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Literature Text
1.
I started this poem at midnight
with cigarette smoke choking my skin
and the outside air clogging up
my cold lungs.
The damp floor stole my seat, so I just stood in the dark
looking up.
2.
I see nothing-ness, just black with the occasional
pale yellow moon clambering into my view.
I like how eyelashes curl upwards
and the blue of your irises, but that doesn’t matter,
not now everything has squeezed into shadow.
And the clouds -
well they just hold onto happy things,
letting go of the ugly
hard-hitting rain drops
and gasps of wind.
Don’t laugh but sometimes
I think I'm like a pomegranate,
too many bits and pieces
and I’m slipping out everywhere,
leaving a trail of sweet-peach sadness
on every floor I hit.
3.
Something about callous atmospheres draw me in.
You spilt bottled sea water
on the carpet last week
all because you wouldn’t take me to see the ocean for myself
‘it is just a big puddle with too many secrets’ you said
‘and would only splash against your pretty new clothes.’
Ever since then I can’t stop obsessing about how perfect everything was before you came.
4.
I am a grey water-colour wash.
there is nothing special about me
apart from deep deep down
where pink-tipped matchsticks play hide and seek with the world,
but that is just between the two of us.
5.
At 20:59 this evening I decided I write too much poetry,
words are slug coloured and pressed inside paper.
This could be the last time you hear from me
so I’m going to try make it perfect
beauty never suited me,
but I’ll try.
Speaking of beauty
you are much like a pale porcelain tea-cup,
bitter, half empty
and you hate every damn crack
as you chip away from the inside.
6.
I am in love with your uneven cuticles.
Underneath I imagine the deepest blue to run around,
nothing else, apart from behind your chest bone
where a tiny tiny red heart sits.
I scratched my name beside it three years ago -
but you do not remember details like that.
Your eyes are two moons
falling through a dirty pink sky,
but you blame that on the late nights
and all the coke you did yesterday.
7.
Did I ever tell you that without you
I spin around and around?
I’m like a child in a park tugging at the stray threads
that hang loose from my skirt
and you are watching
as I come undone.
8.
It is now 00:08 and I don’t want to say
I miss you
but I do.
I started this poem at midnight
with cigarette smoke choking my skin
and the outside air clogging up
my cold lungs.
The damp floor stole my seat, so I just stood in the dark
looking up.
2.
I see nothing-ness, just black with the occasional
pale yellow moon clambering into my view.
I like how eyelashes curl upwards
and the blue of your irises, but that doesn’t matter,
not now everything has squeezed into shadow.
And the clouds -
well they just hold onto happy things,
letting go of the ugly
hard-hitting rain drops
and gasps of wind.
Don’t laugh but sometimes
I think I'm like a pomegranate,
too many bits and pieces
and I’m slipping out everywhere,
leaving a trail of sweet-peach sadness
on every floor I hit.
3.
Something about callous atmospheres draw me in.
You spilt bottled sea water
on the carpet last week
all because you wouldn’t take me to see the ocean for myself
‘it is just a big puddle with too many secrets’ you said
‘and would only splash against your pretty new clothes.’
Ever since then I can’t stop obsessing about how perfect everything was before you came.
4.
I am a grey water-colour wash.
there is nothing special about me
apart from deep deep down
where pink-tipped matchsticks play hide and seek with the world,
but that is just between the two of us.
5.
At 20:59 this evening I decided I write too much poetry,
words are slug coloured and pressed inside paper.
This could be the last time you hear from me
so I’m going to try make it perfect
beauty never suited me,
but I’ll try.
Speaking of beauty
you are much like a pale porcelain tea-cup,
bitter, half empty
and you hate every damn crack
as you chip away from the inside.
6.
I am in love with your uneven cuticles.
Underneath I imagine the deepest blue to run around,
nothing else, apart from behind your chest bone
where a tiny tiny red heart sits.
I scratched my name beside it three years ago -
but you do not remember details like that.
Your eyes are two moons
falling through a dirty pink sky,
but you blame that on the late nights
and all the coke you did yesterday.
7.
Did I ever tell you that without you
I spin around and around?
I’m like a child in a park tugging at the stray threads
that hang loose from my skirt
and you are watching
as I come undone.
8.
It is now 00:08 and I don’t want to say
I miss you
but I do.
Literature
the conversationalist
slit-eye winter sun-
rise buried to the hilt
in common
sense.
as if you
'd answered my every fucking
question speaking french-
quelle surprise
indeed.
it's October again, my darling
for pity, oh. for pity's sake, this
talking in morse or
semaphore is getting
older
by the day.
these icy fingers
are not persuaded by my plea of self
defence, the jury's
out, the cock has crowed,
the books are
falling from the shelves
like dodgy tape recordings of
conversations overheard in dreams,
what I want to know is why,
I had my mouth ajar as if to speak,
as though the distance between my
tongue and lip
was suddenly too far.
Literature
-waking patterns-
Waking-
...remembering to breathe....
-savoring a delicious intake of air that swallows like a sip of desperation and stale nostalgia.
Opening eyes-
...forced exhale...
-the air that escapes my lips leaves me with transparent amnesia.
Movement-
...breathe in...
-with arms embracing the fading heat current that intermingles with cotton sheets and cold sweat.
Memories-
...brain function...
-returns with a slow exhale of air that hauntingly whispers of dislocated pain.
Literature
Romantic Irony
I can't breathe when I'm without you,
But you take my breath away.
These little ironies are what compose
The core of destiny and what we are,
What we are not;
The flaws that somehow make us more than
Perfect beings, joined together:
Humans, flawed, when we're apart.
Your love, it takes my words away:
You leave me speechless,
But I'm writing this for you.
How can I say
What cannot, by speech, be expressed?
I want to punctuate my dreams;
I want to speak in tongues for you –
The half of the whole is the nothing.
So here I am, and I'm empty,
Thoughtless, mindless and alone.
You're sitting just across the room,
But you are still
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© 2005 - 2024 inmyroom
Comments221
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I believe this to be my favourite poems of all time. I've loved it since I first read it three years ago. You're an amazing writer, please keep up the good work!