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Literature Text
I'm swinging on loneliness like a child,
through trees tied up with violin strings
where the tips of buildings feed the horizon
and I've closed my eyes, so as
not to see
your heart that I'm pulling
down
through trees tied up with violin strings
where the tips of buildings feed the horizon
and I've closed my eyes, so as
not to see
your heart that I'm pulling
down
Literature
Harvest Moon
You remind me of the harvest moon
tugging the shore from beneath my feet, of
rowing out to sea in winter with empty nets
till spring, of catching every breath
in crystals on the same forgotten docks,
Where gravity knots my tendons into rope,
my teeth into chalk and ash, and my eyes
into searchlights scanning the horizon
for the first ship that leads to you.
Literature
Questions I Never Asked My Grandfather
My grandfather sits in a wheelchair by the window in the old people's home with his chin leaned into his chest, mumbling incessantly and unintelligibly to himself and drooling a little from the right corner of his mouth. Mom can't come here anymore. She just breaks down at the sight of him so I sometimes come by myself and sit with him in silence for a while.
It's a sad end to a long and hard life, and I morbidly think to myself that if a political party stepped forth now with the legalization of euthanasia on its agenda, I'd vote for it. After two strokes and a hemorrhage, topped with severe senile dementia, what is the point of letting peo
Literature
Loss
It is more than death: a loved one
vanishes into a gathering of ashes,
and still they are not immortalized
by that lump in the throat, that sense
of wrong, that homesickness, that love-
sickness--the unnameable, named. Baudelaire,
I am an unhealthy man now--
this is past forgetting, past frailty.
Age has whitened the crass lines
of my hair; apathy has sewn through
my thinning lips, has stilled each finger
from touching keys, or ink to paper.
Although I've shown the eye of each grape,
how they watch from a neighbor's unkept yard--
I care no longer about the sweetness
of their juice, or the miracle of finding
sense and hope in l
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totally inspired by Augustana's amazing music. I can't get enough of music, I think.
a short one this time.
hmm. what do you think of my titles?
a short one this time.
hmm. what do you think of my titles?
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Comments8
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oh, lol. I got the idea you were feeling lonely and playing something careless and depressing on the violin that brought everyone down b/c they knew you would be playing better if you were in a good mood. I have an imagination sometimes. anyhow, love the way you write!