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Literature Text
The mud caked my fingernails.
My hair slipped from inside my hood,
blowing across my face.
The wind shifted the leaves on the ground—
a collage of yellow, red, and brown—
and the earth crawled around me.
The rain fell hard
and the wet grass grabbed at my ankles.
The hole I dug with my own two hands
was between two trees where you and I
used to sit and talk about superheroes,
videogames and high school bullies.
I thought the location fit.
I pulled from my coat pocket
the heart necklace you gave me
the year before you said goodbye
and drove off, leaving skid marks
on the vacant street.
I dropped my heart into the hole
and buried it.
As I walked away,
the rain still pouring,
I picked the mud from inside my fingernails.
My hair slipped from inside my hood,
blowing across my face.
The wind shifted the leaves on the ground—
a collage of yellow, red, and brown—
and the earth crawled around me.
The rain fell hard
and the wet grass grabbed at my ankles.
The hole I dug with my own two hands
was between two trees where you and I
used to sit and talk about superheroes,
videogames and high school bullies.
I thought the location fit.
I pulled from my coat pocket
the heart necklace you gave me
the year before you said goodbye
and drove off, leaving skid marks
on the vacant street.
I dropped my heart into the hole
and buried it.
As I walked away,
the rain still pouring,
I picked the mud from inside my fingernails.
Literature
Reflections of Imperfection
I look into the mirror and see them; my own imperfections staring back
They mock me, they taunt me, those dictators of the mind
As I stand alone, trapped in a vision so endlessly confusing
Exhausted, beaten down by no one other than myself
One criticism equaling a million anchors in my soul
A kind acknowledgment, nothing more than a ghost
My own imagination or reality?
One can do a million things and never achieve perfection
And though this is part of my knowledge, the rest of myself has yet to believe it to be true...
Literature
Agoraphobic
He would often catch the coursers of a newly printed page
or lock upon the wingspan of departing poetry.
But once the years corroded and the pages crumbled,
fantasizing was no longer enough
Soon he found that these shallow fabrications had all the depth
of a black and white page.
Literature
Deathbed
Panicked.
"You won't
forget
me, right?"
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So tired. So very tired.
© 2012 - 2024 QuirkyCuriousBex
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