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Literature Text
I am landlocked and yet
I am still drowning.
Breaths come few and far between
as this suffocating grip
enricles my throat,
always releasing before I
can be set free from the pain.
A single set of eyes watches me
from frozen memories,
a beautiful shade of amber
flecked with gold
but the heaven they once held
has been replaced
with an indifferent stare.
Something so strong and majestic
has twisted 'round my body,
a darker specter
sliding over my skin and I
can barely move.
Trapped in the hopelessness of hope,
lost at sea
without a current or a steady wind,
adrift from the shore
I so desperately long to set foot upon.
I am still drowning.
Breaths come few and far between
as this suffocating grip
enricles my throat,
always releasing before I
can be set free from the pain.
A single set of eyes watches me
from frozen memories,
a beautiful shade of amber
flecked with gold
but the heaven they once held
has been replaced
with an indifferent stare.
Something so strong and majestic
has twisted 'round my body,
a darker specter
sliding over my skin and I
can barely move.
Trapped in the hopelessness of hope,
lost at sea
without a current or a steady wind,
adrift from the shore
I so desperately long to set foot upon.
Literature
plutonian
you know i would fill you up and over with love
an overflowing kitchen sink stacked with plates from
a breakfast two mornings ago i recall
the clink of a fork and an intake of breath and an
"i think im going to leave you"
slipping from your lips like a prayer,
i nodded,
and went back to my tea
what could i do to keep you, this backwards love we had
i exist as a passing point i am neither your point a or b
artemis will deny that she walks these woods barefoot
searching for love in dewy blades of grass but
i am painfully honest about the holes people have left
you were my orion for a week or so,
if i was a planet i would be pluto
for i
Literature
Of All the Places in the Universe
She was a button girl. Thirteen and already too old to be beautiful with grimy cheekbones accented by listless, golden-gray hair. She spent her time trying to sell her collection, dozens of buttons lined neatly in a haggard box. The large one with tiny flowers etched into them, a plain navy one, and the bright pink button were her favorites. They were the ones she hoped would find a home in some little girl's cherished dress or a mother's apron.
With her coat straining around her, eyes crowded with years of cold and unease, she held out her box to a passerby. Buttons flashed in the muted light, but the man scoffed as he continued past her. S
Literature
on mo(u)rnings
some days the church bells are like wailing saxophones,
and then again, never the happy kind.
it’s only monday morning and already someone
is in need of flowers. or, miracles.
say god took the week off yet the prayers
keep pouring in like open wounds. what a cruel joke,
that this ground refuses to grow no matter how many
bodies we give to hold between its teeth;
say we are all killing ourselves, some of us are just much better at it
be baton or bullet or building but nothing after.
maybe this was the miracle all along, this disappearing act.
then again, maybe just the brass afterwards.
and then again, never the happy kind.
some
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Never rusted... Your poetry keeps getting amazing.