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I bookmarked the pages, I folded them fast.
I tore out blank sheets of paper, I flattened them neat.
I choreographed my pen.
Drastic.

definite as every absolute,
words. these words, these snapshots of what you said,
thin air, vapors from the books.
they perplex. they fade.
we are none.

the pen stood still after words.

There is no point in affirmation of states,
Books contain more than just blacks and whites,
Ink bleeds,
And the stains pass through pages.

restraint, I wonder?

confident scratches over the fibers.
truth I reckon, limited to three.
the rest, vanished in this mist of clarity.
I've never written a proper polished poem before.
Again, I've never attended a proper lit class before, so curses to me. I just had a damn awesome lit teacher who taught me perhaps everything but lit.


Hope people who read this don't go all question marks on me.
:iconsplinter-cell37:
Splinter-Cell37 Featured By Owner Dec 13, 2009  Hobbyist Filmographer
I'm going to comment constructively for once.

The only issue with this was confusion which arose at the line "limited to three". It seems inexplicable, locked, something I can't imagine - which contrasts to the rest. Otherwise, a lovely experiment in structure and form and a very well crafted demonstration of written expression of thought. I much enjoy reading this type of poetry, it feels much stronger than any poem limited to perceived structure. Fantastic job, and please do keep it up!

Oh, and talking normally again, 'KING ORSUM MAN
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