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Literature Text
Beauty was a picture bird
which perched upon a tree;
If he had wings, he swore he would,
he would fly away with thee,
Yet he had none, no wings you see,
save those of memory,
And so he paints, he paints a scene
with paints that never flee.
which perched upon a tree;
If he had wings, he swore he would,
he would fly away with thee,
Yet he had none, no wings you see,
save those of memory,
And so he paints, he paints a scene
with paints that never flee.
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
What I Lost
“I lost a finger,” Dolph proclaimed in a manner of startling, distant normality to his father, who had just ghosted by him into the kitchen to find something. His father paused like a clogged clock and spun suddenly on a hinge to see and confirm, and Dolph held up his hand to reveal his organic matter’s metallic replacement. “It’s just the pinky one.”
His father sluggishly pulled up a chair and printed sentences and fragments streamed from the printing compartment on his patchwork-junk face which Dolph had labored so fiercely to build and jumpstart over three years ago. Dolph reached for the re
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What do I think? Steppenwolf (Hermann Hesse), She (Henry Rygard), and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (James Joyce), alongside a bit of The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Victor Hugo).
The artist's nature, is well described; that state is something which, in a way... its not exactly optimistic; but it can be taken in that light... In that:
"Oh boy, there (s)he goes again, making a living. (S)he'll come back... they've got nowhere to go, these artists..."
This work also reminds me of a work by ~DeeTay. Thanks for that. Cheers
The artist's nature, is well described; that state is something which, in a way... its not exactly optimistic; but it can be taken in that light... In that:
"Oh boy, there (s)he goes again, making a living. (S)he'll come back... they've got nowhere to go, these artists..."
This work also reminds me of a work by ~DeeTay. Thanks for that. Cheers