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Literature Text
Sometimes I like to pretend that
I'm God, putting a pen to
paper and scripting out someone's
life like a puppeteer.
Maybe if I
wrote the epilogue in
my own blood, the
screams inside my
head wouldn't be as
loud.
"They aren't
real," is just an excuse
for killing off their
loved ones; I want to feel
their agony tenfold (because I
deserve to think I'm as heartless
as I feel).
I'm God, putting a pen to
paper and scripting out someone's
life like a puppeteer.
Maybe if I
wrote the epilogue in
my own blood, the
screams inside my
head wouldn't be as
loud.
"They aren't
real," is just an excuse
for killing off their
loved ones; I want to feel
their agony tenfold (because I
deserve to think I'm as heartless
as I feel).
Literature
excuses for why I'm shaking
we live in a world of apologies.
I made a mistake a year back,
choosing my addiction to oxygen
over less demanding things.
I’m sick of trembling for problems
that aren’t mine and I’m sick of trying
to romanticize black holes and
the indiscriminate nature of lithium and
I’m sick of waking up every morning
feeling sick. and truly, I’m sorry
but I’m not ready to accept my role
in the making of myself. I’m not ready
to lament for those with a smaller
pain tolerance, and for my dislike
of anything that requires commitment.
I’m sorry I miss you and I’m sorry
I won’t admit that out
Literature
God called in sick today
God called in sick today,
and the sky is dancing.
People walked hand in hand
singing in tune with the damned.
Running without stories
‘this is what tragedy feels like’
dead is the new alive
but misery loves company.
Racing with the devil
one doesn't dare stop against
the lord of the damned
he laughs against the concrete.
Can one play with madness
as they dance on clouds of mind?
Heavens a lie when butterflies are flying in hurricanes
And God takes a day off.
Wasted time throwing rocks at stars
souls refuse their eternal rest
they drink a cup of galaxy for breakfast
hymn of the shameless.
Obsession is an ugly word.
When d
Literature
Dear Poetry,
You will find out that I am not a strong person. Dragons do not make a home beneath my skin to hoard their treasured princesses. I am not that lucky. For I have misplaced collarbones just as quickly as I’ve misplaced hearts, a pulse still rhythmic against my fingertips. I am a monster of words, devouring Cummings and Plath with no ounce of self control left in my body. I promised myself this weight would not fall for the sharp edges of stars ground into your knuckles. But, write air into my lungs, poetry. Give this wild thing a reason to learn the definition of tamed.
Write me a poem, and I will promise to fall in love with you, sl
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Another one of my secret series poems.
The secret: "I like to make my characters in my stories suffer because I feel like I deserve it."
My secret blog is here: [link]
I really like this one because I related to it.
The secret: "I like to make my characters in my stories suffer because I feel like I deserve it."
My secret blog is here: [link]
I really like this one because I related to it.
© 2013 - 2024 lupus-astra
Comments43
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Woah. This is really deep. Love it