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Literature Text
i was ten.
i remember seeing the colours
bouncing off the rainbow
and capturing the goldfishes
with my nets.
i told her i wanted to be a movie director
and she told me to keep dreaming
so i did.
i saw the world in cinematic stills
simple black and white
and life was easy then
when i was ten
and i remember standing knee deep
in stale water
capturing the fishes with my net
so they'd be as trapped as me.
i remember seeing the colours
bouncing off the rainbow
and capturing the goldfishes
with my nets.
i told her i wanted to be a movie director
and she told me to keep dreaming
so i did.
i saw the world in cinematic stills
simple black and white
and life was easy then
when i was ten
and i remember standing knee deep
in stale water
capturing the fishes with my net
so they'd be as trapped as me.
Literature
Lies
Do you lie in your sleep?
When you exhale, do the lies just tumble out?
Does a lie always inhabit the tip of your tongue?
Ready to run free at a moment’s notice?
Because it seems all I hear from you lately
Are lies
Lie after lie
Do you even know you’re telling them?
Or do you mean what you say in the moment and later contemplate on your words and decide otherwise?
Do you care that you hurt me?
With every word cutting deeper into the tough skin I thought I had formed
But then you come with your charm and your knife
And you cut
And cut
I don’t even notice the bleeding, lost in your eyes
Until you’re gone
Then I notice
Literature
Rhapsodic
I’ve lost my superpower –
of wordplay
It’s abandoned me and left me choking on vacant letters,
Stealing my brand of “wordsmith”
And
Labeling me simply as a lack-luster charlatan.
I’m vomiting synonyms
And
I’m tripping on definitions
In ways that I never have stumbled before.
This chasm –
This deep, empty, aching grave in my soul
Is screaming and pleading and gasping and trembling
To reconstitute this dried up talent
In the light of my ever-present denial of tragedy.
Once a zealot,
Always an addict;
You see, I yearn
to do nothing more than to load a syringe with ripe syllables,
Literature
Grow again
Everything was grey. The sand, the hills, the sky. There was no life here. Or so it seemed. Because in between the dust-colored lifeless cacti, smoke was billowing from a small, concrete house. But smoke had to come from fire. And fire isn't colorless.
Fire can't be colorless. Moreover, to make fire you'd need wood or another flammable material, and there was none to be found outside the City.
The door of the house opened and a woman walked out. She was tall, with long ash-blonde hair held back in a ponytail, and she wore a denim overall and grey boots. Whether they were actually grey or if it was the dust that had made them so, was unclear
.
© 2012 - 2024 rebel-brat
Comments9
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Your ideas and your words are so fresh. I know these little talks.