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Literature Text
I spill my soul, disguised
as words, into your palms, which
I suppose I mistook for open.
Only you throw
them away. I reel,
when you say;
“Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
as words, into your palms, which
I suppose I mistook for open.
Only you throw
them away. I reel,
when you say;
“Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
Literature
Writer
I am a scientist;
Pinning down ideas
like butterflies
preserving them in
their fragile beauty
as I take away their freedom,
their life.
I am a parasite;
sucking the soul out
of music and leaving it
a hollow shell
that plays like
the noisy silence in
my ears.
I am a thief;
taking what is not mine,
the world around me,
and pouring it into
a mould that
I claim is
my own.
I am a blasphemer;
playing God in a
sacred place, changing
the world to my
liking when the orchestra
is not under my
conduction.
I am a liar;
selling false havens
to lonely runaways,
giving them a glimpse
of a world more glamorous,
more fantas
Literature
.
whispered goodbyes and sepia summer dreams-
their neverlasting brilliance is
more beautiful than
a million everlasting stars,
(because he loves in f ra gme nts,
and she hopes in sha
rds)
Literature
And then, a quiet explosion
Trees, full of green vitality, swayed, shivered in the cool, early morning breeze. Butterflies floated, caressed flowers of all colours. Birds, they soared, danced and sung in the heavens. And below, hand in hand, the pair walked up a grassy hill without saying a word. None were needed. A non-awkward silence, smiles and laughs, were more than enough, precious. Time together, with their black and tan dog, full of heart, sniffing, playing, exploring about their feet – perfect.
The three reached the summit, sat, close, bathed in the warmth of each other’s love and followed the sun’s birth into a crystal clear sky, washing the
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Comments4
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Well, I cringed.