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Literature Text
I have a secret
I tell no one
That stalks my every
Dream.
It forms my nightmares
From which I no longer fear;
I am accustomed to its
Horror.
It begins my days
With endless struggle,
And dares me to withstand the
Mourning.
I want it to end
All by itself
So that they don’t feel
Alone,
But I promise nothing;
This hell won’t leave
And I wish not to live so
Haunted.
I tell no one
That stalks my every
Dream.
It forms my nightmares
From which I no longer fear;
I am accustomed to its
Horror.
It begins my days
With endless struggle,
And dares me to withstand the
Mourning.
I want it to end
All by itself
So that they don’t feel
Alone,
But I promise nothing;
This hell won’t leave
And I wish not to live so
Haunted.
Literature
On Waitressing
Appreciate what you can.
That man drinking the blonde ale
I appreciate the vernacular of his mohawk.
The diner will turn
into a wild boar tearing into tougher hide,
ignorant of the true size of his stomach.
Is it the size of a tack
or the size of a grenade
or the size of a cannon?
Separate, or his spoiled tusks will find you.
And only spit in most food.
Balance is key.
Whenever possible,
jettison past the heat-stroke
into the walk-in cooler
and put a palm to your ice-chest
to ensure your heart still beats.
My brother went to culin
Literature
Heliolatry
Yesterday i attempted to find the means to express my feelings to you,
to describe the way it feels when your hair curls round your head
like thorns thatching itself upon sleeping beauty's castle,
how when your eyes lock onto mine i wish i could throw the key away.
And your voice is mellifluous,
like birds chirping at sunrise, my day hasn't started until i've heard your call,
and you're the sun;
the world tipping and singing to your every rise and fall-
But despite the million sentiments and more i send to you,
none define the faultless paradigm you are
or my nonsensical rapture towards your spirit,
but there's no need for any explanation
Literature
quarter past midnight
The nascence of fall whispers
Quietly behind my ears -
The ripple of a full golden moon
Over thick, inky waves.
The last storm of summer left
Gaping darkness in the glass city,
Contorted boughs etched against
A disconcertingly wide sky.
Months of transition.
Anesthesia.
The knowledge that one day
That there will be one
Empty bed in the house
(please have mercy
please).
Drowning out the fear in soundwaves late at night.
Tearing lives apart with my bare hands
(Blood swirling open like petals;
I'm so sorry).
Crippling self hate and doubt.
Running from the ones I should love
(the southern stars offer consolation; outside,
the milky way arc
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I can put that to music