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Literature Text
- she was wild before she
knew the word, lost in the world
of trees and flowers and believing
that the wind couldn't
knock her over if it tried; storm-breather
lungs loved the way the sky tried
to speak in rumbles.
spring-born summer-girl, she
was the last one left
standing at the setting of
the sun. she was the one left
staring at the
dirt and wondering what can i
create out of nothing
when she had everything she could dream of
stuck in the clouds above her eyes -
and she was a girl who was
born with the heart
of a beast, born with the freedom
that we can't find on our own;
she learned to love like the wild ones do, learned
to live the way this world
learned to teach her -
and she remembered how it
said that even winds
can become tamed, but how naming the
oceans never calmed their tides;
still she just smiles
and dreams of where the wild things are.
Literature
Evanescent
only the most
beautiful of creatures
live the shortest.
red roses and quivering
butterflies and other
useless things, like the
way she wishes on every star
she sees for a different
soul because she can't stand
the way it's rotting inside.
and it's only when
the thorns beneath her skin
start to bleed that her
monsters whisper, "have
you ever trembled, my dear?"
because they know
for every whimper that hides
faintly in the dark,
there is a pair of lips stretched
into a smile pretending
that all that is beautiful
is timeless and unbroken.
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
Literature
How to love a poet:
Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
imperfections, sticky
metaphors
& an inability
to speak.
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
Your smile,
the sound of your voice,
the laugh lines—
bruises.
Know
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that wild isn't always what you come from
© 2014 - 2024 Khaimin
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