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January 21, 2014
Strawberries in the Winter by WordWeight
Featured by inknalcohol
Suggested by Annuski
Literature Text
My momma once said that it was impossible-
That trying to grow strawberries
In a room that murdered light
Was like telling a girl to live without love
Or demanding a fish to breathe midair.
Still, a week later
A pot of dirt found its home
On a desk in that room,
Daring to flirt with the color green.
Everyday a lamp was hit,
Life support was turned on,
And Thoreau was born to fight.
I told myself,
No more would the fat guy need surgery
Just to blend into an ocean of hypocrites
That would tide in and out of his “in security”.
No more would the nerd girl
Need tights that cut her once living legs
Because the boy she’s been watching
Only likes ladies that cost him a dollar,
Possibly fifty cents more
For something he can tell his friends.
No more would the emo boy
Take out wet stained knives
Because people don’t understand that once
A loved one has their face smashed
-Broken against a pavement-
It’s a little bit harder to feel your heart
And all you want is a sign that it’s working.
Because,
If I could do something, so measly “impossible”,
Maybe someone in this world could do the same-
They’d lift up the world to find the lost cat
Just before its owner throws the world down.
They’d give a bit of their lives
To the sound of cry
Before it takes the road to silence.
They’d know what to do with a frown
Rather than spin a whole person
And say “look, there’s a grin”
While they're busy trying to make sense
Of their new point of view.
Another week passed
Within that black room.
Each stalk is one inch tall.
That trying to grow strawberries
In a room that murdered light
Was like telling a girl to live without love
Or demanding a fish to breathe midair.
Still, a week later
A pot of dirt found its home
On a desk in that room,
Daring to flirt with the color green.
Everyday a lamp was hit,
Life support was turned on,
And Thoreau was born to fight.
I told myself,
No more would the fat guy need surgery
Just to blend into an ocean of hypocrites
That would tide in and out of his “in security”.
No more would the nerd girl
Need tights that cut her once living legs
Because the boy she’s been watching
Only likes ladies that cost him a dollar,
Possibly fifty cents more
For something he can tell his friends.
No more would the emo boy
Take out wet stained knives
Because people don’t understand that once
A loved one has their face smashed
-Broken against a pavement-
It’s a little bit harder to feel your heart
And all you want is a sign that it’s working.
Because,
If I could do something, so measly “impossible”,
Maybe someone in this world could do the same-
They’d lift up the world to find the lost cat
Just before its owner throws the world down.
They’d give a bit of their lives
To the sound of cry
Before it takes the road to silence.
They’d know what to do with a frown
Rather than spin a whole person
And say “look, there’s a grin”
While they're busy trying to make sense
Of their new point of view.
Another week passed
Within that black room.
Each stalk is one inch tall.
Literature
Anxieties of a Conflicted Introvert
I.
[i don’t want to
have to tell you i’m
sorry
again but
lately it’s been tough.
And i’m stricken with this feeling that
maybe i’m not good enough.]
run.
you see, somewhere out there
birds are looking for nests and birds
are finding them in the ribcages of souls but i
am tired of picking straw from my heart
and strings and hair that wrap around my fingers i’m—
[well sometimes i’m a little lonely
but i never wanted to tell you that]
escape.
--tired of seeing the ball i wind from
those leftover nests grow and grow—
[and i want more, want more,
Literature
Bo.
When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
-
6
-
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He
Literature
Disposophobia
Disposophobia
She had always kept everything. Ticket stubs, receipts, the torn-off edges of notebook paper. Any doodles or scribbled ideas, and any note afforded her by a friend were kept and saved. Not everything received the honor, but particular things from specific events did. She wanted to keep track of each and every thing she had ever done. She did so, on a corkboard encircling her room from floor to ceiling; each day had its spot, and one could trace her life along the wall with the zigzagging strings of yarn that connected each day.
She didn't often invite others into her room, for fear they might displace something, either by
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I got beaten up by a muse. She thought it would be funny to hit me this hard.
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Comments53
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Those descriptions!
This is a very well-deserved DD!
I love everything about it, from the start to the finish, to the very core of this piece. Every synonym for "beautiful" fits this perfectly!
This is a very well-deserved DD!
I love everything about it, from the start to the finish, to the very core of this piece. Every synonym for "beautiful" fits this perfectly!