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Literature Text
The brambles are growing too thick
Inside my favorite wood
The air is growing too sick
For my song to do any good
So I will pack my belongings
And keep all the friends that I've made
And catch a refreshing whirlwind
To some more elegant glade.
Inside my favorite wood
The air is growing too sick
For my song to do any good
So I will pack my belongings
And keep all the friends that I've made
And catch a refreshing whirlwind
To some more elegant glade.
Literature
Shaken, Not Stirred
Open up the doors,
let the Siamese cat out—
let me loose
to scatter petals
Power stems from elsewhere;
clocks tick long enough
to build insulated
basements
in locked down houses
We dream the hours
in silent Cantonese,
sharp tined,
quiet,
asking only
for a little:
a saucer for every a teacup,
a spoon for every fork
Literature
This Terrifying Woman
snatches fish from the bottom of the sea:
down the hatch without a sound, son of cod, kill the clown,
peanut butter and jelly fish, she swallows them tip to tail.
She spouts like a whale, she hisses and steams,
sputters like water on a hot wood stove,
mutters and swears at the gods and men
who never say quite what they mean.
Rats rummage through her belly, I'm a closet, she thinks, an old bag;
she slaps at their scrabble and chew. They don't scare easy;
she knows they're getting closer to the edges of her soul.
You never know what's next.
What's next are night-stretched shadows on a crimson lawn.
With bones like blubber, so tired of the
Literature
chill 2.0
friday night vibes are
a dialogue
between streetlamp
and sidewalk.
i am the strobe and
i spin again,
bullet-mouthed,
and so you tell me
to bite down.
you,
you reason,
are a good enough explanation,
expectations entrenched
insinuations undressed
on earth that feels too much like paper.
you,
you reason,
are good enough for a lulling conversation,
consolations congregating
up there for your consideration
up there with your condescension
condescension, condescension—
this is your slipping confession?
no.
this is the slip into heavy summer
when bitter winds still bite you
softer than i ever could.
this is the saturdays and sundays
eating i
Day 30. Another year complete. But I like at least five of my pieces, which is a good start!This poem is rather explicitly revealing that I do not intend to be around for much longer.
This place was my genesis as a poet. I am leaving, not on the grounds of fading from poetic pursuits, nor even in dread of "Eclipse" (although that doesn't help, it seems far more geared to digital art, as this site has ever been). I am taking humble leave in order to develop my skill, seek more professional outlets, feedback, and one day self-publish.
Although I cannot say for certain, I think this means closing my gallery for good. I don't believe in loose threads. I will be in touch with as many individuals as I can via notes and journals, and setting up new platforms to keep in contact.
I love you all dearly.
© 2020 - 2024 Emily-Byrd
Comments8
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no. you stole this