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Literature Text
I am wrought iron-
Half-burnt, and yet lovingly twirled
Into the fragile caverns and recesses
Of this vast and verdant mindscape;
Fae dance within the golden groves,
Flitting beneath the surface of my
Tender, paper-flesh skin-
You are the bone-deep venom,
And I, the willing drinker;
Your silent death creeping
Behind cracked mirrors and shattered masks
Hiding these frail insomniac eyes of mine.
I am the barely forgotten words,
The ink drops on parchment,
The things you wanted to say, but never did-
The imprint of your faint breath and
All these stolen moonlight images
Frozen ice, swirling in my boiling blood.
And death awaits, behind this frosty glass,
Strangled by poison ivy and the nettle groves-
But he doesn't understand;
I'm here, and he doesn't need to seek
That which has found him already
And welcomes him with these featherweight
And flimsy lavender-soaked arms.
It smells of home,
And tears from lonely summer nights
When the only ones there for her
Were the silent moon and faraway stars.
Half-burnt, and yet lovingly twirled
Into the fragile caverns and recesses
Of this vast and verdant mindscape;
Fae dance within the golden groves,
Flitting beneath the surface of my
Tender, paper-flesh skin-
You are the bone-deep venom,
And I, the willing drinker;
Your silent death creeping
Behind cracked mirrors and shattered masks
Hiding these frail insomniac eyes of mine.
I am the barely forgotten words,
The ink drops on parchment,
The things you wanted to say, but never did-
The imprint of your faint breath and
All these stolen moonlight images
Frozen ice, swirling in my boiling blood.
And death awaits, behind this frosty glass,
Strangled by poison ivy and the nettle groves-
But he doesn't understand;
I'm here, and he doesn't need to seek
That which has found him already
And welcomes him with these featherweight
And flimsy lavender-soaked arms.
It smells of home,
And tears from lonely summer nights
When the only ones there for her
Were the silent moon and faraway stars.
Little Black Room
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Literature
280
pen across paper
the rhythmic tapping of keyboard running
my being is letters
yet i cannot make words
Literature
what about him?
he cries, but no-one hears,
they shelter themselves from his pain,
they think he's a nuisance,
they ignore his cries,
He screams, but no one hears,
but they still feel his cold breath as it hits them,
they don't care, they won't embrace him,
what if i were to cry?
what if i screamed?
they would care for me,
maybe only from pity,
but that would be better than nothing,
he has nothing,
no-one to care for him,
no-one to even pity him,
no-one.
his name?
The sky
Literature
Hauntings:
i. a fair wraith of fatality
even from here
i can hear the crunch of your brittle
ribcage as your bones sunder.
they look at you like you're a moonflower,
with their small green eyes and
low-chattering fingers.
they want to know
the things that are wrong with you:
poetry on discoloured skin,
burning cigarettes,
your twisted black nights,
fear of the sun,
mind's intrusion of flicking tongues and
pressed flesh and
fusing vitals-
and how you still haunt:
silhouette teetering on the blurred edges of our memories,
phoenix eyes behind ember hair,
just a trivial skyward curve of your lips.
yet has no one noticed: you're not breathing?
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Because I am the girl who sits in the corner with a notepad, and does not speak.
©Jessica Xia. Please don't use it without my permission.
©Jessica Xia. Please don't use it without my permission.
© 2013 - 2024 smallsincerities
Comments17
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The last stanza of this work was able to tell millions in all honesty. One of the best I've ever read in ages.
This work's haunting portrayal (in my opinion) about fragility, grief, and painful realization of loneliness... is evocative. Though, having said that, it would've been nice to make it a little more... impromptu...
When I say impromptu I only mean that you should use three html codes: strikethrough, italics, and font face. Pick a font face that is as close to your writing as possible; strikethrough some of these lines... to indicate the sheer volume of your depth when you wrote them; and italics because... in my opinion... it would simply show a levity of the portrait that you have presented.
All in all, a work which requires no grammatical corrections. All it requires, is love, and admiration. Well done.
This work's haunting portrayal (in my opinion) about fragility, grief, and painful realization of loneliness... is evocative. Though, having said that, it would've been nice to make it a little more... impromptu...
When I say impromptu I only mean that you should use three html codes: strikethrough, italics, and font face. Pick a font face that is as close to your writing as possible; strikethrough some of these lines... to indicate the sheer volume of your depth when you wrote them; and italics because... in my opinion... it would simply show a levity of the portrait that you have presented.
All in all, a work which requires no grammatical corrections. All it requires, is love, and admiration. Well done.