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Literature Text
As aeons chart the birth and death of stars
Our lives are numbered minutes, hours and days;
The end of time seems far too far away
To try to stretch a mortal love like ours.
To seize the infinite’s not in my powers;
An epoch’s longer than we can delay
Our lives’, our love’s inexorable decay;
As temporal as flowers in a vase.
But if we grasp each moment that we get -
Each cigarette, each kiss, each coffee cup,
Each friendly fight about the washing up,
Each smile, each fleeting bliss - then we may yet
Create a universe within each breath,
Immortalised each second; cheating Death.
Our lives are numbered minutes, hours and days;
The end of time seems far too far away
To try to stretch a mortal love like ours.
To seize the infinite’s not in my powers;
An epoch’s longer than we can delay
Our lives’, our love’s inexorable decay;
As temporal as flowers in a vase.
But if we grasp each moment that we get -
Each cigarette, each kiss, each coffee cup,
Each friendly fight about the washing up,
Each smile, each fleeting bliss - then we may yet
Create a universe within each breath,
Immortalised each second; cheating Death.
Literature
compulsive liar.
once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
-
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.
"why not?" i reply.
-
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someon
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
Literature
Growing Up
it seems that by now I’ve been diagnosed
with a mild case of weightlessness, mindless
drifting past empty homes and the emptier people
that purchased them. I remember conversations
with you about existentialism
and the almost intricate fabric of my mind and
everything in between, and you-- the way you
paused before making a point as
the words defined themselves in your head:
I remember the day I told you I was God.
Creator of all things unimportant, trapped
in the body of a girl with nothing left to give, you
believed me
it must be a beautiful place
inside your head, with a world
that revolves around hope and expectations
the way
Suggested Collections
A sonnet. A bit Donne-ish, a bit Marvell-ish, a bit me own. Continuing the conceit of Space which seems to more than occasionally come unbidden to me. I like the extra little internal rhymes and words which echo the sound of the end-rhymes. They feel like a good bit of extra stability - like visible beams in an old house.
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Comments29
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Nice example of a Bowlesian sonnet.