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Literature Text
it's hard to keep you off my mind
when all the poems i write and revise
have you caulked between the lines;
you were such a beautiful thing,
did you know that?
beautiful and broken and a heartache,
but that's okay because sad things can be lived through vicariously,
so you make even prettier poetry.
i could write about all the stars in your eyes
or the colors bleeding past the lines of
chemically-infused skylines
or copper-toned railroads paving our minds and
wispy headlights on asphalt but
never mind.
because none of it could ever be as wondrous as you
(if only you could've seen that,
or no -
if only i could've been the one to make you believe)
when all the poems i write and revise
have you caulked between the lines;
you were such a beautiful thing,
did you know that?
beautiful and broken and a heartache,
but that's okay because sad things can be lived through vicariously,
so you make even prettier poetry.
i could write about all the stars in your eyes
or the colors bleeding past the lines of
chemically-infused skylines
or copper-toned railroads paving our minds and
wispy headlights on asphalt but
never mind.
because none of it could ever be as wondrous as you
(if only you could've seen that,
or no -
if only i could've been the one to make you believe)
Literature
Subside
Listen, there is snow
in the mountains and
rain in the valleys.
You can hear it from here,
everything rolling over
into sleep.
It all
wets down.
I pace the room
like an atom
in an atom bomb
but really, it's all gone
a little mossy
the way a gun looks
in the forest
one hundred years after.
Literature
if you have ghosts (you have everything)
my hands were blue and so was i
and i had everything:
a christmas tree
a guitar tuned by humidity
a dark library underneath my pillow
and a voice whose words jerk, jut
and stab quietly into one another
so i may never understand;
it was two AM, dawn of a decade
and here a ghost has me motionless in 1933.
--
i never met my grandfather till today--
he dies in 1975
and in 2020 he is born
at the bottom of a drawer in the kitchen,
his coffin and crib:
he is swaddled in moth-eaten dishtowels by a nameless undertaker
(or perhaps an autophagic author himself);
his crib and coffin:
he is buried a lifetime
(deaf to my cacophonous lifetime et ceter
Literature
When I'm Gone
A field this morning glows
While beneath the cold river flows
Church bell ringing from across town
While the sun is ready to follow me down
Hold on by yourself
Last a little while
Love this world
With a quiet smile
It’s my time to go
Grownup eyes in the face of a child
Shining out a fever bright candle
Lighting up the sky free and wild
It was nothing I could handle
Hold me in your heart
Hold on by yourself
Last a little while
Love this world
With a quiet smile
It’s my time to go
Bare branches out here scrape the sky
I know there’s no reason to cry
These times come and go
I’ll be down below
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Comments26
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Very nice, would you like to get your work published?