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Literature Text
Her breath doesn't
just rise and fall
To the beat box in her chest.
As she forms a tiny
rabbit hole between her
35 year old lips,
You can't hear the air
rush in or out,
Much like her life
At this point.
Her fingers aren't skeleton keys.
She will walk when she feels like it.
She's stronger than our love now.
We throw these phrases at the wall,
praying they'll stay around.
The white coats
Are traitors, lying
About chemicals and functions.
They couldn't be more wrong,
Right?
She picks up her eyelids
With one of her hands
because they're too heavy otherwise.
She says she sees
So much brown in our eyes
So many colors mixed well
From fractions of time
With her. She laughs
And lets go of her sight again.
It's good because
Blue starts to spill over.
just rise and fall
To the beat box in her chest.
As she forms a tiny
rabbit hole between her
35 year old lips,
You can't hear the air
rush in or out,
Much like her life
At this point.
Her fingers aren't skeleton keys.
She will walk when she feels like it.
She's stronger than our love now.
We throw these phrases at the wall,
praying they'll stay around.
The white coats
Are traitors, lying
About chemicals and functions.
They couldn't be more wrong,
Right?
She picks up her eyelids
With one of her hands
because they're too heavy otherwise.
She says she sees
So much brown in our eyes
So many colors mixed well
From fractions of time
With her. She laughs
And lets go of her sight again.
It's good because
Blue starts to spill over.
Literature
Fire warms during the Night
As the night creeps on the air turns chilly the fire becomes ablaze warming all near and far from winter's chilly gaze.
Literature
sometimes i am
sometimes i am a little bird singing to you from a wooden box fragile colorful and small sometimes i am a roaring river carving my way through the earth wild foaming and reckless. sometimes i am stained glass pieces of a shattered church window broken sharp and scattered. and sometimes i am only bones water and atoms and i do not know what to make of myself.
Literature
Life, the flicker of Men and Moths
Where gnarled November makes the
white smoke of the farm house
in the coal black sky
out of what calms
Consider:
the trees made silver white
the cornhusk-shreds
a stooped man turning out the lights
the stars glittered on the snow and nothing answered
the silence magnifies...
it was Autumn by the time I got around;
of all the things I ought to know
that I was mad
shuffling for salvation
what am I now that I was then?
Seeking their peace
like a master key
without noticing me there
beside the clock's loneliness
Is nothing lovelier to look at:
snow falls
torch-like with the smoking blueness
shining in the empty room
I'll say
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We at %Word-Smiths would like to inform you that this piece has been selected as one of our Outstanding Works for the month of November. Keep up the good work!