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Literature Text
The face in the cracked mirror is not my own.
It scares me so, to the marrow of my bones,
My heart has once again been put on hold.
I've been clinging to what hope was told,
but my lacerated feet are hurting to bolt.
I skirted the glass then suddenly tripped,
right into the danger zone of giving a shit.
The back sliding, it's blatantly clear.
I'm not the woman I was yesteryear.
Not the flower held in capable hands.
Not the mover that's willing to dance.
Not the lover that's singing romance.
I'm
I'm just
I'm just the fool who's been
waiting for a second chance.
A single table is set for two.
This refusal to let a figment go
is sitting across the ghost of you.
An inability to finally dismiss it
has tightened this infernal screw.
It serves as a bitter reminder I've
only had a pipe dream to hold onto.
The back door's slamming, echoing pain.
I'm not the stoic thinker I was yesterday.
Not the flower held in hands that are gentler.
Not the shaker who intends to topple pillars.
My overflowing eyes aren't the same shade of green.
This cold body isn't cradled in warm arms comfortably.
I'm weary and the affection expressed to me,
Was spoken by the ghost who inevitably flees.
I'm
I'm just
I'm just the fool who doesn't
want to give up on a dream.
I stayed true to what my ideals allowed to linger.
I want my lock finessed by another's nimble fingers.
I want pretty brush strokes envisioned by a certain artist.
I need the tick of my tock fixed by he who is my catharsis.
But I'm not the optimist that I'm wanting to be.
Not the flower held in hands that are sheltering.
Not the athlete that's willing to risk a dive.
Just the numb girl unsure if she's still alive.
I'm
I'm only
I'm only the rube who thought
love deserved a chance to thrive.
It scares me so, to the marrow of my bones,
My heart has once again been put on hold.
I've been clinging to what hope was told,
but my lacerated feet are hurting to bolt.
I skirted the glass then suddenly tripped,
right into the danger zone of giving a shit.
The back sliding, it's blatantly clear.
I'm not the woman I was yesteryear.
Not the flower held in capable hands.
Not the mover that's willing to dance.
Not the lover that's singing romance.
I'm
I'm just
I'm just the fool who's been
waiting for a second chance.
A single table is set for two.
This refusal to let a figment go
is sitting across the ghost of you.
An inability to finally dismiss it
has tightened this infernal screw.
It serves as a bitter reminder I've
only had a pipe dream to hold onto.
The back door's slamming, echoing pain.
I'm not the stoic thinker I was yesterday.
Not the flower held in hands that are gentler.
Not the shaker who intends to topple pillars.
My overflowing eyes aren't the same shade of green.
This cold body isn't cradled in warm arms comfortably.
I'm weary and the affection expressed to me,
Was spoken by the ghost who inevitably flees.
I'm
I'm just
I'm just the fool who doesn't
want to give up on a dream.
I stayed true to what my ideals allowed to linger.
I want my lock finessed by another's nimble fingers.
I want pretty brush strokes envisioned by a certain artist.
I need the tick of my tock fixed by he who is my catharsis.
But I'm not the optimist that I'm wanting to be.
Not the flower held in hands that are sheltering.
Not the athlete that's willing to risk a dive.
Just the numb girl unsure if she's still alive.
I'm
I'm only
I'm only the rube who thought
love deserved a chance to thrive.
Literature
differently (v. 2)
i.
if I had known I would die tonight,
I think I would've kissed her.
I think I would've told her to stay with me under
the umbrella for just a moment longer
instead of letting her walk into her home
with a flash of a smile back to me
and a "get home safe."
I think I would've pressed that button on the handle
letting the umbrella collapse above us,
fall to the pavement,
let the torrential rain soak us,
and I know I would've kissed her
before she had the chance
to say something.
I know I would've let the rain just pour down on us while
we kissed there,
until she pulled away and laughed –
god, I loved her laugh –
u
Literature
Straight Ahead
In keeping with the adage that says,
life is a road,
being in love is a little like watching someone walk away
and naively,
innately,
trusting that they will return.
Being loved,
and loving someone back,
is doing the hard thing
and never,
ever,
turning around.
Because being in love
means,
shouldering the burden of knowing
that the road ahead
is so very dangerous,
and not being cruel enough,
to let the other know.
Literature
Windows
Such a small little girl, with the biggest heart I've ever known. She doesn't quite understand everything that's going on. It takes all the strength I have not to let her see me cry, so I'm glad for the cover of night. She's in the back seat as we drive, her face towards the waxing moon.
"Mommy..."
She waits for me to say, "What, baby?"
And then again she waits for a moment before asking, "Is daddy coming too?"
The crushing weight of the answer takes the breath out of my lungs.
"No, baby. Daddy and mommy can't live together anymore."
It's history repeating. Only she's younger. And my own mother had left me in silence. For a second, I fe
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I'm curious about stanza 3, line 2: "yesteryear"?
It does make for an interesting word combo.
It does make for an interesting word combo.