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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
June 12, 2014
staggering and struggling by eloquence-fair addresses old topics with new images; as the suggester says, it's "beautiful work".
Featured by ShadowedAcolyte
Suggested by youarelightinthedark
Literature Text
01.
yesterday, i wrote
your name on a slip of paper
and folded it into an origami star.
it hangs on my bonsai tree
(little trees for big
wishes) as a just-in-case hope
for those times when it feels like
absolutely nothing
can make me
happy.
sometimes, when even stars
and little trees aren't
enough to make me happy, i cut
down the paper stars and pretend
that it is a meteorite shower in my
bedroom, but sometimes that
just makes it worse
because i realize
that shooting stars are actually
falling stars;
we are all just stars that have
forgotten the happy-thoughts that
made us fly,
it's just that some of us are blazing and beautiful
before we burn out. and die.
- -
02.
i can write disorderly words with random indents
and call it "poem", and
people will still say
they like it
because we all know
what it's like to be unhappy
and there is nothing
unhappy people like better
than making people
happy.
i can jump over my own leg and
touch my toes if i really try,
but i can't stop being terrible
and i can't stop thinking
i'm terrible.
but i'm trying, really. i'm trying.
- -
03.
cliches are last resorts for poets who
ran out of ideas.
they write things
like how someone has stolen
their heart and taken it somewhere
far far away and now it is
lost.
i like to hold two fingers on my neck
and remind myself that i have
a heart, but sometimes i
just can't make myself trust biology,
because writers never
trust
science.
fact:
beethoven composed without his ears;
i can write without my heart.
yesterday, i wrote
your name on a slip of paper
and folded it into an origami star.
it hangs on my bonsai tree
(little trees for big
wishes) as a just-in-case hope
for those times when it feels like
absolutely nothing
can make me
happy.
sometimes, when even stars
and little trees aren't
enough to make me happy, i cut
down the paper stars and pretend
that it is a meteorite shower in my
bedroom, but sometimes that
just makes it worse
because i realize
that shooting stars are actually
falling stars;
we are all just stars that have
forgotten the happy-thoughts that
made us fly,
it's just that some of us are blazing and beautiful
before we burn out. and die.
- -
02.
i can write disorderly words with random indents
and call it "poem", and
people will still say
they like it
because we all know
what it's like to be unhappy
and there is nothing
unhappy people like better
than making people
happy.
i can jump over my own leg and
touch my toes if i really try,
but i can't stop being terrible
and i can't stop thinking
i'm terrible.
but i'm trying, really. i'm trying.
- -
03.
cliches are last resorts for poets who
ran out of ideas.
they write things
like how someone has stolen
their heart and taken it somewhere
far far away and now it is
lost.
i like to hold two fingers on my neck
and remind myself that i have
a heart, but sometimes i
just can't make myself trust biology,
because writers never
trust
science.
fact:
beethoven composed without his ears;
i can write without my heart.
Literature
Visitor
There is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
wrist-deep in fresh soil. Her hands are birds
in flight.
It's late, but no one comes to take her home.
The pale moon offers a silver smile -
the clouds disapprove.
Too tired to dream, she buries her legs in sky.
Tonight she is invincible, untouchable,
this frail girl beneath the stars
this death in light.
-
There is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
falling to her white knees. Her stare is a pane
of glass.
The eyes of the living are often murky but
the eyes of the gone
are windows.
Literature
Sundiver
i.
When I was six a phoenix
tried to drown me.
Underwater I grabbed for fire.
Like Icarus, I was reaching
towards the sun.
I hope he still has
bald spots. I hope he still
cradles searing scars.
He was death,
I was the bird.
ii.
My uncle knows plastic-
wrapped soaps as well
as he knows fine wines.
If he drinks enough,
he thinks it’s love-
carved names rubbing
the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days
sweating, ship black against
sea. Like it had been peeled
from amber tongues.
iii.
On my fifteenth birthday, the boy
with stars on his fists and Saturn’s
rings in his eyes told me I was pretty.
It was the first time
anyone had
Literature
Why Peter is not a poet.
Cole is eleven. Age matters in October, when twelve is the only difference between the haunted hayride and the shelled corn sandbox. Age matters when a boy says the word "shit" in school (and Cole does). But age doesn't matter when the same boy has both sneakers dangling over the edge of a 250-foot grain silo, his hands sweaty on the rungs, the state of Nebraska breathing vacant and honeyed and infinite below him. For the first time in his life, Cole can't be quantified by the candles on his last birthday cake. Cole is young, but today, he is worth saving. Three facts about Col
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Featured in Groups
jumping rope, double dutch.
won't you ride bikes with me?
i don't know how to write, but i do know how to be honest.
won't you ride bikes with me?
i don't know how to write, but i do know how to be honest.
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Comments56
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That last two lines though, damn