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Literature Text
Under a broken star line
Lies a child softly weeping
In a meadow devoid of life
Clutching a torn piece of cloth.
Sensing an easy meal
Demons and monsters loudly approach
From all corners they come
To enjoy the nights feast.
Pale moonlight shines down upon the ground
Basking the earth in its sickly silver glow
Highlighting the predatory eyes
Of the trap now closing in.
Yet nothing stirs the weeping child
As it clutches ever tighter
To the broken bonds
Now limp in its hands.
Clouds obscure the diseased moon
Allowing darkness to consume
All the terrible events
Which are about to occur.
Yet the child does not stir...
Lies a child softly weeping
In a meadow devoid of life
Clutching a torn piece of cloth.
Sensing an easy meal
Demons and monsters loudly approach
From all corners they come
To enjoy the nights feast.
Pale moonlight shines down upon the ground
Basking the earth in its sickly silver glow
Highlighting the predatory eyes
Of the trap now closing in.
Yet nothing stirs the weeping child
As it clutches ever tighter
To the broken bonds
Now limp in its hands.
Clouds obscure the diseased moon
Allowing darkness to consume
All the terrible events
Which are about to occur.
Yet the child does not stir...
Literature
how to become a writer.
don't.
stay away from
pencils and pens.
don't look
at keyboards
or at blank pages
of notebook paper.
don't submit
to the emerald sigh of
vellichor,
the shredded sheets
of everything,
everything you've worked
your whole life to run away from.
don't live in the moment.
let love and fear float by,
just a skimming whisper,
because a whisper
is better than nothing.
a whisper is better
than the brittle falling-apart
of kairosclerosis.
suffer from catoptric tristesse,
but don't think about it
(for too long, anyways.)
look at the mirror
but never look yourself
in the eye,
because who knows what you've become?
don't write what you're feeling.
y
Literature
Does that make me Different?
I wear make up. Does that make me fake?
I cry. Does that make me emo?
I have male friends. Does that make me slutty?
I smile a lot. Does that make me weird?
I laugh loud. Does that make me preppy?
I have anxiety. Does that make me a freak?
I have Bipolar Disorder. Does that make me abnormal?
I respect people. I change for me, and only me. I have a past, but I know I have a future.
Does that make me different?
Maybe.
But at least it makes me
Me.
Literature
Home
This is home
where there are white walls
and doors that open from the outside.
This is home
where a jacket
holds one in place.
This is home
where an injection of whiteness
into the arms is normal.
This is home
where shock is common
and not treated enough.
This is home
where white skin
is never sun kissed.
This is home
where family doesn’t care
enough to visit or cry.
This is home
where bloodless administrators
deem themselves ‘help’.
This is my home
and I cannot leave.
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This can be taken at face value as a short story type poem. Or it can be looked into for the deeper meanings. Either way I hope it's to everyone's liking
© 2013 - 2024 Puddha1988
Comments10
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i like this alot and i want to sink deeper into the surface so i may ask questions that annoy: why is the child alone, why is the child sad and why does he not sense the danger around him? could it be that child is in a "meadow, which is really a world he made up in his mind to help him deal with the shock and trauma he was thrown into and the torn cloth and broken line is the remains of what he knew when he was safe and happy and cared for?