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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
Paper-Thin Promises
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statu
Literature
Goodbye
i didn’t fall in love with you
until your skin was already grey and i
had to tell you what the weather was like
since you couldn’t leave your bed.
i didn’t mind long nights in the hospital
because making you laugh brought a warmth
to my cheeks that burnt hotter than a
forest fire, you never laughed at me for blushing
i snuck you in alcohol and forbidden foods
and pushed you around in that rusted wheel chair,
and all the nurses looked at us with
miserable eyes that said more than the doctors
would ever tell me.
naively i thought it was good news
when you said they were sending you home; but
when i saw you strewn across
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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.
© 2010 - 2024 eloquence-fair
Comments56
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That last two lines though, damn