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Literature Text
After eighty-eight and a half hours awake,
you sleep.
No grand gestures or passing out, hitting your
head on the way down,
just one body shucking clothes as it crawls
into clean sheets. Pillows and a blanket and
the soft night air.
Two eyes, closed.
In the morning, nothing will be the same.
The past week is a long-faded memory.
Snapshots, facts, things left in strange places.
This is what the body does,
it forgets.
And you forget with it.
you sleep.
No grand gestures or passing out, hitting your
head on the way down,
just one body shucking clothes as it crawls
into clean sheets. Pillows and a blanket and
the soft night air.
Two eyes, closed.
In the morning, nothing will be the same.
The past week is a long-faded memory.
Snapshots, facts, things left in strange places.
This is what the body does,
it forgets.
And you forget with it.
Literature
scars are more than upside down smiles
to put the parallel lines decorating my wrists
like outdated wallpaper to use, i would peel
the scar tissue like the rind of a blood orange,
link the massacred pieces of myself into a chain,
and then throw it 300 miles right to the foot of your bed.
if there was a way to shift cities and collide hemispheres
until the stretch of miles between our aching bodies tightened,
i would do whatever it takes to bring you closer to me.
i would show up on your doorstep like an unexpected hurricane
and you would draw me in like a high tide. your porch light would
flicker like a fake smile and we would twist ourselves into foreign
tongues in eac
Literature
Why I Am Happy
The boy sitting on the park bench had eyes like sandpaper melancholy.
I think I noticed because I am a poet. I don't think anyone else but a poet could look at his eyes and think, "sandpaper melancholy." But they were that color. A fair brown. And grainy. I liked them in the way I like bitter baking chocolate -- because it has an interesting flavor, not because it is sweet. Unadulterated chocolate is almost unpalatable.
We like sugary chocolate because it has been changed. Adulterated. Oh.
Could tears clean out the roughness in his eyes?
That is why I am happy. I cry the Sorrow out, since poets are not afraid to do that sort of thing. The
Literature
I didn't hear what he replied when she asked
Last night, while cultivating a high,
watching others laugh with their mouths pried
unabashedly wide,
drinking from the first cup I was handed
to avoid conversation,
I saw a man whom I would not dream to love
but drew me tight with an aloof smile; he was
so suddenly there
that I thought I'd imagined his appearance
until someone was on his arm,
asking his name.
Our reflections were side by side
in the mirror on the far wall of the dark bedroom,
surrounded by tea lights and skin flickering
in warm shades of brandy and honey;
I recorded the angle of his jaw,
the shadows that carved his cheekbones,
and the easy way his lips wrapped around word
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Hear me read this poem: [link]
If you wake up at a different time and in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?
- Fight Club
If you wake up at a different time and in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?
- Fight Club
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Comments16
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Another nice poem 