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Literature Text
I wonder if you wonder
how it goes,
how it was, how it should be
on Tuesday mornings
lost
in the reef
when the stars fade to blue.
Drifting into five AM,
half of myself
is listless--
for you, for him.
Ugly
and void
and landlocked.
Dear poetry:
for what it's worth
I am not your ocean girl.
I am just trying to sleep.
how it goes,
how it was, how it should be
on Tuesday mornings
lost
in the reef
when the stars fade to blue.
Drifting into five AM,
half of myself
is listless--
for you, for him.
Ugly
and void
and landlocked.
Dear poetry:
for what it's worth
I am not your ocean girl.
I am just trying to sleep.
Literature
it's the little things that follow you to sleep
lately, i’ve been wasting every minute
choking on inevitabilities; wondering
how many times i’ll promise myself
this year i’ll be different until
i move on to something less
unattainable. truthfully, i’m just sorry
for the ones who still think
i’m trying
and i have been waiting an
ugly amount of years for my
prophetic completion-- a love like
i say you’re beautiful when really i mean
you make my heart stop, like
i was born to meet you or perhaps
i’m actually breaking some universal law
of equilibrium; loving something
so unnaturally
beautiful.
i want a love like that:
napkin poems, handwritten
Literature
I Dream of You
I close my eyes
and I see your face
The smile that makes
everyone smile and laugh
The eyes that sparkle
when you joke around
The laugh that infects
everyone and makes me laugh
You look at me
and smile
I run my fingers
through your hair
you sigh and smile
I close my eyes
and dream of you
Literature
Autumn was my first love.
October, I follow you -
from the magic lights of New York
to moonshines in Georgia,
until the colors dissolve.
The anxious poetry of autumn
made a memory of me.
Here’s to things I take for granted:
September blues,
chasing airplanes,
country road thunderstorms.
Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.
October, I follow you;
I thought I saw you on the shore
where the river runs through gold
on the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -
or perhaps Pittsburgh
(it was the lights I guess).
Here’s to the things we leave behind:
sunbeams in November,
letters addressed to no one,
poems, wounds, dead birds.
I’ve got that summ
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