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Literature Text
Annie girl,
She was full of tears,
That shone like moonbeams,
Flickering across calm streams,
Her smile was sweeter than sugar,
Mixed with vanilla and spice,
And warmed my steel heart,
She was full of bubbling laughter,
That would spill without care,
She had streaks of gold,
Across her caramel skin,
That were lost under my touch.
She was my sister in arms,
I look to our battlefield,
Filled with see-saw's, swings and such,
And I long for the days when the worst things we knew,
Were the dragons we conjured beneath the stars.
She was full of tears,
That shone like moonbeams,
Flickering across calm streams,
Her smile was sweeter than sugar,
Mixed with vanilla and spice,
And warmed my steel heart,
She was full of bubbling laughter,
That would spill without care,
She had streaks of gold,
Across her caramel skin,
That were lost under my touch.
She was my sister in arms,
I look to our battlefield,
Filled with see-saw's, swings and such,
And I long for the days when the worst things we knew,
Were the dragons we conjured beneath the stars.
Literature
Trickling Air
the Cloud Recliner - northwest in summer,
gasps and sputters while watching its
stuffing spill distilled water; overcast.
and it thinks of Man, waiting to drink the
air out of Cloud's kinks (the Earth moves)
when condensation soaks floating vapor.
no one is there to drown in Cloud's air that
trickles sunward without a care,
coating the damp, cramped Earth with its last breath.
air
↗ ↘
Cumulus inhales
↖ ↙
water
Literature
Mirror
She's tall and blond with eyes of the sweetest blue. They all love her, girls want to be her and boys clamour around her. But sometimes, during the long lingering summer months, she reaches out to her mirror. She reaches and places her slender, pale hand onto that of the reflection's. She reaches out and she smiles.
*
She's quite short and her hair is mousy, with eyes hidden behind thick glasses. Nobody loves her, girls tease her and call her names. Boys won't go near her. But sometimes, during the short sharp winter months, she reaches out to her mirror. She reaches and places her hand, written all over in self afflicted scars, onto that o
Literature
Another Year
This is the day that I think of you the most.
When I close my eyes and you're there
Waiting in the dark.
This is the day I put on your old sweatshirt.
I keep it folded in a corner of my drawer
And it smells a little like dust and
A little like the cheap wood of college dorm furniture
But mostly it smells like your perfume
And your promises.
This is the day that every inch of me aches to feel you again.
When I remember
The sensation of your skin brushing against mine
The way our scents mingled
And how they became something warm and right and new.
This is the day that I thank God for creating you,
The perfect, wild, vibrant
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/a place were hurt was a bruised knee, and tears wiped away all too easily.
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