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Literature Text
I used to fall for boys who were lost,
wandering aimlessly between the mountain-folds of reality.
nomads, they spent the days counting stars and the nights
looking for the sun. their eyes roamed and their hands travelled,
staying in my heart for days or weeks, before continuing to
search for the way to their various destinations,
to the clouds or to the ground
leaving me in place, in a city I could traverse with my eyes
shut.
Until I met a boy who was found,
had the universe tattooed on the back of his hand.
he read me like a survey map, knew his way around
my tangled forest of a mind, could trace paths through
my bramble eyes and he could follow the blue
rivers of my veins, would not fall into the railway
tracks scissored across my elbows,
but he was a city I could not traverse with my eyes
shut.
I went from being found to being lost,
swimming in his mouth unaware of which way was up
which way was down and I pitched my tent in his heart
one night when he was telling me the way to rome
how to find the eiffel tower and I packed my things
one day when he was writing postcards to far off friends
whispering that I was going to continue to
search for my way
into the outspread arms of greece, to fit
my feet into italy’s shoe, to dance
over the swiss borders, to pull the iron curtains
shut.
(I remembered how to get to the eiffel tower though,
waited under its metal feet for days, but he met a girl
who had the planet memorised, he had his tattoo removed,
losing his way somewhere in the depths of
atlantic eyes)
wandering aimlessly between the mountain-folds of reality.
nomads, they spent the days counting stars and the nights
looking for the sun. their eyes roamed and their hands travelled,
staying in my heart for days or weeks, before continuing to
search for the way to their various destinations,
to the clouds or to the ground
leaving me in place, in a city I could traverse with my eyes
shut.
Until I met a boy who was found,
had the universe tattooed on the back of his hand.
he read me like a survey map, knew his way around
my tangled forest of a mind, could trace paths through
my bramble eyes and he could follow the blue
rivers of my veins, would not fall into the railway
tracks scissored across my elbows,
but he was a city I could not traverse with my eyes
shut.
I went from being found to being lost,
swimming in his mouth unaware of which way was up
which way was down and I pitched my tent in his heart
one night when he was telling me the way to rome
how to find the eiffel tower and I packed my things
one day when he was writing postcards to far off friends
whispering that I was going to continue to
search for my way
into the outspread arms of greece, to fit
my feet into italy’s shoe, to dance
over the swiss borders, to pull the iron curtains
shut.
(I remembered how to get to the eiffel tower though,
waited under its metal feet for days, but he met a girl
who had the planet memorised, he had his tattoo removed,
losing his way somewhere in the depths of
atlantic eyes)
Literature
on yearning to be something I'm not.
I think in a previous life,
I must have been a coyote.
An ugly beast with an
ugly heart, with howls
echoing across ten thousand
canyons.
"Please, give me the moon;
I can no longer stand the heat of
the sun."
This world mocks me.
More love for a
night alone in
a winter's forest than
the lonesome aching in
my heart, I only
want to run with the
wolves; always.
But,
I fear,
this desert-weary soul is
merely chasing rabbits across
empty highways. A coyote only
deserves putrid carrion and
not the thrill of the hunt—I am but a
song dog keening into the night for
the fangs of wolves to keep me cold.
Literature
Underappreciated
A moth is beautiful
but none choose to praise it.
Instead, monarchs flutter, and suddenly,
twenty-four lines are written about how
its amber coloring
reminds you of autumn's heartbreaks
and winter's futile approach, seizing
the broken vessel you tried to tape
together, but to no avail;
its black outline
reminds you of the eyeliner she wore
day after day, all perfect and pristine,
until one day,
you found her among rosebushes & lilacs
crying out "Why does it always rain?"
Where is her sun?
its slender antennae
reminds you of stilts, splintery and all,
Literature
Ice
When the glacier slides,
I'm the one
. . .
lost.
Wondering where the right path is, with doubt biting. Frozen memories, icy distances.
When the world grows colder,
I'm the one
. . .
cracked.
Standing on my own, with the past craving for me. Stolen, missing.
When the snow falls,
I'm the one
. . .
drifting.
Trying my best, to make sense of it all. Wandering, wondering.
When the hail storms,
I'm the one
. . .
walking.
Holding my guard, locking my heart. Smiling, pretending.
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27/6/14
I don't know why I find maps to be so romantic but they just are I have also noticed that just when I think I am lost, I meet someone more lost than me and feel, well, found. Of course, the opposite often happens too. I don't know which I prefer.
Critique questions: is the plotline/message clear?
are the line-breaks confusing? Which would you do differently?
what needs elaboration and what feels unnecessary?
I don't know why I find maps to be so romantic but they just are I have also noticed that just when I think I am lost, I meet someone more lost than me and feel, well, found. Of course, the opposite often happens too. I don't know which I prefer.
Critique questions: is the plotline/message clear?
are the line-breaks confusing? Which would you do differently?
what needs elaboration and what feels unnecessary?
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Comments13
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Just brilliant! 
All I have to say really ^^
-Amy
All I have to say really ^^
-Amy