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Literature Text
if you asked me
his name
I would say
sanctuary
or safety
or rainfall
four letters that coil
and unwind and
finally breathe
if you asked me
his story
I wouldn't tell you about his
father
or his
mother
or the
brother he can't live up to
I would tell you
he's been trampled
and treated like everything
less than dirt
never allowed
to g r o w
under the weight
of backhanded love
& mockery
he's tried so hard
to be good
to be pure
to be everything
that he never stopped to
contemplate
that maybe
he wanted something out this life too
if you asked me
to write about him
I would weave stories out of the lines
on his skin
because there is so much to be said
for the boy
that stopped believing
too young
and no one else
(not even him)
dares say it
if you asked me
why
I would explain
that he is capable of
so
much
more
if he would believe in himself
(just a little)
(just enough)
and that
if I can go on about him
for thirteen stanzas
maybe he will understand
that
it doesn't take
immeasurable talent
or blinding intelligence
to have an existence
worth writing about
Literature
i am worth it.
and if this feeling
only lasts for tonight,
i'll swallow the night;
rearrange the stars
to map the
letters of my name
because i am worth
every second it takes
to let the world know
i'm alive
Literature
we will never take the sky
the sun throws his arms into the air
like an open wound
pitching sultry liquid rays
everywhere—
busting at the seams of the sky
wrenching the clouds apart
and sending them off to faraway lands
as if off to war
but mostly off into nonexistence
or the closest thing to it
because all we know of nonexistence
is that which we have not
validated for ourselves—
that which as no plight or suffering
and does not reach
out to us in need of celebration
Literature
If you're going to be sanctimonious
Awkward bodies are for growing
teenagers, not twenty-four
year old college graduates.
My hips were made to procreate;
my shoulders to carry the weight
of your stares. I’m perfectly fine;
your perception is what’s messed up.
I shave for my own comfort,
not yours. My nails are short
and chewed upon. I don’t
even own a pair of heels;
shackles would be more comfortable.
My hands are scratched
by all the cats I’ve cared for.
I look best in business casual;
slacks, tank, shell. I never remember
my bust size. I own more books
than clothes. My eyes are gold
in the late afternoon sunshine.
I can afford a bland oat
diet an
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the longest thing I've written in a while. go me.
this was written about one of my best friends, someone who is forever putting himself down.
this was written about one of my best friends, someone who is forever putting himself down.
© 2014 - 2024 alternativemeanings
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