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Literature Text
Artificial struggling of the mind never fends off the beatings of this place,
Primordial rage born of humanity enslaved is the only cure that can straighten one's face,
Burn beyond a tormented maze of sorrow and pain to build again but inside an iron case
The wall of dust crumbles down after ages of howling winds beating upon its rust,
Speed past it one must on an insatiable run thirsty for victory's lust,
Burning the ancient desert while holding one's head as an unbreakable bust
It seems another side souls do not need but always stop to ask,
Bask in the glory of all that is won and all that will ever be a part of their task,
One sometimes forgets but will always remember alone in the rain,
one must sometimes take off the mask
Primordial rage born of humanity enslaved is the only cure that can straighten one's face,
Burn beyond a tormented maze of sorrow and pain to build again but inside an iron case
The wall of dust crumbles down after ages of howling winds beating upon its rust,
Speed past it one must on an insatiable run thirsty for victory's lust,
Burning the ancient desert while holding one's head as an unbreakable bust
It seems another side souls do not need but always stop to ask,
Bask in the glory of all that is won and all that will ever be a part of their task,
One sometimes forgets but will always remember alone in the rain,
one must sometimes take off the mask
Literature
In Name Only
the last great novel to annex a king
we sang songs and hymns in the western twilight
. . .
intergalactic lanes
distances that break minds
here we are
a gyroscope hurtling through space
a great marble cue ball of blues, whites, and greens
but you leave that terra verandah son,
you get out there north of Saturn,
passing by the rings on your way to Neptune...
and it's as though the whole apparatus
all nine spheres is stood on end
and there you are, staring down that ancient well
staring down at the Spanish moss couture of Louisiana live oaks
staring down at West Texas oil rigs
staring down at Kilimanjaro, Erebus, and Wrangell-St. E
Literature
A burden, curse
I’m coming back from a few rough months, and here is my first offering. A piece about my bipolar and anxiety disorder.
She cursed herself silently, like
a prayer that can only be said
in the shadows, without other
people hearing—“fuck you, you've
wasted everything, let down
everyone, you deserve this.”
Like this, she doesn’t condemn
herself, she burns for herself,
lights her skeleton on fire, ignites
her mind with the what ifs and
should have beens, all of it.
She is standing, resolute, feet
apart, a sure stance, she is sure
to break down, her elbows will
crush at the weight of all her
inhibitions, her lungs wil
Literature
Impossible
When the great grey thing
the slow-churned sky worn under your skin
when it begins to wear you thin
by weathering you
you wither-
-it thickens,
enshrouds you
a heavy pall in black
that you can't shuck from your shoulders
and like an old coat it becomes
familiar
a grey-weather friend
panting at the back of your neck
padding
into the shadow of every smile
seeing teeth but not the meaning
leashing you outside
at every meeting.
Clouds bear rain
and curdle into sombre mass
gravid with lightning
and the crash of something breaking
and the soft weft of cloth
stiffens with frost
too numb, too long
hardened to points of ice turned inwards
like th
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I adore this. Have read it many times.