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Literature Text
You are a stage whisper; you're meant to be heard.
You salt my eyes and swallow my vision - you are an ocean - and I don't mind opening up to see you (it's only a little pain).
You are stained glass; you tint a world of geometrics in messy organics - as if it needed to be harder to look at.
And I wonder if it's your ocean-ness or your whispery-ness or the way you spread butter on toast that makes my knees not weak but strong.
You are the subtext of outside perception; too hard to see unless one gets closer -
And god, do I wish I were closer than this.
You salt my eyes and swallow my vision - you are an ocean - and I don't mind opening up to see you (it's only a little pain).
You are stained glass; you tint a world of geometrics in messy organics - as if it needed to be harder to look at.
And I wonder if it's your ocean-ness or your whispery-ness or the way you spread butter on toast that makes my knees not weak but strong.
You are the subtext of outside perception; too hard to see unless one gets closer -
And god, do I wish I were closer than this.
Literature
how to become a writer.
don't.
stay away from
pencils and pens.
don't look
at keyboards
or at blank pages
of notebook paper.
don't submit
to the emerald sigh of
vellichor,
the shredded sheets
of everything,
everything you've worked
your whole life to run away from.
don't live in the moment.
let love and fear float by,
just a skimming whisper,
because a whisper
is better than nothing.
a whisper is better
than the brittle falling-apart
of kairosclerosis.
suffer from catoptric tristesse,
but don't think about it
(for too long, anyways.)
look at the mirror
but never look yourself
in the eye,
because who knows what you've become?
don't write what you're feeling.
y
Literature
how to become a writer
have parents that separate
when you’re in high school;
a father filled with unused anger
and a mother too busy to care.
pretend it doesn’t hurt.
let your friends treat you
like dirt;
after all,
everything is your fault.
listen to their problems with a fake smile
all the while crying out because
everything hurts and no one can see.
press a knife to your skin,
but be too cowardly to
draw your own blood.
fall in love with people
who could never notice you,
because you’re
just. not. good.
enough.
chew on the multicolored
strands of your hair.
(you can’t stop runni
Literature
Writer's block.
A thirteen-year-old poet,
Whispers frolicking among her tongue
As a ballet dancer across a stage.
What to write, oh, what to write…
Her fingers wrapped around a pencil,
Gently tickling the page
With a language between herself
And her imagination.
Thoughts race through her mind,
One,
Two,
Three,
Quick!
Three,
Two,
One,
Gone.
Frozen hands on a silver clock
Turning moments into
D r e a d f u l h o u r s .
What to write, oh, what to write…
Crickets stop their chirping,
Birds start to sing.
Five thirty in the morning,
And not a single word on paper.
What to write, oh, what to write…
She begins to scribble across
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V-day, in which V stands for Vicariously living through others. I compose these in order to stay sane.
© 2015 - 2024 OddSmirk
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Well I'm glad for you sharing your snippets of sanity saving devices