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Literature Text
Once upon a time, every fingerbredth of my skin was covered in the swirls and ridges of your ardent love.
I can't help that I crave the sensation of your greedy sepia fingers between my anxious ivory ones, just like the feeling of your chunky cobweb chatter between my eager ears. Those intricate gossamer vows descend as frosty flakes onto burnt cheeks, but lies are lies no matter who tells them. I am but a gullible ghost, a figment of your adoration. You should have pulled your acid tongue out before it pillaged my insides.
Mornings taste like caramel, but only when they're ripe. They manifest themselves as sunbeams to dent your sinewy skull. The army of adhesions that are in a state of perpetual war with your forehead make you more stubborn even than Napoleon, and more reckless even than me. In the season of reasonable doubt you cured my fear of the dark. The blackest place I've ever been is the back of your mind.
Behind your sugar-glazed eyes there's a map of paradise as you see it. Gazebo love and me, under your skin, more ways that we can count. It wasn't until I started sliding away that you sunk your talons in. Now you've bitten your nails to their beds, in the off chance there'd be even the pettiest hint of the flavor of me beneath them.
This rivulet called Consciousness is laden with treachery and foam and the surrounding air is thick with the stench of secret secrets. Remember, lies are lies, no matter who tells them.
I can't help that I crave the sensation of your greedy sepia fingers between my anxious ivory ones, just like the feeling of your chunky cobweb chatter between my eager ears. Those intricate gossamer vows descend as frosty flakes onto burnt cheeks, but lies are lies no matter who tells them. I am but a gullible ghost, a figment of your adoration. You should have pulled your acid tongue out before it pillaged my insides.
Mornings taste like caramel, but only when they're ripe. They manifest themselves as sunbeams to dent your sinewy skull. The army of adhesions that are in a state of perpetual war with your forehead make you more stubborn even than Napoleon, and more reckless even than me. In the season of reasonable doubt you cured my fear of the dark. The blackest place I've ever been is the back of your mind.
Behind your sugar-glazed eyes there's a map of paradise as you see it. Gazebo love and me, under your skin, more ways that we can count. It wasn't until I started sliding away that you sunk your talons in. Now you've bitten your nails to their beds, in the off chance there'd be even the pettiest hint of the flavor of me beneath them.
This rivulet called Consciousness is laden with treachery and foam and the surrounding air is thick with the stench of secret secrets. Remember, lies are lies, no matter who tells them.
Literature
Newspaper Notation
There was a newspaper sky that day, glued across the breakers. "REVOLUTION," said the sea. In a personal or global sense?
I'm a composer, he had said once to Leanne, when she teased him for sketching sonatas on coffee-shop napkins I've been trained to hear music everywhere. She had laughed and asked him to write a piece for her, the syllables of her name bubbling like wind chimes. He couldn't explain how to change for to of. Music was never a choice not his as a teenager, and not Leanne's when her laughter begged for translation.
He still had it, tucked away under the piano stool. It was more a dedication than a labour of love
Literature
quadrantids
you wake up early & the dawn tells
you what the neutrinos mean
and with a sickening crunch
your tarnished shade climbs to the underground,
the creationists' thinktank of pianosong & sorrow
where the lifeblood is a barricade
where the lethargy tastes fine & becomes addictive
where the children have cosmic dreams instead of memory
where you're with me like you were supposed to be
and all the collective setting suns
can't bring darkness upon the light you give me
Literature
New York Times
Polished her nails red and ran away with a copy of the New York Times.
She never was of that much use to me, but I believed her to be better than that, all the mystery, all the calamities that she would never speak of made me believe that she would do more than simply walk out of my life.
She left the netting of her wedding gown over the shower curtain rod, the rest of the dress was gone. That was the only dress that she had kept during the year, every week she would buy a new one, and once bought she would throw her old ones into the alley on the side of our apartment. She never stayed there long, but she would look out of our kitchen win
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I don't know who you thought you were fooling when you told me I was special.
I knew better.
For Do all of the paragraphs/ stanzas seem to fit together to form one piece? Does the length detract from the message? What emotions does this piece evoke?
Any other feedback, whether comments or constructive criticism, is greatly appreciated. (:
I knew better.
For Do all of the paragraphs/ stanzas seem to fit together to form one piece? Does the length detract from the message? What emotions does this piece evoke?
Any other feedback, whether comments or constructive criticism, is greatly appreciated. (:
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Oh the imagery. Lovely, lovely.