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Literature Text
Pardon me
Sorry to be a nuisance
But I couldn’t help but notice you
Looking my way
Glazed over with an old brush till recently
It’s no surprise I evaded your perception
Till now
Behind a screen of grey
I existed
Like the elves, humble and small
Tinkering away with all the things
You would never care to acknowledge
Never care to know
But here I am
Now
Honest and self-deprecating
Full and open
So maybe you could tell me?
Am I? Am I? Am I... worthy of a stare?
Perhaps I could entice you
Encourage you to care?
Eyes fixed in my direction
Still and possibly in thought
Am I so honoured?
Am I so blessed?
Please
Don’t turn away now
In an instant I may be gone
And think what may become of me
Think what may ensue
Supposing this
Was the start of something new?
Supposing it was me
Who finally touched you? Brought you to?
Don’t make me beg
Though my pride is so modest
I can see you are attentive
I can feel you are here
Maybe you could tell me
What I may do to allay your hesitance?
Is it something so simple?
Or am I doomed entirely to fail?
So maybe you could tell me?
Am I? Am I? Am I... worthy of a stare?
Perhaps I could entice you
Encourage you to care?
Literature
proprioception
she claims
that you can spot virginity in the curve
of the hips.
i tell her
you can't see chastity in the way
the ilium crests, unless you fucked hard enough
to break it.
she smiles,
shows me the bruises carved into her bones,
traces the way his fingers held her-
what if you're already broken
to begin with?
Literature
I Am Not Dead !!!
You!
Who are you!
Who are you to call me dead.
I am the author.
I am the poet.
These words you read are mine
and mine alone.
On this work
is all rights reserved.
Who.
Who are you
Who are you to say the author is dead.
With each word i breathe.
The rhythm is my pulse.
The poem is my soul's cry from within me
Contained in this written form.
My poetry is evidence of my life.
I am not dead but alive forevermore.
Who are you to call me dead?
Who are you to disregard my intentions
my opinions, my life
in favor of your own ideas.
To disregard me is to disregard my poetry.
Each poem is a piece of me,
whether i distance myself or not.
I
I am sti
Literature
Dear Death
I sink my knees
into the sodden dirt
surrounding the grave
of a human long gone
I touch the stone's
chiseled cursive words
and trace the letters:
how gelid they've become
I stare at the flowers
that people have left;
upon the plot,
ham-handedly chopped
And I contemplate
my inevitable death
hoping no flowers are left
for the message they possess
"I'm trading life for death."
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Comments8
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I love this. It's a very familiar feeling to me, but through a different set of eyes, a different sound. It makes me think. Brilliant!