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Literature Text
I tried to write about you.
How you make me feel so....
Well,
That's the thing,
Isn't it?
I don't know.
I hate you,
and I care about you so much.
I feel like you deserve absolutely nothing,
and yet everything in the world.
I want to punch you,
and hug you,
and push you only to hold your hand.
But I can't.
So that's all there is.
I'm going to try and end this as simply,
and as innocently
As it began.
I tried to write about you.
How you make me feel so....
Well,
That's the thing,
Isn't it?
I don't know.
I hate you,
and I care about you so much.
I feel like you deserve absolutely nothing,
and yet everything in the world.
I want to punch you,
and hug you,
and push you only to hold your hand.
But I can't.
So that's all there is.
I'm going to try and end this as simply,
and as innocently
As it began.
I tried to write about you.
Literature
poet, breathe now.
you
are
the
rain
fall
i anticipate to moisten my
arid arroyo. you re fresh me and i
confess oh, ho
Literature
breathing is easy but I'm terrible at it
april suns always left streaks of
yellow on your driveway
before they sank.
you laughed at how
the flowers coughed on me
along the bilirubin pavements
on the way to your house
I confused all the streetlights
for sunsets and drowned in
halogen tidepools in those evenings
when the sidewalks ended but
my thoughts of you wouldn’t
maybe love is the sum
of all the excuses we make for it,
or I’m just too tired
to pull myself to the surface
you roll the blades of grass
through your grips, dusting
your fingerprints with haptens
and what-ifs.
I’d like to blame you for every
wheeze and rale but goddamnit
I just can’t
Literature
Sundiver
i.
When I was six a phoenix
tried to drown me.
Underwater I grabbed for fire.
Like Icarus, I was reaching
towards the sun.
I hope he still has
bald spots. I hope he still
cradles searing scars.
He was death,
I was the bird.
ii.
My uncle knows plastic-
wrapped soaps as well
as he knows fine wines.
If he drinks enough,
he thinks it’s love-
carved names rubbing
the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days
sweating, ship black against
sea. Like it had been peeled
from amber tongues.
iii.
On my fifteenth birthday, the boy
with stars on his fists and Saturn’s
rings in his eyes told me I was pretty.
It was the first time
anyone had
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So, this came out 10,000% better than I had expected, because I combined two things I'd been trying to do. I wanted to write about something specific and I did and I also accomplished a mimicry of the poem "I Loved My Friend", which I think is fantastic in its simplicity. You should look it up.
© 2013 - 2024 Fyres-Descent
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This is so relatable oh my god