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Literature Text
For years you praised my good posture;
my comfortable soul, my simple elegance.
You needed me when she was born,
to hold your heart so you could relax
if only for a moment.
I watched her grow; fit snugly in your arm
as you within mine.
I was a jungle gym, in constant need
of professional upholstering
which I never received; yet I didn't complain.
My limbs wore slowly, until eventual break;
but I was ever-present. I could not budge
until I was beyond repair.
Just trash;
I was but a chair.
my comfortable soul, my simple elegance.
You needed me when she was born,
to hold your heart so you could relax
if only for a moment.
I watched her grow; fit snugly in your arm
as you within mine.
I was a jungle gym, in constant need
of professional upholstering
which I never received; yet I didn't complain.
My limbs wore slowly, until eventual break;
but I was ever-present. I could not budge
until I was beyond repair.
Just trash;
I was but a chair.
Literature
Dear Reader
on the roof
simpering with
the pigeons
i throw
sheen after sheen
from buckets of paint;
you do all
the work
getting
in the
way.
awnings
spattered
like lips
with the color
of kisses
shiver
and move.
and listen
to this:
the birds
open their mouths
in the rain
spread one wing
then another
and lean out
and over--
the river
opens
onto salt
as the moon
blooms
like a coin
in a fist;
lovers
part lips
while
friends
part ways.
the bartender
peels a lime;
the doorman
pulls at the door
while the waitress
clears the table.
i open
a window,
you open
your eyes:
work
is making space.
here and
i have
Literature
The Waste World
She said create the world, so I did. I made it dark and dusty, coughed up from my own black lungs. I gave the trees an ashen hue and the ground a color to match the starless sky. The creatures were murmuring oozes, globs of drying acrylic that inked across the orb of my bubbling imagination.
Repulsing, it was in fact the product of an industrial mind. I was born from man's smog goddess and, if memory serves me, her breath was laced in exhaust which I inhaled nightly with her songs. She was soothing and complacent, her voice smokey like a hazy bar. No one could deny her features were hideous beyond belief. Her skin dripped pollution like morp
Literature
Don't Talk To Me
"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it.
She nodded, her expression unfathomable. "Me too."
There was a long pause.
"Just two days ago," I said quietly, avoiding her eyes, "we couldn't even be in the same room without going for each other's throats."
She turned away. "Yeah," she admitted. "But look at us now."
I continued, "And just two months ago we were the best of friends. But look at us now." This time I looked directly at her, smiling mirthlessly.
"But look at us now," she
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I'm wondering most of all how you interpret this piece. Please elaborate.
Also, how can I improve this piece?
What needs work?
Any particular bits you're enjoying?
Or not?
What is the subject of this piece feeling?
Is there still love between the subject and it's family?
Is it logical to associate things with sentimental value with a specific persona?
I like this piece. It reminds me very much of my Nana.
Regardless, shred her!
Also, how can I improve this piece?
What needs work?
Any particular bits you're enjoying?
Or not?
What is the subject of this piece feeling?
Is there still love between the subject and it's family?
Is it logical to associate things with sentimental value with a specific persona?
I like this piece. It reminds me very much of my Nana.
Regardless, shred her!
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Comments25
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i did a humble feature of your poem in my journal. i hope you won't mind. [link] thank you.