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Literature Text
In this ocean of pen and page
I row my skiff till gentle dawn,
And though in paddle I will age;
What pleasure lies in knowledge yon!
What murky seas ravage my oars!
What callous rocks undo my sails!
But oh, past these the sea gull soars!
And so blast these the stalwart whales!
And all be wanting of that light
Of distant gods that line the sky,
And all ye virgins of the night
In drowning you will learn to die.
No leash my Cerberus can tame;
The more I learn, the less I know,
With waxen wings, I fly aflame
And blind the sun before I go.
I row my skiff till gentle dawn,
And though in paddle I will age;
What pleasure lies in knowledge yon!
What murky seas ravage my oars!
What callous rocks undo my sails!
But oh, past these the sea gull soars!
And so blast these the stalwart whales!
And all be wanting of that light
Of distant gods that line the sky,
And all ye virgins of the night
In drowning you will learn to die.
No leash my Cerberus can tame;
The more I learn, the less I know,
With waxen wings, I fly aflame
And blind the sun before I go.
Literature
Everything You Borrowed
On Sunday afternoon,
after exiting the church,
you plucked the sun from the sky
and hid it in your palms
so that when I held your hands
they would no longer be cold.
When Monday night arrived
you snatched every single star
and used my tears to make
a necklace.
Tuesday's empty dawn shone
through the cracks of the door--
you stole the promise of what
could never be
and draped it around my shoulders.
After Wednesday's twilight passed,
you grabbed the clouds
and wove a tapestry of lies
that I hung on the walls
of my prison.
Thursday crept through us
on silent tiptoes,
waiting for us to take notice--
instead, we merely waited
for midnight to
Literature
Midnight Thought Process
Perhaps the trees live so long because they have no idea how long they've been around.
I stood with my wine glass and cigarette staring into the night as I heard the sound of fireworks, I wondered if the giant tree before me knew it was new years. There is nothing different from 11:59 to 12:00 yet we feel like it's a world away, because we judge many things in time, and we keep track of time in years.
I sat hugging a pillow, watching a 4 month old baby sleeping during his dream-feed and I wondered if the baby knew it was a boy. There is nothing different from a boy baby and a girl baby yet we feel like we have to define them because we judg
Literature
to be a waste of grey matter with no self-esteem
forgive these
rorschach nerves &
mercury veins -
i am no tragedy boy,
but i have self-decay
down to an art.
this tar tongue only starts
marlboro conversations &
self-ignition;
i only start fires.
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Thank you for having an interesting title, or I would not have read such a beautiful poem!