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Literature Text
Fall in love with everything
but people.
Fall in love with ideas: anarchy
and LaVeyan Satanism.
Fall in love with solitary back-packing
through Israel or Mexico.
Fall in love with gamma radiation
or tiger-taming, MMA cage fighting
or free-climbing the Rocky Mountains,
but do not fall in love
with people.
People will want you
for your similarities to one
or more of their parents;
they will want you
for the outline, the concept of you;
they will want you
because you want them –
they will not know
what they want.
People will take the bed you shared
and fuck other people
in the barely cooled indent
of your absent body
(they will also take your cat,
leaving you with scarred hands
and nothing for them to stroke).
They will promise to never leave you
and maybe they won’t,
but they will buckle you in with them
on the bipolar-coaster,
left flying off unfinished tracks,
and you will have to jump,
parachuteless.
They will be perfect
except for little things –
answering their phone during dinner,
taking their mother’s word as scripture,
sleeping with their socks on –
and you will be tempted,
so very tempted,
to love people,
but trust me when I tell you
you’d be better off
in love with tightrope walking
between skyscrapers.
but people.
Fall in love with ideas: anarchy
and LaVeyan Satanism.
Fall in love with solitary back-packing
through Israel or Mexico.
Fall in love with gamma radiation
or tiger-taming, MMA cage fighting
or free-climbing the Rocky Mountains,
but do not fall in love
with people.
People will want you
for your similarities to one
or more of their parents;
they will want you
for the outline, the concept of you;
they will want you
because you want them –
they will not know
what they want.
People will take the bed you shared
and fuck other people
in the barely cooled indent
of your absent body
(they will also take your cat,
leaving you with scarred hands
and nothing for them to stroke).
They will promise to never leave you
and maybe they won’t,
but they will buckle you in with them
on the bipolar-coaster,
left flying off unfinished tracks,
and you will have to jump,
parachuteless.
They will be perfect
except for little things –
answering their phone during dinner,
taking their mother’s word as scripture,
sleeping with their socks on –
and you will be tempted,
so very tempted,
to love people,
but trust me when I tell you
you’d be better off
in love with tightrope walking
between skyscrapers.
Literature
Dear Mom
Dear Mom,
Thank you for taking care of me
those eight months I spent
curled up in your womb,
slowly being knit together
and listening to your heartbeat.
I appreciate that time
you spent with me then
as much as I appreciate
the time you spend with me now.
But somehow I didn’t know
that when I decided to leave you
one month early
to become my own person
and to learn how to be a woman
you wouldn’t be as close
as you once were,
and I wouldn’t be able to listen
to your heartbeat anymore.
And every night I find myself
curled up in the same position
I was in years ago
and wishing for a heartbeat to listen to,
even if it&rsquo
Literature
weekends and cigarette smoke
I knew my father in weekends and cigarette smoke
the two cases of Budweiser he shared with a friend
more often than I wanted him too
I knew what it tasted like because I used to drink it
out of a child size Maple Leafs novelty mug,
coveted by my siblings and I
I remember my tip jar that had been a joke
because I knew my way around twist offs and bottle openers;
the plastic yellow cup, wearing a card reading "tips,"
only housed dimes and nickels
until I got a toonie from TJ because "I was pretty"
I also remember the car ride after those two cases
where I, at age ten or eleven or twelve, didn't know if I was
going home to see my mom ag
Literature
Dear Baltimore Child: A Postmortem Ghazal
My dear Baltimore child,
dear tale-told heart, gin-joint king,
Winter is colorless without you,
all white and dead.
I miss the boldness of your black,
I miss the color red.
I wear your favorite color, grieve,
though we were never wed.
My dark, distant poet,
dreaming evermore in red.
Annabel Lee should have been written
for me, instead;
She was white winter-stale,
and I am bright summer-red.
I watched winter take your soul,
watched the frost in your lungs spread.
You can be no lover now,
drained of all your blood, your red.
You are colored, still,
blue and beautiful
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Well, my prof really only had minor, you-can-try-this-if-you-want suggestions for this piece, and it seems to have been an over-all success with the class, particularly in terms of its relatability. However, I know the internet excels at finding things to critique, so I shall let you at it.
© 2013 - 2024 oracle-of-nonsense
Comments22
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Hmmm. The message has been turned on its head in this poem, or rather the usual message has bee inverted.