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Literature Text
Sometimes, she is my mistress
Sneaking in through my window and seducing me out of sleep
She keeps me up past sunrise, whispering sweet promises in my ear
Silencing me with her smoldering passion, stripping me until inspiration strikes
She makes me sing, until the sheets are slathered in a thick skin of poetry
Sending shivers up my spine and igniting my senses with her ghostly fingers
She is a lover and a shadow, nowhere to be seen when I wake
Sometimes, she is my psychosis
Suffocating and strong, I can do nothing but submit to her grasp
She seethes, like a snake constricting around me until my sight blurs to smoke
Slowly, she consumes me with sick reverence and searing obsession
She stifles me because she refuses to be restrained, yet I long for her kiss
Severing haggard breaths from my lips, leaving me stunned and aching
She is a succubus and a nightmare, haunting me
Sometimes, she is my saint
Stifling sobs against my shoulder, shaking me until my tears start to fall
She has so much to say, so many secrets to share and sweep me away with
Shadowing her eyes from the sun, she starts to speak, and I am helpless to her
She smiles against my wrists and whispers countless stories to me
Serene yet sad, she bottles her sighs and leaves them stored in my chest
She is a safe haven, but I know she only came to say good bye
Sometimes, she is a statue
Staring, lifeless, existing only to my senses
She doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe
Yet I seek her all the same
Sneaking in through my window and seducing me out of sleep
She keeps me up past sunrise, whispering sweet promises in my ear
Silencing me with her smoldering passion, stripping me until inspiration strikes
She makes me sing, until the sheets are slathered in a thick skin of poetry
Sending shivers up my spine and igniting my senses with her ghostly fingers
She is a lover and a shadow, nowhere to be seen when I wake
Sometimes, she is my psychosis
Suffocating and strong, I can do nothing but submit to her grasp
She seethes, like a snake constricting around me until my sight blurs to smoke
Slowly, she consumes me with sick reverence and searing obsession
She stifles me because she refuses to be restrained, yet I long for her kiss
Severing haggard breaths from my lips, leaving me stunned and aching
She is a succubus and a nightmare, haunting me
Sometimes, she is my saint
Stifling sobs against my shoulder, shaking me until my tears start to fall
She has so much to say, so many secrets to share and sweep me away with
Shadowing her eyes from the sun, she starts to speak, and I am helpless to her
She smiles against my wrists and whispers countless stories to me
Serene yet sad, she bottles her sighs and leaves them stored in my chest
She is a safe haven, but I know she only came to say good bye
Sometimes, she is a statue
Staring, lifeless, existing only to my senses
She doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe
Yet I seek her all the same
Literature
Green Ink
She writes with green ink
eternal scrawls upon the page.
She wrote with green ink,
because it was the color of his eyes,
and the pond in the park,
and the seats on the bus,
and the grass outside,
and rose stems.
She wrote with green ink
even when her boss yelled
and the teacher screamed
and nothing worked out.
Because green was her favorite
and it was his favorite as well
even when he was sick while
his skin was green.
He still loved the color green
when the dirt fell down
when he didn’t recover,
the grass that bloomed
was the most angelic jade.
And she still wrote in green ink
because it was the color of the grass,
and his favori
Literature
Therapists, I don't like their taste.
i.
in 7th grade
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.
she stole my rings
and left me hollow.
ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.
iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.
iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through
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
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I know it was intended as a joke, but I read a comment once that said "My favorite tragic love story is between an artist and their muse"
Didn't plan for this to turn into an exercise in alliterations though, oops!
A lot of times I don't post my writing/poetry until I come up with an illustration to go with it, but I think this is one of those pieces that stands by itself better.
Let me know what you guys think!
You can also find this on Tumblr
Didn't plan for this to turn into an exercise in alliterations though, oops!
A lot of times I don't post my writing/poetry until I come up with an illustration to go with it, but I think this is one of those pieces that stands by itself better.
Let me know what you guys think!
You can also find this on Tumblr
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Comments97
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Actually, there is a girl, who knows she's like this mythical creature to me. I think she's mocking me with this theme... to shook me up. (And I guess she kind of enjoys this role. )
Anyway, moving words man. Made me think... while I had to frickin act! Still, cool stuff.
Anyway, moving words man. Made me think... while I had to frickin act! Still, cool stuff.