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Literature Text
It must be confusing
to lie down every night
not sure if you were going to be with
the man or the bear.
Sure, he's always been a man by night,
but then he's a bear by day,
with those big, sad, polar eyes,
still trying to control his massive limbs
like he's the master of his own destiny.
And yet you find those white hairs
on your good clean sheets,
on your silk pajamas,
mingled in your morning tea,
which is always waiting,
hot and steaming,
despite the fact he can't carry it in his paws.
And he watches you dressing yourself,
pulling on layer after layer, wool and wire,
because he shoots the cold
right through you,
with a nuzzle of his nose.
And he never has to dress, though at night
you can feel his skin,
and the goosebumps that line his humanity.
It must be confusing,
to lie there at night,
hoping he'll be the bear,
coming to eat you alive.
to lie down every night
not sure if you were going to be with
the man or the bear.
Sure, he's always been a man by night,
but then he's a bear by day,
with those big, sad, polar eyes,
still trying to control his massive limbs
like he's the master of his own destiny.
And yet you find those white hairs
on your good clean sheets,
on your silk pajamas,
mingled in your morning tea,
which is always waiting,
hot and steaming,
despite the fact he can't carry it in his paws.
And he watches you dressing yourself,
pulling on layer after layer, wool and wire,
because he shoots the cold
right through you,
with a nuzzle of his nose.
And he never has to dress, though at night
you can feel his skin,
and the goosebumps that line his humanity.
It must be confusing,
to lie there at night,
hoping he'll be the bear,
coming to eat you alive.
Literature
this is the night .collab
the entire sky felt too heavy
so it sunk to its knees
begging for relief
for the emptiness
that always follows the pain
numbness in place of agony.
this is the time of dying suns
that donate brilliant colours to the sky
for those who admire the deep red vistas
and feel the end of another lonely day.
hot shock to the system,
this is sunlight
breaking your body
with unbending hands,
the heaviest hit
hurting even the hollows
between your bones,
this is the time that shadows grow
scurrying and juvenile in their footholds,
the newfound cracks and crevices
where dying light has lost its strength.
the wind has birthed us
tornad
Literature
what do i do when i .collab
the rain washes everything
but the love
from my skin,
imprinted as though
by fingers, sore like sand.
your fingers carved
love, fashioning in the
bruises. you formed welts
that rise as sand dunes.
you took my waxen skin
as a canvas and painted
it with your music
there are ten thousand songs
to which i cannot listen
because you left your lips in
their rhythms
the few melodies that had
been mine, you
stole away like breath,
wrenched from my
wavering throat.
there is nothing of me
that you have left untouched.
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
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Definitely like it, although I can't articulate why.