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Literature Text
i don’t remember the first breath of air
these lungs took in. i can’t recall
the way it burned through my body, leaving a
trail of embers and lightning and ozone and
life. i imagine i cried.
but since then i have learned that sometimes
to begin to exist you have to burn all the old out of you.
let me tell you, i have never hated you more than i did today.
and i have never understood you more either:
you are not a boy who is running from something
he finds he doesn’t believe in anymore.
you are a boy who is turning into a man much faster
than he ever imagined, who knows he has to leave
but doesn’t know how to do it fast enough
for the pain to be minimized.
don’t go slow. don’t be afraid anymore, don’t be afraid at all.
don’t be sad, either. smile again, maybe. a lot. build
yourself a new smile no one has ever seen before,
out of all the stupid shit that has ever made you cry.
don’t lose your honesty or your faith or the selfish
things you’ve learned to take for yourself.
burn. build yourself a funeral pyre, light it and cast this life behind
you—you have always been more than what
you have cut yourself down to. so burn. then bloom. you wanted this;
you deserve this too. you deserve whatever it is
you find yourself running towards and i hope it’s good.
i hope it’s the very best.
i understand you and i understand you and i swear
i am trying to understand that one day you will put the key in the ignition
and gun it away from here and you will never have
to turn back. you may want to for a bit, but trust me,
i have known you longer than i have not known you and
i know that you never will need to.
but years from now when you have learned
all you deem necessary, when you have triumphed
where you once failed, when your feet itch with
the need to run again and your fingers grasp
for something they can never truly hold, i want you to
open your lungs and breathe in and remind yourself to remember
that this is how it feels to burn for the very first time
and i hope you cry, too.
these lungs took in. i can’t recall
the way it burned through my body, leaving a
trail of embers and lightning and ozone and
life. i imagine i cried.
but since then i have learned that sometimes
to begin to exist you have to burn all the old out of you.
let me tell you, i have never hated you more than i did today.
and i have never understood you more either:
you are not a boy who is running from something
he finds he doesn’t believe in anymore.
you are a boy who is turning into a man much faster
than he ever imagined, who knows he has to leave
but doesn’t know how to do it fast enough
for the pain to be minimized.
don’t go slow. don’t be afraid anymore, don’t be afraid at all.
don’t be sad, either. smile again, maybe. a lot. build
yourself a new smile no one has ever seen before,
out of all the stupid shit that has ever made you cry.
don’t lose your honesty or your faith or the selfish
things you’ve learned to take for yourself.
burn. build yourself a funeral pyre, light it and cast this life behind
you—you have always been more than what
you have cut yourself down to. so burn. then bloom. you wanted this;
you deserve this too. you deserve whatever it is
you find yourself running towards and i hope it’s good.
i hope it’s the very best.
i understand you and i understand you and i swear
i am trying to understand that one day you will put the key in the ignition
and gun it away from here and you will never have
to turn back. you may want to for a bit, but trust me,
i have known you longer than i have not known you and
i know that you never will need to.
but years from now when you have learned
all you deem necessary, when you have triumphed
where you once failed, when your feet itch with
the need to run again and your fingers grasp
for something they can never truly hold, i want you to
open your lungs and breathe in and remind yourself to remember
that this is how it feels to burn for the very first time
and i hope you cry, too.
Literature
softened
the sky whispers,
ribbons of crystalline quiet,
same shade as the angel dust
you shivered every time we were
alone.
in the darkness, we were
sorry birds searching for
open dawns. you, the
swan, me, the
raven,
black as night and
just as hopeful.
and there were poems
written in your skin, universes
blooming in your hands; your eyes
were a December sunrise saving me
from any sleep.
I’ve decided that
people are a composition of
all their greatest memories—and you,
you were always the most
beautiful piece of
me.
Literature
The Lepidopterist's Collection
We are beautiful, he said.
Our razor-fine wings cut through
his mind;
carving our existence into him;
leaving our legacy
although creatures of such beauty never truly die anyway...
he must keep us forever.
Tiny antennae search our surroundings
that are sheltered: shielded
from the world that kills itself.
One day, he will see that he's murdering
the only creatures he can love;
when evolution recognises that
freedom is merely a stroke of luck.
We are beautiful, dead.
Literature
butterflied
it is a snake
coiled in my stomach,
the urge to vomit
everything inside of me, to purge
all the toxic not-
good-enoughs. to retell
the same story and expect
a different ending is
the dysfunction that landed
us in here. I'm sorry
I don't follow you into
your dreams at night. I'm sorry
my smile is not the moon,
I'm sorry I did anything
to make you notice
me at all. no finger
down the throat could ever
take that
away.
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re: "Stop Romanticizing Poets 2K14" summary
nascent (adj) latin=nasci: to be born- beginning to exist
(part of a short collection of pieces that I may keep writing that I like to call "honest poems to people who deserve my honesty")
nascent (adj) latin=nasci: to be born- beginning to exist
(part of a short collection of pieces that I may keep writing that I like to call "honest poems to people who deserve my honesty")
© 2014 - 2024 MisfitableGrae
Comments4
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"And I hope you cry too"...I really like the way you ended this. Very beautifully written. All of your writing is so breathtaking. It's a little humbling in showing how far I am from what I want to be as a writer.