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Literature Text
So I retreat
To shadows again
To blackened ash
Where I began
The only truth
I've learned of you
I'm the mistake
You didn't choose
Should I thank you
For the glimpse of sun
That you've shown me
Before you've gone?
Because I've run
Into fire for you
If my bones were kindling
Will my heart be too?
And there I found
Your own eden
When I lay
On the ground bleeding
I saw the stars
They laughed at me
A burned out flame
To eternal glow
We live a blink
Before we go.
To shadows again
To blackened ash
Where I began
The only truth
I've learned of you
I'm the mistake
You didn't choose
Should I thank you
For the glimpse of sun
That you've shown me
Before you've gone?
Because I've run
Into fire for you
If my bones were kindling
Will my heart be too?
And there I found
Your own eden
When I lay
On the ground bleeding
I saw the stars
They laughed at me
A burned out flame
To eternal glow
We live a blink
Before we go.
Literature
Sad Poem (Written on a Monday)
Inside our house, surrounded
by plants, that soft light—
the weakest shade
of gray and waiting
to turn it all yellow.
I have slept and slept
for days now,
unfolding into small
moments, only to see you
orbiting our mattress,
waiting for some type of
human reaction, any
kind of movement.
I need a haircut.
I need to shave and go
to work and forget these
days of no control
where I’m a child again,
reeling and afraid that it
will always be this way,
that I will always be in my room,
alone until someone calls me down
for supper, and then a bath,
some prime time television,
and straight to bed.
I am locked outside of something
Literature
letter from the moon
I spent three years of my life staring into the sun.
do you know what kind of damage that does to someone?
friends would take turns convincing me
to look away
but when I did --
afterimages
of light danced on the walls.
we built a home in them;
we played pretend, made shadows
of a life with our hands, lied
for days in the sun's mark.
we knew we could not live there.
the house soon grew
dark, silent, slowly. when nothing more could be seen,
I spilt the spirit from my own
split throat.
I thanked the sun for its gift:
blindness.
Literature
Nuclear Winter
There were only a few signs at first:
Rumors on the streets,
sidelong glances and knowing looks,
specific questions and awkward conversations.
Then it became more obvious:
Outright accusations,
those close to me getting ready,
news from (un)verified sources.
The explosion came long after:
It shook the ground as ire spewed from our mouths,
sending people nearby running for cover.
Smoke billowed out from our ears and noses.
Words, like flaming comets raining to the ground,
littered down and burned both of us.
We hissed and seethed like bubbling water, burning anyone
that was unfortunate enough to be close to us.
The radioactivity alone was
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- Chennie
- Chennie