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Literature Text
there is poetry in your bones;
written on the underside of
your femurs,
and all up and down
your frail little carpals.
limericks live on your
humerus,
barely visible through
your see-through skin.
there is poetry in the
graceful curve of your
eyelashes against those
rosy cheeks;
mermaids would kill
to have lips
as enticing as yours.
sonnets should be written
about the seduction of
your smile.
there is poetry in way you breathe-
how you talk and how you eat,
how you move and softly sleep.
there is poetry in the beat of your heart,
the blush in your eyes,
the quiver in your lip.
you are poetry.
written on the underside of
your femurs,
and all up and down
your frail little carpals.
limericks live on your
humerus,
barely visible through
your see-through skin.
there is poetry in the
graceful curve of your
eyelashes against those
rosy cheeks;
mermaids would kill
to have lips
as enticing as yours.
sonnets should be written
about the seduction of
your smile.
there is poetry in way you breathe-
how you talk and how you eat,
how you move and softly sleep.
there is poetry in the beat of your heart,
the blush in your eyes,
the quiver in your lip.
you are poetry.
Literature
i was the infidel
you told me you wanted to live forever.
i said there is no life without death:
there is simply being.
-
you taught me about airplanes and liveliness and
how to jump out a window without twisting my ankles.
sometimes you would tell me about persia
or how a hot air balloon stays aloft,
but that was when you had fire to keep you floating.
-
you lent me a book last fall.
i put it in my room and
swore i'd read it later, but
when i went back to look for it i realized
i had lost it, before i even
cracked the cover.
i told you and you weren't angry; you just smiled
and said that all things lost are eventually found.
-
last w
Literature
shimmer from afar
i think what you were really in love with was the idea of me.
but that's okay. i was never much more than a scattered mess of ideas anyway.
people wonder how it is that i can turn pain into such wonderful things (words; jokes; smiles; love). the answer is there was a time when i didn't have all that many options. it was pain or death, and either way it had to be as good as i could make it.
death didn't work because the balcony fence was too high. or because i was too short. probably because i was too short. it must have been my fault.
so i had to go for pain, and i had to learn to make it beautiful.
i always wanted to escape.
that's wh
Literature
reality?
You want me to save
The person you all see;
I'm dying to save
The girl I'll never be.
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and i will spend all of my life
trying to describe
the many ways
you are.
Comments26
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This is an excellent poem.
Great job!
Marc