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Literature Text
We've paved our relationship with molten brick;
then tied our fingers against thunderstruck trees
while prudent street dogs spat selfish lyrics
and served lightly-salted soliloquies.
I cried starshine into your emerald arms,
so you could become the meaningful whisper I'll never hear.
I fell for faithless, plastic charms
in rooms that smelled like smoke, white oak and beer.
Our hearts became rocket ships tied to ribbons,
one crawling on an overstuffed belly; always too far behind
like the sons and daughters of Elias Fitzgibbons
who said we would wed us on Tuesday, that holy bind.
Wicked felt-tipped pens, forging "I love yous."
were like deadswept petals of blueish hues.
then tied our fingers against thunderstruck trees
while prudent street dogs spat selfish lyrics
and served lightly-salted soliloquies.
I cried starshine into your emerald arms,
so you could become the meaningful whisper I'll never hear.
I fell for faithless, plastic charms
in rooms that smelled like smoke, white oak and beer.
Our hearts became rocket ships tied to ribbons,
one crawling on an overstuffed belly; always too far behind
like the sons and daughters of Elias Fitzgibbons
who said we would wed us on Tuesday, that holy bind.
Wicked felt-tipped pens, forging "I love yous."
were like deadswept petals of blueish hues.
Literature
Origami Dependence
We've paved our relationship with molten brick;
then tied our fingers against thunderstruck trees
while prudent street dogs spat selfish lyrics
and served lightly-salted soliloquies.
I cried starshine into your emerald arms,
so you could become the meaningful whisper I'll never hear.
I fell for faithless, plastic charms
in rooms that smelled like smoke, white oak and beer.
Our hearts became rocket ships tied to ribbons,
one crawling on an overstuffed belly; always too far behind
like the sons and daughters of Elias Fitzgibbons
who said we would wed us on Tuesday, that holy bind.
Wicked felt-tipped pens, forging "I love yous."
wer
Literature
origami death wish
a piece of paper, no matter how big or how small,
can only be folded eight times over
before it springs back out
and unfolds itself.
pathetic:
i could fold into myself a trillion times over
just so i would fit in the space between the two fingers
that you hold your cigarette with.
Literature
'...'
i carry your bones
the sad smooth curve of your ribs
i cleansed what was left of you under the tide
Suggested Collections
Yay sonnet! Sammy, you hear that? I half wrote a sonnet!
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SOMETHING COMPELS YOUR MOUSE TO CLICK! DO EEET.
A collaboration with the utterly brilliant. ~seussical-love!
IF YOU FAVORITE HERE PLEASE GO FAVORITE HERS:
SOMETHING COMPELS YOUR MOUSE TO CLICK! DO EEET.
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Comments91
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Fantastic!