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Literature Text
Piano stirs the storm beneath my skin,
fingertips ascend the scale,
roll slowly from a bleached bone
to the scorched ones
and I am moved.
Poetry pours into my head,
silver sparks scintillate between the synapses,
color flashes in darkness
as sound explodes
in bottle rocket blasts
and I am discovered.
Panavision lenses depict my dreams,
grainy green grass
cuts an emerald swathe at magic hour,
and I am borrow their memories
to fill the blank spaces I occupy
and I am reborn.
God dwells in possibility -- impossibly
a ghost of supposed truth,
this voiceless phantom
I can no more hear than the hush
of a broken promise
I made to myself,
and I am deceived.
fingertips ascend the scale,
roll slowly from a bleached bone
to the scorched ones
and I am moved.
Poetry pours into my head,
silver sparks scintillate between the synapses,
color flashes in darkness
as sound explodes
in bottle rocket blasts
and I am discovered.
Panavision lenses depict my dreams,
grainy green grass
cuts an emerald swathe at magic hour,
and I am borrow their memories
to fill the blank spaces I occupy
and I am reborn.
God dwells in possibility -- impossibly
a ghost of supposed truth,
this voiceless phantom
I can no more hear than the hush
of a broken promise
I made to myself,
and I am deceived.
Literature
In Vain of Venus
This is the tale of the beauty of Venus
and how she was showered with love.
Men would come from afar to sail
to her and profess, How I love thee, Aphrodite!
their tries, however, ended in vain and death,
and while she lived, immortal, on her planet.
Twas not until Hermes came to her planet
And cried, oh great Venus!
Let me have thee, even if death
doth end my life tomorrow, love.
Let me give you my heart, Aphrodite,
and together, around the world, we could sail.
But the goddess did not want to sail
and she felt weary of leaving her planet.
I do not love thee, said Aphrodite
And sent heartbroken Hermes from Venus.
He traveled back to Earth,
Literature
the sound you make when you're dreaming
You are my bone structure—
The cartographer of my vertebrae;
One, Two, Three, Four,
Your fingers walk the trail of veins leading to my entropic heart.
When I found you, you only knew of desert heat,
The cool liquidity of hot metal burning down your throat.
I am chattering teeth and blue skin,
I pressed myself against your chameleon body and
Breathed life into you like the way you wrapped around my
Mousy fingers and held my hand when my skull was
Collapsing into itself.
Your hands smooth wings into my shoulder blades and
Weave gold into the strands of my chocolate hair.
You bring me earth so that one day I may be able
To stand upon i
Literature
Blueberries
I find myself grateful
for the existence of semicolons,
little things
keeping my life sentence
half open;
lost in thought
I wash the blueberries
with trembling hands,
you listen to the news
while making tea -
it’s a bitter cup again
but we have honey,
strong hearts, a lock on the door -
we have time for laughter;
in the end
it all comes down to this:
a bowl of blueberries
a kiss on the cheek;
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"If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?” -- Emily Dickinson.
Listening to: City of Angels by 30 Seconds to Mars
Listening to: City of Angels by 30 Seconds to Mars
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