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Literature Text
A poet keeps starred glass
to catch a shy rainbow,
to paint a page in pastel hues,
a sunset of words.
Poets bathe with emotion,
dine with dreams,
play with faith,
and write with reckless hearts,
polishing shadow.
Poets catch fireflies
and shooting stars,
delighting in luminescent jam jars,
and never failing to light the world.
Poets are seekers
with words in their hearts
and a song in their soul,
creatures of star and fire and air,
flying on the ground.
to catch a shy rainbow,
to paint a page in pastel hues,
a sunset of words.
Poets bathe with emotion,
dine with dreams,
play with faith,
and write with reckless hearts,
polishing shadow.
Poets catch fireflies
and shooting stars,
delighting in luminescent jam jars,
and never failing to light the world.
Poets are seekers
with words in their hearts
and a song in their soul,
creatures of star and fire and air,
flying on the ground.
Literature
headache colours
It was raining when my mother drove me home from my first psychiatrist appointment last December. The neighbourhood's Christmas lights reflected onto the wet pavements, similar to how, almost exactly a year ago, the blues and reds of all the ambulance lights reflected onto the wet streets and how the blues and the purples and the yellows of my bruises stuck to my wet skin. I sat in the passenger's seat, reflecting upon that psychiatrist visit, similar to how I sat in the psychiatrist's chair, reflecting upon why I needed to be there.
I told the psychiatrist about the car accident I was in last November, told her about the yellow traffic ligh
Literature
Missing You
Missing You
I am so lonely,
And I am filled with despair
Every time I turn around,
I still expect to see you there
It's so much harder,
Harder than I would have thought,
To go on living,
When you are not
Tears...they gather
All the beauty in the world...
Has been shattered...
Missing you,
Is the hardest thing that,
I've ever had to do
I wish that it would change,
I wish that I could take your place,
I wish that I!
Could turn back the hands of time...
I wish...there was something I could do...
So that I wouldn't be missing you...
When I look at your picture,
I wish that you were here,
I wish it wa
Literature
confusing stars for satellites
i dream of your arms
around me, in empty hallways
lit by nightlights like dreams, imagine that
your breath would be like raindrops, maybe,
and i'll be the river
into which they fall, and i'd catch you,
lightly, i promise
we won't make a sound,
like mice on christmas eve, tiptoe across
holly staircases, tiptoe
on lakes, dance and watch
the moonlight shadow our
reflections, dance
around my dreams, in them,
and find that i would
fax you a smile, a rainbow, a
sunny day, even
my heart -
and yes, it's yours,
but only if
you hold me.
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Comments5
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Poets writing about what it's like to be a poet always make me squirm a little. But that's me. You're in good company, really; lots of greats from the past also examined their own writing process this way.
There are some WONDERFUL lines in here:
". . . reckless hearts,
polishing shadow."
"luminescent jam jars"--that's my favorite of all.
Your picture of a poet's heart is a bit idealized to my mind, but maybe that's because you're young. Whether we "never fail" to light the world is certainly debatable, but you could certainly say that a light is being shed from somewhere onto something. You do seem to show a good grasp of the fact that in spite of its airy-fairy reputation, poetry is a precise and exacting art. But some of your statements also seem to confirm the image of the poet as a head-in-the-clouds dreamer disconnected from the world, and of course, as you know, we have to be if anything more deeply connected to it.
There are some WONDERFUL lines in here:
". . . reckless hearts,
polishing shadow."
"luminescent jam jars"--that's my favorite of all.
Your picture of a poet's heart is a bit idealized to my mind, but maybe that's because you're young. Whether we "never fail" to light the world is certainly debatable, but you could certainly say that a light is being shed from somewhere onto something. You do seem to show a good grasp of the fact that in spite of its airy-fairy reputation, poetry is a precise and exacting art. But some of your statements also seem to confirm the image of the poet as a head-in-the-clouds dreamer disconnected from the world, and of course, as you know, we have to be if anything more deeply connected to it.