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Literature Text
here in the dark where it is safe
we say let's stop taking painkillers.
let's feel every bleeding inch.
let's dance in blessed rain.
keep it up, keep moving
breathe and think about it.
lie back and be aware.
let the water run down your neck.
watch yourself split and fall.
it's okay, it's okay. clouds do the same.
we say let's stop taking painkillers.
let's feel every bleeding inch.
let's dance in blessed rain.
keep it up, keep moving
breathe and think about it.
lie back and be aware.
let the water run down your neck.
watch yourself split and fall.
it's okay, it's okay. clouds do the same.
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
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
Suggested Collections
for toxic--sunrise -- sorry for the ratio of length to amount of time overdue. 
© 2015 - 2024 scheherazades
Comments2
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this is breathtaking and totally worth the wait