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Literature Text
Can't quite remember when
but never do I forget
to lie to myself not
the promise of iron fist.
A surprise? Not really,
how easily others could be read.
A gesture, a habit
windows to secrets.
Odd how different you are
a puzzle simply impossible,
even sharpness cannot penetrate
such mysteries kept hidden.
Name it fate, destiny perhaps
whichever, it doesn't matter
but stagnant is one thing,
your complexity turned mine into insanity.
Once, I understood my madness
now everything is demented to chaos.
Should I thank you maybe
for freeing what I most guarded?
But too much war was fought
my blood alone was drained crimson.
Now tell me, for what cause?
Only this far is my limit drawn.
Slowly, I'll return to reason,
Still, the rage has not ceased.
What is it that made me falter
to which I dig my shallow grave?
This world of fictional reality,
the sanctuary of my lies.
In it I'm found cradled in sleep,
eyes shut dreaming the impossible dream.
but never do I forget
to lie to myself not
the promise of iron fist.
A surprise? Not really,
how easily others could be read.
A gesture, a habit
windows to secrets.
Odd how different you are
a puzzle simply impossible,
even sharpness cannot penetrate
such mysteries kept hidden.
Name it fate, destiny perhaps
whichever, it doesn't matter
but stagnant is one thing,
your complexity turned mine into insanity.
Once, I understood my madness
now everything is demented to chaos.
Should I thank you maybe
for freeing what I most guarded?
But too much war was fought
my blood alone was drained crimson.
Now tell me, for what cause?
Only this far is my limit drawn.
Slowly, I'll return to reason,
Still, the rage has not ceased.
What is it that made me falter
to which I dig my shallow grave?
This world of fictional reality,
the sanctuary of my lies.
In it I'm found cradled in sleep,
eyes shut dreaming the impossible dream.
Literature
Her Impossible Question
He is smoking a cigarette.
Still damp from a shower and dressed in nothing but a sea-green bath towel: he has arranged himself on the covered radiator beneath the living room window. He sits here, from time to time: smoking, reading, watching the flow of lackluster drama stretched along the nearest segment of Wrigley Street. He sits here, from time to time, waiting for Nathaniel to get home from late, late nights at the studio. There is little to see now: only shadows and the motion of a breeze through maple leaves, sycamore leaves, and the sick, orange glare of electrocuted sodium vapor from the streetlamp just outside. He has opened the
Literature
clock hour three
a fan of black,
i lie peaceful, half-conscious,
ensconced in the damp
of the gritty, cold sidewalk cement;
metamorphosing,
it could be said,
with my butterfly wings of taped-on paper.
fragile and crinkly,
my skin has become translucent:
reminiscent of peeled grapes.
i hover, ghostly,
in the bright reflected space
between double window-panes.
i can feel the timeout,
reach the apogee of breathing
trapped and silent in the kitchen light;
my fingers pale, probing
under my flaking skin.
the space is stretching, growing,
agonized with acidic mezzo moaning
and the static close memories
that are all too real for an insomniac.
Literature
Journey to an unknown world
I turn the page and look
into a book
to see
what world's awaiting me
in some abandoned reverie.
I get lost in my mind
and one more time
I turn around.
I'm waiting for the sound
of footsteps falling on the ground.
Is someone there to guide me
on this journey
through my mind?
I wonder what I'll find
if I just go in searching, blind.
And if I stop or falter
only time will know to tell
what I have done to alter
someone's story told so well.
If I write this adventure down
penned in my own hand
will I know what's lost and what I've found
in journeys through this land?
© Sunny M. Jackson 2013
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Love is a double-edged sword.
O.O
Comments, suggestions and criticisms are highly encouraged and appreciated.
---
ARTISTS CREATE, PLAGIARISTS STEAL.
You are not allowed to use any of my work without asking for permission.
O.O
Comments, suggestions and criticisms are highly encouraged and appreciated.
---
ARTISTS CREATE, PLAGIARISTS STEAL.
You are not allowed to use any of my work without asking for permission.
© 2012 - 2024 DSteffi
Comments1
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well done it feels quite true