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Literature Text
My lungs are perhaps
the only consistency I need;
after all,
they don't ask for much
and they give
and they give life.
I'm learning that
sometimes
it's not about thriving,
it's about surviving.
Letting your body
go through the motions
when your mind's too tired
accepting 'uninspired,'
'unwilling,'
and
'unimpressive.'
And then
it's
all
very
possible.
the only consistency I need;
after all,
they don't ask for much
and they give
and they give life.
I'm learning that
sometimes
it's not about thriving,
it's about surviving.
Letting your body
go through the motions
when your mind's too tired
accepting 'uninspired,'
'unwilling,'
and
'unimpressive.'
And then
it's
all
very
possible.
Literature
Real Estate
The cost of intellectual property has gone up.
I can already feel the ideas curdling like milk,
Strings of silver silk lining
Tangling it up so neatly--
A package for the loan-shark in my bed in the morning.
A message to my lover, to whom I owe such a debt:
All you ever do anymore is take.
My poems crumble at the touch,
Fading into the clusters of Sunday brunch and Family Guy reruns.
What's the price of the two seconds of quiet
Without a pile of unfilled lines awaiting my autograph
Ruffling through the papers you'll have me sign-
What wouldn't I give to sign with the devil, over you...
Teetering on the corner of thought,
My pen limp and b
Literature
Rosebush
If I were to tell you,
"Life is not a bed of roses."
Would you still continue
To pull the weeds from beneath the rows?
If I said,
"There are some wounds that cannot heal."
Would you still reach between the brambles
And allow the thorns to pierce your skin?
Were I to mention,
"Even the brightest of flowers
Will eventually succumb to time."
Would you still cut the heads
In preparation for the new spring buds?
You simply smile and say;
"Yes.
For even the most vapid vine deserves to be cultivated.
Only then can it bloom
And truly enjoy its time in the sun."
Literature
untitled
there is an echo
of poetry somewhere
between my cold bones
and psychosis. it sings
the names of my nightmares
through halls of memory.
i lay odd lines scribbled
between now and soon,
like stacking bricks to build
a bridge tomorrow,
a suicide note for days
not here yet.
in turn,
these days have not been
kind to me. anxiety nests
on a swing beneath my
ribcage, often reaching a hand
up to squeeze my heart.
i have little i want to say
of which i am confident.
lately, i'm unsure of most
nights' survival.
slowly,
i am losing myself.
that much is true.
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I don't want to stop writing. Even with all the craziness.
So....enjoy!
So....enjoy!
Comments41
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Nice poem - and you should never stop writing - always obey that want. Your writing is too epic to go anywhere despite any craziness.