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Literature Text
Two-inch long extension cords
With universes between them.
And they are young,
But they've tapped age,
Scraped weariness,
Slid their tongues across antiquity
With an ease my heart –
And my eyes –
Have always envied.
They are
The reaped and the rare.
I varnish them in paint and metal,
My swans draped in tar,
So that they dance
In beautiful despair.
Yet
Between the stretches of scar tissue
And frequent scabs
Come notes of music,
Gestures of humility,
Actions of grace;
A rising concerto of self-preservation.
My motley crew.
My winsome folk.
I do believe you are the heroes
At the journey's end.
With universes between them.
And they are young,
But they've tapped age,
Scraped weariness,
Slid their tongues across antiquity
With an ease my heart –
And my eyes –
Have always envied.
They are
The reaped and the rare.
I varnish them in paint and metal,
My swans draped in tar,
So that they dance
In beautiful despair.
Yet
Between the stretches of scar tissue
And frequent scabs
Come notes of music,
Gestures of humility,
Actions of grace;
A rising concerto of self-preservation.
My motley crew.
My winsome folk.
I do believe you are the heroes
At the journey's end.
Literature
We Are Fingers
Covetous, we seek and grasp for pleasure.
We taste the world like the tongue,
and learn from experience.
Dexterous, we teach
with exercised skill.
Practice makes perfect;
and we are perfect tools,
extensions of a perfect machine.
Literature
Elemental
Your evil is elemental,
purely, solely detrimental.
and I relish the moments,
when essential wickedness births hate-
it's beauty I watch you create
sprouting maliciousness,
spewing it forth -
from the dirt of your malformed heart .
Your evil is elemental,
internally, eternally transcendental.
It flows-
menstruating from stagnant pools ,
like water in drowning lungs.
Crystalline death,
pure, clear, airless breath.
Your evil is elemental,
fervently, rousingly incremental.
It burns-
holes of loving hatred into my soul,
provoking infernos behind eyes that glow.
Stoking, stroking my fires-
because you already
Literature
Basinful
Basinful
I felt her fingers upon me,
stirring and braiding
down my back;
all her proclivities platted out.
Self-effacing and labial;
many a time now she's bent down
and bit at my ear,
those lips of hers aching to be blown aside.
And whilst she tangled me another brunet river
well into the eventide,
still I was awoken far too quickly;
unwithstood till she wills herself dreamt.
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Written for the same class in which I composed "I Am A Tree". I'm a very competitive person, honestly, but I will say that taking a poetry class with several amazingly talented students is a great motivator for improving upon your own work.
This assignment was to write about a body part. People like to write about hands. I feel like the fingers are the swords and the palm is the shield.
It sounds weird, I know.
This assignment was to write about a body part. People like to write about hands. I feel like the fingers are the swords and the palm is the shield.
It sounds weird, I know.
© 2011 - 2024 DottieOnTheMoon
Comments26
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another beauty! doesn't sound wierd at all - it sounds perfectly logical and lovely.