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Literature Text
prologue-
The funny thing I've always seen about prologues,
is that they are supposed to set the scene..
bring you into the story you are reading.
But what if that story is a poem?
a written vent of raw emotions and open wounds waiting to be closed?
or a drawing,
a mixture of weeping slashes of graphite jumbled together onto a piece of blank space-
space that was pointless until the moment in consciousness you decided to designate a purpose to it,
rending that piece of the abyss we are part of until those lines of pure emotion can never be replaced.
Story-
the place where you begin the journey,
where the characters come to life in a disturbingly colloquial manner.
Where you allow your voice to shine through the small black symbols muddled together in ways we understand,
where the reader glimpses your pain,
your ardor to get through the words,
to have the words form lines,
then lines to stanzas,
to pages and pages of rude passion screaming out for someone to hear you,
will someone please hear you?
the element glimpsed through the mess of lines and smears forming a image,
that in itself tells a story..
each line worth a thousand words...
which begs the question of how many words a picture is actually worth.
credits-
the final bows,
the heart-wrenching deaths of loved characters,
the tears of the people you had become so familiar with
becoming solidified daggers into your heart-
twisting,
barbed blade
not ink but not quite human.
final call,
last stirring emotion searing into your mind,
left to be repeated,
a unearthly mantra through your fevered imagination..
sparks of the memories of that magical feeling left over
half-burned into the part of your being that is still alive,
half frozen into the part that is dead.
the last sweeps of the paint brush,
breathing life and color into your masterpiece,
your sweat and tears mingling in the pigment of your destiny.
End-
Just as it sounds,
the last lingering feelings of pain and happiness that drove you through the story,
the left over rush of adrenaline pumping through your veins,
the final words of the invisible soap opera echo through the now-empty streets of your humanity.
The tapered closing leaving you to wonder about reality,
forcing you to choose between creation and destruction of what little is left of your soul.
the gentle sweeping of the graphite and lead pencil,
the indigo strokes of the feathery brass forever commemorating,
and tying you to the picture,
that emotion frozen in time forever.
The funny thing I've always seen about prologues,
is that they are supposed to set the scene..
bring you into the story you are reading.
But what if that story is a poem?
a written vent of raw emotions and open wounds waiting to be closed?
or a drawing,
a mixture of weeping slashes of graphite jumbled together onto a piece of blank space-
space that was pointless until the moment in consciousness you decided to designate a purpose to it,
rending that piece of the abyss we are part of until those lines of pure emotion can never be replaced.
Story-
the place where you begin the journey,
where the characters come to life in a disturbingly colloquial manner.
Where you allow your voice to shine through the small black symbols muddled together in ways we understand,
where the reader glimpses your pain,
your ardor to get through the words,
to have the words form lines,
then lines to stanzas,
to pages and pages of rude passion screaming out for someone to hear you,
will someone please hear you?
the element glimpsed through the mess of lines and smears forming a image,
that in itself tells a story..
each line worth a thousand words...
which begs the question of how many words a picture is actually worth.
credits-
the final bows,
the heart-wrenching deaths of loved characters,
the tears of the people you had become so familiar with
becoming solidified daggers into your heart-
twisting,
barbed blade
not ink but not quite human.
final call,
last stirring emotion searing into your mind,
left to be repeated,
a unearthly mantra through your fevered imagination..
sparks of the memories of that magical feeling left over
half-burned into the part of your being that is still alive,
half frozen into the part that is dead.
the last sweeps of the paint brush,
breathing life and color into your masterpiece,
your sweat and tears mingling in the pigment of your destiny.
End-
Just as it sounds,
the last lingering feelings of pain and happiness that drove you through the story,
the left over rush of adrenaline pumping through your veins,
the final words of the invisible soap opera echo through the now-empty streets of your humanity.
The tapered closing leaving you to wonder about reality,
forcing you to choose between creation and destruction of what little is left of your soul.
the gentle sweeping of the graphite and lead pencil,
the indigo strokes of the feathery brass forever commemorating,
and tying you to the picture,
that emotion frozen in time forever.
Literature
Sink or swim
He stood on the dock
One foot reluctantly planted
The other standing at the ready
Like that fleeting moment
Suspended in mid-air
Gleefully anticipating the water on your skin
Yet apprehensive of those undiscovered depths
Which have yet to be kissed by sunlight
She dove in head-fist
Through the reeds and the icy darkness
And watched from below
As the light fragmented
Along the rippled surface
How stunning it was
Even in the deepest and feared unknown
Especially there.
In the light and in the dark
There was only him
He watched as she held her breath
Shackled by his own mind
Wanting for that planted foot
To be freed from its hesitations
Literature
Silence Kills
I don't want to know me,
I don't want to make a sound.
Let's pretend I've stopped existing
and start breaking ground.
You can dig this hole for me,
even though I'm nowhere to be found.
You are the only one who can finish this,
though I'll never admit you were the only one keeping me around.
I don't want to hurt you anymore,
so go ahead and put me to rest.
Let's bury my body
and put denial to the test.
Who is this girl you knew?
Where is she?
She drowned on her own words
and now you're free.
Look me in the eye
as you lower me down.
I'll never stop being the one
who let you drown.
Forget me
for I'll not make a sound.
Literature
imsorryican'tstoptellingyouhowmuchiloveyou
i can keep telling you i love you every day
but every time i do, i feel like i'm simultaneously losing
pieces of my heart.
you brush it off
like i don't mean anything to you.
like i never meant anything to you.
i wonder if i'll ever mean something to you again.
you said you knew what you wanted but
i know whatever it is no longer includes me.
and i know myself; i'm weak when it comes to you so
even though i've been thinking lately about how i
wont be foolish enough to fall back
in love with you
not even all that deep down, i'm sure
that i will.
but i can't keep telling you i love you every day.
because every time i do, i'm losing mor
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