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Literature Text
i spelt your name out in dominos, but my clumsy elbow kept knocking you over. they were all as blank as this page before i started filling it with gunpowder verses, but you know a thing or two about ‘blank’ don’t you ? you like filling blanks with mad-lib-nonsense. i emptied my word bank because they all reminded me of you; tricky words, foreign words, four-letter words, words i don’t mean, words you don’t mean, words i made up, words i foolishly thought would evolve into sentences, words with no consonants, words with no vowels, words with no letters at all. you’ve always had a fetish for mispronouncing diphthongs like i’ve had a tendency to look past the spelling errors, but our crossword puzzle was never completely finished. probably because you never started.
(you never had the attention span)
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I ____ you, but _______ just aren’t _________ anymore.
(verb) (pronoun) (adjective)
Believe me when I ______ say this, but _____________.
(adverb) (cliche quotation)
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i confuse magic markers for veins,
and vanity for attention,
and attention for love,
and love for you.
but your paintbrush temper uglified my awkward canvas with vacuum tantrums, and i’d rather not irritate your jigsaw ego with my automatic writhing carpal.
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the tourguide crayons are coloring over your empty domino pages, and my sharpie knows something you don’t know: your feather limbs and decimal hips taste like the ancient encyclopedias i use for romantic references. if i could, i’d erase your permanent ink and tear out the delicate pages in its misleading binding; i’d rewrite the story of your life, but your textbook is dull without my name in it, and my attention span is weaker than yours.
-
(you never had the attention span)
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I ____ you, but _______ just aren’t _________ anymore.
(verb) (pronoun) (adjective)
Believe me when I ______ say this, but _____________.
(adverb) (cliche quotation)
-
i confuse magic markers for veins,
and vanity for attention,
and attention for love,
and love for you.
but your paintbrush temper uglified my awkward canvas with vacuum tantrums, and i’d rather not irritate your jigsaw ego with my automatic writhing carpal.
-
the tourguide crayons are coloring over your empty domino pages, and my sharpie knows something you don’t know: your feather limbs and decimal hips taste like the ancient encyclopedias i use for romantic references. if i could, i’d erase your permanent ink and tear out the delicate pages in its misleading binding; i’d rewrite the story of your life, but your textbook is dull without my name in it, and my attention span is weaker than yours.
-
dear You,
you won’t read this, but writing ghostletters turns graphite into catharsis and printerpaper into chronic melancholia. my cramped hands and charcoal arms have a mind of their own, but they’re both stumped on the crossword conundrum that is you and me.
sincerely yours, me(ss)
Literature
diagnostic.
we're painting our walls
to match the foundation
but we both know we'll
never match our needs
"why must they be gray?"
"darling, we both know
that gray is for pessimists."
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Micah isn't afraid of the tiny
holes we dug ourselves into
but i know he's scared that
soon our 'playing house' will
be discovered for what it is:
playing lies
(he calls me darling, because
i'm his wife, and that's what
he is supposed to do. i worry
because families shouldn't have
to pretend to care like we do)
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we're eating takeout side by side
but not together, never together
i'm staring into styrofoam dishes
when i realize: i can't remember
wha
Literature
whimsical things
she can't sleep at night, so instead she watches the stars from her bed and writes poetry in the folds of her mind. she watches the sky change colour from darkest purple to a light blue and watches as the stars dissapear one by one. she feels redundant, watching the sunrise.
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we're sitting on her bedroom floor and she's got a spoon and a lighter, a syringe and a lack of something to keep her happy. sometimes i think, when we're here, that she should write her poetry down. that she could escape some things. i never tell her out loud though; we just shoot heroin and fuck with the stars. we shoot heroin and fuck with ourselves until everythin
Literature
tuesday afternoons
and the wind chills my bones and every time i look at my watch i remember all the times when we sat on the grass laughing, watching the afternoon sun arcing across the sky like a shooting star.
Suggested Collections
finally ! it took forever because dA has shitty spacing -_-
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Comments308
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The originality is amazing...and stunning...and........I'm at a loss for words.