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Literature Text
I was never born
to be cookie cutter,
I was always the brownie baker,
foot kisser
turning the oven up to 451 degrees Fahrenheit
with a dagger in one hand and a bar of gold in the other
flicking specks of the metal
into my words and watching the town below
blossom into what we call a generation.
Always birthing phrases and dialects about
understanding and acceptance
but never being understood or accepted myself.
"How can that be?" Schrodinger will ask.
I am unwilling to open Pandora's box,
so I guess we will never know.
to be cookie cutter,
I was always the brownie baker,
foot kisser
turning the oven up to 451 degrees Fahrenheit
with a dagger in one hand and a bar of gold in the other
flicking specks of the metal
into my words and watching the town below
blossom into what we call a generation.
Always birthing phrases and dialects about
understanding and acceptance
but never being understood or accepted myself.
"How can that be?" Schrodinger will ask.
I am unwilling to open Pandora's box,
so I guess we will never know.
Literature
Faults and Regrets
Words are but a loss
When your mind
Is on a wander
Dreaming,
Caressing fantasies -
Simple fables,
But do we ever learn?
Love, hatred,
Contrast;
Muse.
We may win,
But we always
Lose.
Recover from mistakes
Repeat, repeat,
End -
Endless cycles
That are
To our routine
And yet,
What are words
But a loss
To wandering minds?
Where they go,
Where they hide -
What they see,
What they felt -
And our muse
Continues,
Always the same
Memory,
But always
A different
Time ~
Literature
You're Killing Me
Mother, Father,
please stop shouting.
Mother,
no matter how hard you try,
you can't hide
that thinly veiled rage
beneath your voice.
Father,
I hate how
you don't even try
to hide the hate
tampering with your tone.
Mother,
I can barely understand
Chinese anymore,
but I can still
hear the spite
behind your words.
Father,
don't you know
your torrents of anger
can't be held back
by our paper-thin walls?
Mother,
I can hear you
cracking up.
Father,
I can tell
your patience
has gone.
Mother,
Father,
can't you see?
You're slowly,
surely,
killing me.
Literature
L over
Time passes and I still end up saying your name, when I told myself I wouldn’t let it slip out of my lips.
Memories are still clear as ever, painfully so, although they’re starting to merge into one colossal dream that managed to become a nightmare in a matter of seconds.
I wonder if you wonder, the way I wonder.
I wonder if this is just a writers mind.
Lost, confused, scared, hurt, sad, lament, pain, excuses, replaying, broken, worthless.
–– These are just some of the words that come to mind, when I think of our final chapter. They taste rancid in my mouth, and I spit them out on days I remember our story.
Your f
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Comments14
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Wonderful job! (And by the way, is '451 degrees Fahrenheit' a reference to Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451? )