
But it insists
That it’s making everything easier
But we don’t know any better
Than to accept its help
All we know is pain
So we’ll open the door
At the slightest knock
Even if the person on the other side
Will only bring us more pain
Literature
scent.
theres something so comforting so
warm about my bedroom with wooden floors
splattered with paint from childhood art
projects and science experiments.
theres something so nostalgic about the way
evening sunlight filters through the closed
white curtains and makes squares of weak
gold on the cotton.
there is something so numbing about laying in front
of this heater until my face takes on a sweet burning and
i get a temporary hot river of blood pounding beneath
my cheeks.
when i cant see the floor it feels smaller in here safer in here
almost familiar in that:
i have no fucking clue where a damn thing is
and part of me doesn't want to know
Literature
Who are you?
"Who are you?"
said the Caterpillar.
"Who are you?"
But how could she answer?
The identity of a person is not so
easily known, and one has to think very hard
before one can say with certainty.
She could be a beautiful winged horse whose flesh
glows with the golden, incandescent dust of fairies, her
mane a sugary concoction of pinks and blues with streaks of
black and green whilst her tail is a brazen red that would shock the senses of
even the wildest of flames.
Or perhaps she could be a jellyfish that carves paths through
the darkest and lightest of waters, the bell shape of her body
as large as her blue skirts and her trailin
Literature
dreamer
by all the gods,
is she lovely—
the sweetest lullaby i have ever heard.
and her fingertips soothe this raging nightmare
which roars inside, a decaying dragon
that one too many knights have slain.
if i could worship at her feet i would.
alas,
her temple is guarded by pale clouds and
a witch's moonlight; only ravens
may find their way into her tower
and break her chains with a featherweight kiss.
i do not feel her embrace every time the darkness whispers.
no, it is only when the ice in my veins
burns hotter than the sun and my voice is lost
in the supernova that hides itself behind a black hole.
it is only then that she is there,
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Sorry for the late post, this week's been really busy. Anyway, here's my second poem from last week.
© 2015 - 2024 ZACH3443
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