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Literature Text
I've lived where the ghosts sleep.
The streetlights are broken but they still stand,
arching over empty alleys filled only with dead cats.
Stardust is littered over the river,
drifting on the black water almost like moon beams.
You asked if I knew where I was going.
I told you, this was my home.
Once, I ate the lies of children, the dreams of dying leaves
and the stones that words have become
along with the ghosts of the town.
This torchlight might let us see the dirt on the ground,
but it will never detect their movements.
I know them.
They are quiet, almost silent.
They will never speak but they can scream.
They will scream you all the way into Sunday,
right past Wednesday and Friday,
the days they'd lost their bodies.
And watch your step.
If that board creaks, stories underneath it will haunt you.
Those stories are not fantasies. They are not pretty.
Between the cracks of moon light, I know their eyes are on us.
I know their feet are following our shadows.
I've made my bed where the ghosts sleep,
I know my home.
The streetlights are broken but they still stand,
arching over empty alleys filled only with dead cats.
Stardust is littered over the river,
drifting on the black water almost like moon beams.
You asked if I knew where I was going.
I told you, this was my home.
Once, I ate the lies of children, the dreams of dying leaves
and the stones that words have become
along with the ghosts of the town.
This torchlight might let us see the dirt on the ground,
but it will never detect their movements.
I know them.
They are quiet, almost silent.
They will never speak but they can scream.
They will scream you all the way into Sunday,
right past Wednesday and Friday,
the days they'd lost their bodies.
And watch your step.
If that board creaks, stories underneath it will haunt you.
Those stories are not fantasies. They are not pretty.
Between the cracks of moon light, I know their eyes are on us.
I know their feet are following our shadows.
I've made my bed where the ghosts sleep,
I know my home.
Literature
please let me get what i want.
For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up. I woke up with this bone-deep ache that never went away. I woke up to an incessant question playing in my mind that would never be answered. I woke up alone.
For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up without you when I woke up at all. The thing about time is that it never does make anything better. It just means more space to think. It means sleepless nights trying to figure it all out. When it went wrong. How to make it better. It means slowly losing my mind. But it never once meant getting over you.
It's funny how the things you think you've forgotten always come rushing back when you
Literature
you didn't listen when i said
the thunder is an earthquake,
waking my bones, waking my blood,
waking me up like a bump in the night.
i want to say
this is for everyone who has realized that
humans are just fragments of regret and hope
sown together
but it is more for you than anyone else.
and it is so easy to fall apart without you
but i am holding on and
i'll be okay. i'll be fine.
you'll see.
Literature
Stone
"You have a stone in your heart,"
That rouses me somewhat. I look up from my book and out the window at the gray fog that's settled over everything like wet cotton. I imagine breathing it, letting it fill my lungs with gray. All at once, the room is suffocating and I push the window open and the cool air tumbles in and ruffles the pages of my book so that I lose my place.
The spell of the story unravels and some part of me aches to know that the sort of love that exists in the storybooks is never true.
She loves the lines of him.
Her.
"Are you listening?"
"
Yes," I say without much conviction.
Rainwater pools on the windowsill.
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--because it was never alive.
Comments?
-does this seem fantastical or eerie or neither?
-are the stuff mentioned relevant?
-do you understand the story?
Drowning in lack of sleep. I am in misery.
Comments?
-does this seem fantastical or eerie or neither?
-are the stuff mentioned relevant?
-do you understand the story?
Drowning in lack of sleep. I am in misery.
© 2011 - 2024 A-Symmetry
Comments44
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Stardust is littered over the river,
drifting on the black water almost like moon beams.
This is just so gorgeous. Makes me get over all the unpleasant thoughts and truths here. I know this, too, is maybe not intended to be beautiful, after all, it's 'littered', but still... it's stardust, and it screems 'Peter Pan!' to me.
drifting on the black water almost like moon beams.
This is just so gorgeous. Makes me get over all the unpleasant thoughts and truths here. I know this, too, is maybe not intended to be beautiful, after all, it's 'littered', but still... it's stardust, and it screems 'Peter Pan!' to me.