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hello, city boy by julyshewolf hello, city boy :iconjulyshewolf:julyshewolf 2,354 343 Busy by meggierenee Busy :iconmeggierenee:meggierenee 3 3
Literature
Just Far Enough
just far enough away
to where
the space between us lingers
too far above to feel
the rain misting
leaving my body moist
maybe just close enough
for now
though I can not touch you
I am not afraid
:iconprettyflour:prettyflour
:iconprettyflour:prettyflour 27 6
old torso by dofaust old torso :icondofaust:dofaust 3 11
Literature
Say Hello.
One day you will die too, and I know it's
starting to scare you, when you phone me
to tell me which bank your money is in,
when I saw those rare expressions on your
face when you walked into that hospital room
for the last time and you grimaced at that
empty bed.  You married a woman once, God
knows why.  She was dangerously beautiful
and you could never get inside her head.
You hit her and one day her amorous presence
became fragmented and dead.  I hope it was
worth it, getting mad at whatever sweet Buddhist
things she could have said.  I remember the police
at our house on too many nights.  I remember the men
and women you both brought into your beds, so soon
after we left.
One day you will die too.  Like your sweet mother
and father before you.  And I swear that I
will be by your side.  I will hold your hands
while we cry.  I will start to die, knowing
everything is about to change again, knowi
:iconSelf-Intoxication:Self-Intoxication
:iconself-intoxication:Self-Intoxication 12 1
Literature
Memoria
Memories are harder to recall of you, Nana.
We never had much time before memories
were all you knew, and the present
was just a tragedy, a fearful thing.
We ran out faster than the yarn you knitted;
all those colorful skeins, re-spun into balls,
knitting needles protruding like antennas,
eventually unable to recall a clear picture.
But if I think long enough...
I can remember when you lived with us,
your room the one I later moved into.
But I don't remember much,
except your red chair,
and that time you called my dad a bastard
as he walked by. I still smile about that.
I must get my spunk from you.
I can remember spending weekends at your apartment,
watching Wheel of Fortune, watching you knit
or crochet, and "finger knitting" alongside of you.
And I eagerly ate liver and onions when you cooked it for me,
something I learned not to like as soon as you no longer made it.
And of course, we played poker...for pennies.
I can remember racing you down the hallway,
making sure I always reach
:iconBeyondJen:BeyondJen
:iconbeyondjen:BeyondJen 10 29
politics by spoems politics :iconspoems:spoems 14 28
Literature
A Rose by Any Other Name
In a white hospital bed, pale as the lifeless bones of a decaying skeleton, with my flesh exposed through the backless dress of my hospital gown, I listen to nurses discuss my mental health. I can taste the quiet tap of a pen on paper and their tiny smiles of contempt.
Shame comes in waves. It’s not like a scalpel or the cold touch of a surgeon’s hand. They never tell you that it can eat away at your insides like a virus. (That it eats you alive). Shame is not a symptom of the mentally ill. It’s just a side effect.
In my creased hospital dress, I wish for death. The sweetest sleep away from detached, gloved hands and dissociative expressions. The never-ending hostile questions and the silent blame and accusations lying unspoken on dry lips.
“You did this. You’re not sick. You’re just a twisted, manipulative lunatic.”
Under medication and the slow Novocain drip of sedation, I wish for another disease. I want a tumor in my head – something t
:iconRosary0fSighs:Rosary0fSighs
:iconrosary0fsighs:Rosary0fSighs 801 264
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Literature
Osteoporosis
I was a hopeless wretch, always had been.
I lay in bed, naked skin standing out unnaturally. Milk in blood. My fingers traced the ridges of my spine just to make sure the mountain range of bones was still there. To assure myself I had not become an invertebrate. I did these checks like normal women check how their bangs fall.
Richard was in the shower. I could hear the water on his spine, the sound of a storm against an aluminum roof. I hated all the sounds his existence created. I hated them like a child hates the darkness. Under the skin of hate there was an entire organism of fear, paralyzing terror.
So I checked my bones regularly, gripping my wrists, raking my ribs, plucking at the loose skin on my fingers. Not that I had to touch them. Their outlines were perfectly recognizable. Like furniture under thin and dusty sheets.
I was always cold, but it was winter. A dry winter where the sun always shone and I could see the dead and withered grass in our yard. I doubted the existence o
:iconLustingforLove:LustingforLove
:iconlustingforlove:LustingforLove 6 4
Literature
barefoot pagan
i am a pagan, barefoot,
in a world of drive-thru deities.
i see distinctions as moot
while they continue with their sophistries.
in a world of drive-thru deities.
and idols on the telly
while they continue with their sophistries.
i'm laughing from the belly
and idols on the telly
extolling separations
i'm laughing from the belly
while i'm mourning congregations
extolling separations
the preacher in his pulpit
while i'm mourning congregations
i wonder who's the culprit
the preacher in his pulpit
pointing fingers, laying blame
i wonder who's the culprit
echoed liturgies of shame
pointing fingers, laying blame
but to whom, it is not certain
echoed liturgies of shame
hiding behind the curtain
to whom it is not certain
i see distinctions as moot
hiding behind a curtain
i am a pagan, barefoot
:iconhaijinik:haijinik
:iconhaijinik:haijinik 19 23

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  • Listening to: Ane Brun
  • Eating: cigarettes

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Kate
Artist | Professional | Literature
United States
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:iconvespera:
vespera Featured By Owner Jun 28, 2018  Professional Writer
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:iconstormbringer23:
StormBringer23 Featured By Owner Mar 2, 2015
Happy birthday Ms Kate.
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:icontonepainter:
tonepainter Featured By Owner Mar 2, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday, Kate! I hope you have a truly wonderful day :heart:
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