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Literature Text
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because we can find beauty in anything
and we won’t let it go;
I fell in love with a boy because I thought the crooked
line of his mouth was a mirror image of mine,
fell in love with him because his nails were square like
headstones and I wanted to bury myself in him.
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because we notice the minutiae in every face
and we orbit like strung out satellites;
I fell in love with a girl because when she cried her skin
blossomed like an over-ripe peach, and I wondered
if I would swallow the stone by accident when I kissed her.
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because we can’t let go of the quirks we collect.
we exist like mirrors, without an object we are a blank slate
and the one thing we can’t stand are blank spaces,
that’s why we fill pages with ink to cover the silence of
-our parents’ marriage, dissolving like salt in water, but still leaving a bitter taste acrid in your mouth;
-our insecurities promising that the space under ‘achievements’ will always be as empty as our promise, our potential and our conviction;
-our friends’ freedom from emotion, their ability to forget, to let go, to wash their hearts clean after every break.
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because you will give us hope that someone wants to hear
that they are the snail we saw snapped in the road on the way to work
because your eyes are opal and your skin is protecting something fragile;
that they are the moment when 5:08am is blazing red from the digital clock
and we have spent another night dreaming without sleeping, thinking about
how your knuckles fit in our vertebrae and your middle name fits under our tongue
and how the winter will be the red holly berries of your lips and the white snowfall of
your smile, how the summer will be the shedding of pale fears, basking our spontaneity in
a beat-up convertible car, letting your hair tangle around my sunglasses, feet buried in the hot
sand of forever. But we know this scares you, all this feeling, all these words.
“I am not an image,” you say, fierce and luminescent, “I am not a handful of constellations
or a bird-bone baby, I am. I am cannot be contained in verses or stanzas or your arm-span.
I am does not rhyme with you are and you grip me like a margin,
press fingerprints like ink onto paper but I cannot be your masterpiece or your anthology,
I am. And I am leaving”
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because we will spend a lifetime trying to find the perfect way
to describe how you left us crumbling like atlas under the weight of
We were.
(I’m sat here writing about you again, is it any surprise
that my muse has your smile, my poems your absence.)
because we can find beauty in anything
and we won’t let it go;
I fell in love with a boy because I thought the crooked
line of his mouth was a mirror image of mine,
fell in love with him because his nails were square like
headstones and I wanted to bury myself in him.
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because we notice the minutiae in every face
and we orbit like strung out satellites;
I fell in love with a girl because when she cried her skin
blossomed like an over-ripe peach, and I wondered
if I would swallow the stone by accident when I kissed her.
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because we can’t let go of the quirks we collect.
we exist like mirrors, without an object we are a blank slate
and the one thing we can’t stand are blank spaces,
that’s why we fill pages with ink to cover the silence of
-our parents’ marriage, dissolving like salt in water, but still leaving a bitter taste acrid in your mouth;
-our insecurities promising that the space under ‘achievements’ will always be as empty as our promise, our potential and our conviction;
-our friends’ freedom from emotion, their ability to forget, to let go, to wash their hearts clean after every break.
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because you will give us hope that someone wants to hear
that they are the snail we saw snapped in the road on the way to work
because your eyes are opal and your skin is protecting something fragile;
that they are the moment when 5:08am is blazing red from the digital clock
and we have spent another night dreaming without sleeping, thinking about
how your knuckles fit in our vertebrae and your middle name fits under our tongue
and how the winter will be the red holly berries of your lips and the white snowfall of
your smile, how the summer will be the shedding of pale fears, basking our spontaneity in
a beat-up convertible car, letting your hair tangle around my sunglasses, feet buried in the hot
sand of forever. But we know this scares you, all this feeling, all these words.
“I am not an image,” you say, fierce and luminescent, “I am not a handful of constellations
or a bird-bone baby, I am. I am cannot be contained in verses or stanzas or your arm-span.
I am does not rhyme with you are and you grip me like a margin,
press fingerprints like ink onto paper but I cannot be your masterpiece or your anthology,
I am. And I am leaving”
Don’t fall in love with a poet
because we will spend a lifetime trying to find the perfect way
to describe how you left us crumbling like atlas under the weight of
We were.
(I’m sat here writing about you again, is it any surprise
that my muse has your smile, my poems your absence.)
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Literature
he saved me
, but he killed me.
_
i. first light- i met you in a crimson forest.
it was a rose garden summer, and out of a black mercedes
you walked out, your five year old eyes greener than
sunlit saplings
you reached up to pluck a rose from its stem, and offered it to me.
"what's your name?"
daddy told me that i couldn't tell strangers my real name.
I looked at the rose in my hand.
"Rose."
you smiled, you were a seastorm of now long-gone innocence.
i didn't understand
but I knew.
ii. i forgot about you for
1562 days, 11 hours, and 22 minutes,
you shouted
my name, but i didn't recognize you
until i saw your
Literature
beauty is a state of mind
forgiveness is the
scent the violet leaves
on the foot that stomped it;
I am beautiful in remembrance:
I am beautiful
in a body two sizes too
large, in eyes dilated
with questions (eyes
you cannot name; gray
like the ocean, blue
like the heart, green like
the fever dream I cannot
wake from) I am the
hair of a lion, a wild
thing, ignition upon
tempted glance. I am the skin
you cannot name, always fleeting;
the chameleon
you always see
but never truly take in.
and I know a boy
carved of ivory sil
Literature
the last poem i write about my depression
i want you to know that it took me years
to figure out the worst part. cause, sure, there’s
so many bad parts, there’s so many moments
when dragging air through your mouth feels
like letting in all the water. your body becomes
your own battlefield, your mind—the most
ruthless enemy. it does not cut corners.
it will not spare you. it will leave
no summer-tinted memory untouched.
every exit sign looks like a suggestion.
if you ask someone if they are happy they will say yes
but they will not look you in the eyes.
you will never learn how to feel permanent.
you will drink grape juice and try to remember how it felt
to be holy.
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15/2/15 because we fall in love too easily, give our hearts too readily and yet our memories are steel traps. We are like elephants, we never forget (even if we want to).
© 2015 - 2024 comatose-comet
Comments82
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Spellbinding. This is a work that captivates and ensnares the reader. Well done!