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Literature Text
kill this track we got a
fucked up beat going down --
this hard hurt, soft pain
damn bird with a lost name
i spent years in a hospital
replaced my bones with new gospel
my anatomy is diabolical
my devilry is theological
my herd, my pride
my pride is heard
my heart is stunned
and struck
and surged
my mouth is tripped
my death is ripped
eyes rolled back in rhythm, in time
my limbs will fall
unspecified
fucked up beat going down --
this hard hurt, soft pain
damn bird with a lost name
i spent years in a hospital
replaced my bones with new gospel
my anatomy is diabolical
my devilry is theological
my herd, my pride
my pride is heard
my heart is stunned
and struck
and surged
my mouth is tripped
my death is ripped
eyes rolled back in rhythm, in time
my limbs will fall
unspecified
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
AA
I want you to know what I was doing on November the 5th, but we don’t have time. It is January; it has been two years. It's quite an old thing to rehash, especially when the pen is so cold. This poem can’t go on long so we’re going to get to the point. I used to write about shamans, priests come to undress me, but things are more direct now. They don’t say how, they say why. . I watched a woman in the AA meeting cry her eyes out. Her tears put out her cigarette, and her back curled, bending forward over herself - wilted, a flower. And when it came my turn I was so scared to drop my old, hole-y petals I left my chair, left the community center, left the Jeep, even, and walked down to the harbor to watch the moon rise. He’s always been so nice; he’s always been so gentle with my chubby-cheek insecurities and my six-toe peculiarities. He nodded along when I mouthed my secrets to the sand and when I couldn’t get out of the house, to the mouse behind my dresser. I’ve written novels
Literature
momentary.
✦ ✦ ✦
I am the sparks from a lost connection,
impulse on wires seeking a listener;
an unheard reply, silenced and aimless,
speeding in no apparent direction.
I can't stay afire - but before I'm smothered
by cold rooftop winds, I'll snap underneath
the talons of ravens, make them descent and
watch their arched wings spiral in turbulences.
╱ ╱ ╱ ╱ ╱ ╱ ╱ ╱
╱ ╱
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honestly i couldve kept this up a lot longer
(theme from chromeantennae: "keel/kill the he(a)rd/hurt, kill/keel the pride")
(theme from chromeantennae: "keel/kill the he(a)rd/hurt, kill/keel the pride")
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Comments16
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AAAHHHHHHH this was just wonderful i just cant even express?????? how wonderful this is. this is like my goal for writing poetry literally every part of this is perfect