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Literature Text
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My heartchambers aren't porous.
My muse is a thesaurus.
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My heartchambers aren't porous.
My muse is a thesaurus.
.
Literature
Passenger
Beyond the window
her past slides into the void.
The train gathers speed.
Literature
dearest girl,
dear girl,
you're always smiling through the haze of pain, smiling because you can't bear to let others worry over you. you're always laughing to cover up that sorrow, because you know that people would prefer to hear that light happy sound than your heart wrenching sobs. you're storing it up inside that tiny bottle inside your heart, all the pain, anger, hurt and frustration, until you're certain that any day now, that tiny bottle is going to crack and break.
you only ever look into the mirror to see the imperfections, the blemishes, the over sized thighs and not-quite-so-flat stomach. you never see how your hair is the deepest shade of au
Literature
Quiet Neighbours
Curtains pulled, lit up
some nights: but no ones ever
sitting outside
an infant stroller
upright in the frost-thick grass,
growing mould next
to a wire clotheshorse;
both been there weeks, though someones
still mowing the lawn
around the concrete
slab, marking where the apple tree
fell with autumns storms
and gave rise
to an occasion to plant
commemorative rose bushes
all twisting branches,
wearing only leaves now
their season has passed,
but who wants to see roses
blooming alone in winter?
Suggested Collections
I shouldn't.
Actual title: To the poets, to the Sylvia Plathebos, to the huddled masses yearning for verse free, to the emotion-junkie narcissist hacks, to you whose pain nobody could possibly understand but you yourself: an affirmation and rebuttal.
Actual title: To the poets, to the Sylvia Plathebos, to the huddled masses yearning for verse free, to the emotion-junkie narcissist hacks, to you whose pain nobody could possibly understand but you yourself: an affirmation and rebuttal.
© 2006 - 2024 LazyLinePainterJohn
Comments55
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I woke up before 8, but now after reading this I think I'm fully awake. I have to admit I own a book of Sylvia Plath's poetry and The Bell Jar is on my nightstand and what you just described in your Author's Comments is me. But this is a damn catchy poem and now I'm going to repeating those two lines in my head all day. And maybe I'll also steer away from writing "emotion-junkie narcissist[ic]" poetry for a while.