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Literature Text
Blackness
It kills
a stain
you try to remove
Still it lingers
like the taste in your mouth
A scent that won't fade
A touch that burns
Even when you're alone
Why are you here?
When I am alone
Seeping into blackness
Chilled to the bone
still as death
a breathless whisper
Your touch, it kills
taints me
stains me
With your poison.
It kills
a stain
you try to remove
Still it lingers
like the taste in your mouth
A scent that won't fade
A touch that burns
Even when you're alone
Why are you here?
When I am alone
Seeping into blackness
Chilled to the bone
still as death
a breathless whisper
Your touch, it kills
taints me
stains me
With your poison.
Literature
Self-Destruction
I hate you so much
yet
I love you to death.
I want to be [as far away from you as possible,]
but I know I could -never live without you.-
I'm the only one who can truly
see through your mask and
I wish you would let others see,
but I know exactly why you don't want to.
And as crazy as it sounds,
I understand your masochistic ways.
When you have pain in your life,
you want it to {go away,}
but when it's not there,
you feel ...e.m.p.t.y...
I get it.
And I know how afraid you are
[of yourself]
and how afraid you are
of others.
I know you have trust issues and even though
I know the most about you,
I know you don't t
Literature
Is It Wrong?
Is it wrong
That I glance up at the clouds,
Feeling the wind through my hair,
And dream of a mystifying land
Where one can be accepted no matter what?
Is it wrong
That I choose to wear jeans down past my heels,
Baggy and ripped at the knees,
Unlike all the other boys that wear athletic
Shorts, so unscathed and clean?
Is it wrong
That I ask people about their troubles,
Sometimes doing all in my mortal power
To help them surpass the simple,
Even ones I have not defeated myself?
Is it wrong
That while the few friends I have
Dance around giddily and go to
The most extreme only to impress,
But I only hang back in silent content
Literature
Your Poetry Sucks.
Poetic verse does not sleep contently within your bones.
You are not made of Shakespearean sonnets.
Metaphors do not cling to your teeth like snowdrops,
and similes do not lurk like assassins behind those false psychic eyes.
Your veins bleed nothing but red.
And your whispers,
they will never leave galaxies
along the length of spines.
So, Dear Heart,
you can take your stars,
your full moon romances,
the many, desperate love letters,
the gag-worthy cliches-
and eat them.
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Protected under the Berne Convention. Do NOT reprint, reuse or redistribute.
You steal, I impale!
(c)2011 J Osterhaus
You steal, I impale!
(c)2011 J Osterhaus
© 2011 - 2024 retrolover
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