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Literature Text
I long for snow that packs
And Crackles beneath my feet.
Pristine glow of a quiet morning
For cheery sounds of weekday laughter,
Of polyester bears still hibernating by midday.
Crystal palaces built from my hands,
Towers I defend with fresh white beets.
Warmth of going home,
The hearth, the fire.
I long for the smile when mother gives,
The frothy black brew she else wise forbids
It gives you zits and rots your teeth!
She'd elsewise shriek.
I long for snow.
And Crackles beneath my feet.
Pristine glow of a quiet morning
For cheery sounds of weekday laughter,
Of polyester bears still hibernating by midday.
Crystal palaces built from my hands,
Towers I defend with fresh white beets.
Warmth of going home,
The hearth, the fire.
I long for the smile when mother gives,
The frothy black brew she else wise forbids
It gives you zits and rots your teeth!
She'd elsewise shriek.
I long for snow.
Literature
Love
Love
Flower, flower
Sweet, red and mine
You make my world spin
You make my words rhyme
Blossom, blossom
How pretty you are
The te
Literature
Is This Love?
I walk down a crooked, broken pathway
A lone tear permanently attached to my cheek
Exhaustion explodes from every pore
Food will not satisfy
Water will not quench
All hope is gone
But as long as I'm with you, I will not stumble
You are all I need to satisfy and quench my needs
Hope will slowly return
My heart is broken;
Lies nearly dead in a heap of despair
Little pieces are broken off here and there
They won't be coming back.
But you are slowly piecing me back together
You are bringing life back into mi corazon
I have faith you can find the missing pieces
When we're together, I feel balanced
I'm madly in love in a calm way
Literature
Love?
I cannot imagine why Love,
my love,
my anger,
my guilt
at this moment,
consumes the remainder
of my pleasure.
It seems that
despite the silence,
my wounds
are not healing.
It doesn’t matter…
I weep in agony
and my heart
is nothing but a shackle
to bind my pulse;
my existence in this…
comfortable destruction.
Emotional walls do talk;
much like a silent smile
can break across a face,
and tears can betray.
Perfectly good emotions
fester in the soul,
and what were once traces
of complete and tender
caresses of passion while
resting in comforting arms…
are now scars;
numb,
deep,
and cold
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Originally, this was titled "A Child Too old At Eighteen" because it was written in a rare giddy moment a few years back when I was filled with passion at the end of classes and complaining how it was December and still warm enough (for me) to wear shorts. I just spewed the first two lines of this poem, and it just hit me how it sounded.
Later, it just struck me as a bit more timeless as a reminder of a time.
So for the kids and everyone else who has a piece of that still with them, here I give, this untitled piece.
Later, it just struck me as a bit more timeless as a reminder of a time.
So for the kids and everyone else who has a piece of that still with them, here I give, this untitled piece.
© 2006 - 2024 SavageInsight
Comments3
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you write really beautifully. if you're not a member already, i'd like to invite you to join writerscafe, a community where lots of fellow writers can read your works and review them, an you can do the same. this is my account: [link] hope to see you there.