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Literature Text
i. it was once said
that romantics had it worst;
they bleed out words onto
paper thin promises
hoping ink will catch and lay
all the roads they wish to travel.
ii. poets have this odd habit
of simply knowing metaphorical ways
to guess your most hidden secrets.
blurring words together,
scratching out an inevitable
loss with their soul, covering
and hiding the scars a pen causes
each time their hand embraces cool,
black dye.
iii. artists are champions
at hide and seek.
they smear lies into
pigment and hope
whoever is skilled to view
past acrylic shaped falsities,
is also proficient in scouring
away imperfections.
Literature
Anonymity
Confusion.
Forgotten access
memories of another person
another year
another moment
in time.
Literature
coming home
moments no longer
hang
delicately suspended
waiting
instead
deliriously happy
racing the storm
running down a street
thunder and sheets of rain
all around
wind curves around
pushes forcefully forward
leap
storm raging
pulls
up
Literature
The Wanderer
There was only the sun, and the thirst. For a while it hadn't been so bad, more of a nagging sensation than anything else but as the miles passed and one by the one the others who'd followed in the dark skinned woman's wake collapsed it had changed. From a quiet nagging it grew to be all consuming; blotting out everything else. Now there was just it and the ever more irregular rhythm of her steps as one followed the other, each one harder than the last. But still she staggered onwards beneath the sun's heat, following the woman who'd set out so boldly who knew how long ago. As others gave up and collapsed, never to move again, she carried on,
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artists have such a hard time.
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Comments14
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I love your wording. Damn. Your words and everything are just so fracking beautiful. I also love the numerals. I love poems with numerals because its like different expanses filled with everything, sewn into other great expanses.