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Literature Text
an arachnoid asteroid
devoid of diploids
a humanoid inhuman
inhumane, profane and
lethal.
the fibreoptic eroticism
inventor of sophistry
egomaniac philosophy
the pioneer of freudian
slips;
slickly i scour away
leaving my mind awake
myopic tendency,
chemical reactivity
left
silicon skinned thing
scuttles to the gutter
rustles in the mutters of
wind and a paranoid
skip
and what remains is
tattered or slain
a robotic insignia
for fallen and sinking
down
what's in a body
sympathetic, skill in
arithmetic, asthmatic
lungs and a heart to
beat.
this is the one-way street.
devoid of diploids
a humanoid inhuman
inhumane, profane and
lethal.
the fibreoptic eroticism
inventor of sophistry
egomaniac philosophy
the pioneer of freudian
slips;
slickly i scour away
leaving my mind awake
myopic tendency,
chemical reactivity
left
silicon skinned thing
scuttles to the gutter
rustles in the mutters of
wind and a paranoid
skip
and what remains is
tattered or slain
a robotic insignia
for fallen and sinking
down
what's in a body
sympathetic, skill in
arithmetic, asthmatic
lungs and a heart to
beat.
this is the one-way street.
Literature
wondertow
perhaps love is meant to end. love opens one's eyes and mind to hope, validation, presence; meaning should exist before, during, after else one be lost in a sea of throwing-up-hands and mirrors smoked. tears are choked back often, smeared journal entries erode over time to be faint scars; we are libraries of guilt and apprehension stacked past icarus' wonder. once your fangs grow you're in the bite, only right to taste a throat or two before you file them away like wildflowers between pages of a book you will bury in dust. perhaps love is meant to remind us of kindness offered, of striving to be more, of how we know ourselves when we feel blessed, of coughing up beauty like stars aligned with expectations. and then, as a candle at dawn, let go.
Literature
The Weight We Carry
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean the fifty
pounds of textbooks
I stuff it with, filled
to bursting, then
take the stairs two
at a time to hear
my abdominal muscles scream
and feel my breath flee,
never looking back.
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean in pounds,
kilograms, ounces or stones—
maybe stones
the kind that Virginia Woolf
lined her pockets with
when she walked
into the Ouse.
When I say my bag is heavy,
I mean that Atlas staggered
under this weight,
and when my therapist asks
“Do you feel strong?”
I feel the crushing
of my collarbone
and answer truthfully,
“No.”
Literature
Angles of Light
That window which you look through Seems heavy, but the eyes You use to look with, set alight Each thing a thousand ways: Is dawn a bright mosaic? A bird in a gold tree? Disaster or a masterful Display of artistry?
Suggested Collections
a toothpaste suburb on repeat today
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Comments25
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Amazing use of rhythm and alliteration!