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Literature Text
the drums in my music are drowning out the vocals.
the dial is turned to full blast because i need to drown you out
but though i am deafened
i still feel the same familiar ringing pain
because i know you're screaming inside of me to get out,
you're tearing through my head to tell it to
yank my heart away from me.
the gashes you left me
that i thought that had finally closed for good
are wide open once again,
raw wounds leaving behind pools of crimson to stain
your bleached white bones that i know
are only figments of my imagination, (just like us)
but bones that i somehow i still can't avoid.
and here i am again,
ripping out pieces of myself,
because i'm drowning in memories of you,
suffocating because i see you everywhere
when you're nowhere to be found.
the dial is turned to full blast because i need to drown you out
but though i am deafened
i still feel the same familiar ringing pain
because i know you're screaming inside of me to get out,
you're tearing through my head to tell it to
yank my heart away from me.
the gashes you left me
that i thought that had finally closed for good
are wide open once again,
raw wounds leaving behind pools of crimson to stain
your bleached white bones that i know
are only figments of my imagination, (just like us)
but bones that i somehow i still can't avoid.
and here i am again,
ripping out pieces of myself,
because i'm drowning in memories of you,
suffocating because i see you everywhere
when you're nowhere to be found.
Literature
dearly beloved
these days
your name has been slipping
in and out of my rib cage
and sometimes,
my heart forgets to beat.
it's funny,
i suppose—
how even after all these months i still
don't want to believe that
you're dead. how during the
first couple of weeks i prayed
to a god i didn't believe in and begged to know
if death tasted sweet to you. how once,
when the monsters in my head
didn't let me sleep, i
wrote you three poems and then
destroyed four.
you were a supernova that
lit up my life for
a few radiant moments before,
like all good things in this
filthy world,
you came to an end.
the sinner in me hopes that you have wings now.
but i th
Literature
Introvert
Everyone's trying
to get out of
the shadow
of their parents-
I'm here trying
to get out of
the shadow
of myself.
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
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just when i thought it was all over.
© 2015 - 2024 RoseScarlet
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