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Literature Text
look at me:
and tell me the bagels in the freezer aren’t as cold and unfeeling as my heart,
and that they won’t thaw out as easily.
look at me:
and tell me I’m not good enough.
cut me down so I can show you
the only thing I do anymore is laugh.
everything and nothing is funny anymore.
look at me:
and tell me that feeling like nothing is a bad thing
and that I love irony too much,
and that I love resentment too much,
and that I love you too much.
look at me:
and tell me you wouldn’t be right.
and tell me the bagels in the freezer aren’t as cold and unfeeling as my heart,
and that they won’t thaw out as easily.
look at me:
and tell me I’m not good enough.
cut me down so I can show you
the only thing I do anymore is laugh.
everything and nothing is funny anymore.
look at me:
and tell me that feeling like nothing is a bad thing
and that I love irony too much,
and that I love resentment too much,
and that I love you too much.
look at me:
and tell me you wouldn’t be right.
Literature
12
The anger fades over time
even while I'm angry
the edges fade and break and crumble
the lot turns to a black sludge
it falls from my mind
fills up the hollow spaces
the empty pieces in my heart
the ventricles overflow, ooze
I have become a thing I hate.
Literature
Virginal Year
It feels like poetry for a new beginning:
Running in slow motion,
Laying a fresh path in the
Tentative first snow of a virginal year.
Your hand shapes a safe home in which my
Shivering fingers nestle;
You sow a field of forgetting
Over the weary road behind.
Untouched and unafraid, this
Unfamiliar unconditionality, this
Darkness so vivid, this
Uncertainty so certain.
We build that which is
From that which we were.
In the sanctity of our year,
In the unwritten and pure,
You and I are as new in this moment
As ever we have been.
We are here.
We are now.
We are.
Literature
all the ways we die
wild figures empty the oceans
of all its centuried sediments
and dead martyred heroes,
and rent the fathomless Marianne,
filament threads
of light glowing and gasping into
the gullet of the world,
and canyon arms are holding too much
for all history, so add another
layered corpse
in each of the decaying deeps;
walkers there know how our
commute
down pacific street burns,
and never returns our coelocanth
souls.
Suggested Collections
title comes from U2's song, Wire, off their album, The Unforgettable Fire.
© 2008 - 2024 Erlebnisse
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