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Literature Text
no-one should ever have to spend so much time focusing on
trying their damnedest not to self sabotage.
but the ache of january was too well known to ignore
even when it wasn't there
for years in a row
it still lingered
in the way of old bruises
and silvered scars
that she thought of tearing open
to see if something was still trapped inside
something to unleash.
even if it would destroy everything
cause the ocean leaves traces
of wherever its been
with salt haze
or dark lines marking depth
but she was okay with the salt
it heals
and naturally cleans
so even if she chokes
and splutters
and stops breathing
it won't hurt.
trying their damnedest not to self sabotage.
but the ache of january was too well known to ignore
even when it wasn't there
for years in a row
it still lingered
in the way of old bruises
and silvered scars
that she thought of tearing open
to see if something was still trapped inside
something to unleash.
even if it would destroy everything
cause the ocean leaves traces
of wherever its been
with salt haze
or dark lines marking depth
but she was okay with the salt
it heals
and naturally cleans
so even if she chokes
and splutters
and stops breathing
it won't hurt.
Literature
baby blue
& the sea still speaks
slipping whispers with indigo lips
swelling waves dip dyed
baby blue
breathing in; out and in
seaweed limbs milky
as our ways carry me
staring at me softly
& oh my sea dreamer
eyes made of linen’s silk
(but men of bone)
heart rustled with chaos
& all in between
spread to my touch
kissing me
baby blue
Literature
starry eyes implode
she cannot recall all
the things she's
swallowed:
pretty pills, rancid
razor blades and
wasted words coat
her sorry throat
she can't count her
fingers, like she can't
count the days again--
it's zero to zero, in it
to spin it:
time is measured in
lengths of abandonment.
she comes home empty-
handed; defeated,
depleted, repeated:
"I gave up again
I gave up I gave it
away I gave up"
repeated like some
makeshift lullaby
and once more she
apologizes to a
broken window,
shattered, scattered,
just hoping to
know somewhere
better to go
and when she walks,
she holds hands
with the yellowed
skeleton of a
forgo
Literature
blue hour eyes
people say
sparks fly when you meet your somebody
but it wasn't like that with you.
there were no sparks when we met,
no birds singing, no cartoon
hearts.
you were reading.
it was a thick book, and old,
and dogeared
and you glanced up at me,
and smiled
and i remember noticing that your
eyes were blue
[not blue like the ocean
or the sky
but blue like mountains that are fading
into the distance
blue like the moment after the sun sets
blue like snow in the twilight]
and when i heard your
voice for the first time,
it felt familiar
and new
and strange, but beautiful
twisting around me
like the music you sometimes hear in
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i can still write poetry sometimes.
© 2013 - 2024 ohsparrowsong
Comments5
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your work often brings me to tears.