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Literature Text
I rip pages
out of poetry books,
the titles of
Shakespeare
and Plath
and Dickinson
littering the floor
like trash,
and I wonder
if we don't all
wind up stepping stones
in the end.
out of poetry books,
the titles of
Shakespeare
and Plath
and Dickinson
littering the floor
like trash,
and I wonder
if we don't all
wind up stepping stones
in the end.
Literature
A Walk with Butterflies
September is violent.
It keeps its mild weather
beneath bled clouds and branches,
some splitting pears on sidewalk
sweet like dumpster water,
a brash disillusionment
turned gold
then red then brown:
sixteen pinpricks of ooze
sliding off rubber.
I am violent: compressing image
into seeds and imagining laws
of creation, squeaking
behind the name
of Jesus,
or maybe it was a fly
birthed from
rot,
but he is violent: and September
leaves to come again
with a color,
one I can't fathom.
Literature
astronomers
when we're together
dusk is containable; the moon in my palms
and the stars on your ceiling.
we lull the city to sleep
with our theories of life; my tongue curling
into speech.
do you remember,
when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?
that night,
you balanced a cigarette off your lips,
and I watched the vermillion flame burn life
as a newborn sun;
stars forming,
planets moulding and constellations snaked
above our eyes.
i imagined
what it would be like to be curled
inside the embers creator and destroyer
of worlds,
so close to your lips.
Literature
Exhaustion
Exhaustion
I wake, swollen with noon heat.
Half dressed, I stumble,
elbows and toes catching
on the clawed feet of chairs,
the blunt holes of open cupboards.
I sometimes forget my name.
In the kitchen, I pepper the rice
instead of salt. Black flecks surface
in the boiling water,
sea turtles migrating.
If I knew where you went,
I would follow. But all you left behind
was an old sweater, an empty notebook,
an exhaustion,
complete and infinite
as the space around a closed fist.
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Edited 12/3/12.
September 2012
September 2012
© 2012 - 2024 betwixtthepages
Comments46
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I love this poem. If you can draw at all, I definitely reccommend trying your hand at illustrating this, because it could turn out to be quite powerful.
I like how you took so few lines to target a very definitive point. As a fellow poet I understand how one could feel so great and write so incredibly, only to be overlooked by others who take what we have and learn to do better.
It is most important that we all remember that not matter how old, forgotten, or uncoordinated the lyrics of a piece may be, no poetry is trash.