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Literature Text
I say,
“It’s like ‘Welcome to the real world,’ you know?”
And six heads nod in agreement.
“But what are you going to do?
Like weaving words into a tapestry of everything that makes us human
Is a noble goal,
But not quite enough.”
If any of us were openly religious
There would be a chorus of “amens”
And the slightly claustrophobic sound of bodies moving and feet stamping.
But we’re not.
So instead, the room is filled with the scratching of pens
And the sound of one hand clapping.
That’s enough.
The words I chose prompted the gliding of ink across a page
And that is better than a thousand cheers
And pats on the back.
“And when someone asks
That one question.
What do you write about?
Once, just once, I want to say,
What do you live about?
Because their silence would be my answer.”
I wave my hand
Finished
67 spoken words, more than my usual, here
In this group of
(writers)
Authors
And I sit.
For once, no one asks me anything.
Because I’ve just bared my soul with 67 words.
“It’s like ‘Welcome to the real world,’ you know?”
And six heads nod in agreement.
“But what are you going to do?
Like weaving words into a tapestry of everything that makes us human
Is a noble goal,
But not quite enough.”
If any of us were openly religious
There would be a chorus of “amens”
And the slightly claustrophobic sound of bodies moving and feet stamping.
But we’re not.
So instead, the room is filled with the scratching of pens
And the sound of one hand clapping.
That’s enough.
The words I chose prompted the gliding of ink across a page
And that is better than a thousand cheers
And pats on the back.
“And when someone asks
That one question.
What do you write about?
Once, just once, I want to say,
What do you live about?
Because their silence would be my answer.”
I wave my hand
Finished
67 spoken words, more than my usual, here
In this group of
(writers)
Authors
And I sit.
For once, no one asks me anything.
Because I’ve just bared my soul with 67 words.
Literature
Anonymous
I am the girl who hides between moth eaten paper backs
And slips into bookstores and devours leather bound spines
I am chloroform lips bitten down, red and rosy
Ink stained finger tips that fold book pages between my pupils
I'm the girl who drowns herself in coffee and cough drops
While remaining curled between Tennyson and Steinbeck
Wasting days wondering why grass is green
And how it can be greener for others and not I
Then I realized its all artificial food colouring
And polystyrene picket fences
Sticky notes yellowed at the edges reminding myself how to smile
I've pasted them on my skin in makeshift paper Mache armour
But l
Literature
shotgun anonymous (fowling, and pondering)
shotgun anonymous
scattered thoughts
like stray firearm dust,
i twiddle my thumbs
in the passenger side
of an old 4-seat SUV
and consider
bird’s-foot trefoils
pasture green
and posturing
over
my bent frame,
eyes alluding to
mundane.
existence is boring
and nihilistic in nature,
intrinsic value only tied
to the formation of aptitude,
latitude and longitude
but not your attitude--
that is, if it doesn’t
shake up conformity
like a sunday dessert drink.
my elder kin look for me
in places in which i seek
to be invisible
and not have conundrums
forced upon me like
the thought of a heaven
and hell, and whether
i’m due for the
Literature
Duality
I can run.
I'll find you.
I can hide.
I'm inside you.
I can forget.
I'll remind you.
I can erase.
It is permanent.
I can deny it.
I'll reveal the truth.
I'll wait it out.
It'll last forever.
I can't run.
You are trapped.
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Comments19
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Hmm, so straight forward, and yet feels so deep...