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Literature Text
I don’t want to be the wind beneath your wings
or any other monumental things
I wish to be feathers
(a hand to hold,
a gaze to meet
a place at night
to dream in peace)
so you can still fly
away
or any other monumental things
I wish to be feathers
(a hand to hold,
a gaze to meet
a place at night
to dream in peace)
so you can still fly
away
Literature
How to Sleep and Never Wake Up
The year they discovered my best friend, twenty years old and silent under the heap of her wrecked car, I learned one can sleep forever and never wake up.
That year, her sister, only seventeen, ate magic mushrooms and lost her mind and her brother, fourteen, started running and stopped eating and I didn't eat magic mushrooms but lost my mind anyway as everyone watched my skin, too white to be real, disintegrate before their eyes.
That year I flew to Colorado to see an urn surrounded by pointe shoes. It reminded me more of a wastebasket than the last I would see of the girl who shared my soul. Her sister ran naked through the street a few da
Literature
I Call Him Compulsion
Three. Four. Five. I like five; it feels complete. Okay, one more time. Six…
Seven. Done.
"How long does it take to get a glass of water?" my husband calls from the living room.
"Sorry, I'm coming." I resist the urge to rinse the glass a few more times. Cleanliness is not a factor—it's the numbers. The completion. The habit. I take a sip of my water and force myself to stop asking if I should just run the water one more time.
I join Sam in the living room and sit in my usual spot: the center recliner. He always lies on the couch to watch TV. It works.
He hits the play button, and we watch ten minutes of reality before the demon
Literature
Beginning We End
Him, in the very beginning:
He is eighteen when he gets his death sentence. Unlike most death sentences, this one isn't going to send him to the guillotine or maybe the noose. Instead, it's handed to him by a doctor with very clean hands in a stark white room probably very similar to the one he'll end up dying in. And it's not the type of death sentence carried out by an impassive executor. He's essentially going to kill himself. He is dying from the inside out.
He mumbles something at the doctor, and suddenly he is on the street, a white piece of paper fisted and crumped in his hands. He's grateful it has the prescription written on it in
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Hello friends, how have you been? I haven't posted much because I haven't been writing as much because I only tend to write full pieces when I'm sad, or have the ambition to finish them. Today happened to be such a day, which is largely in part because I logged onto dA to see that I had received a DD. It's been a nice day.
As you can see, I still haven't stopped writing about birds. This poem isn't very good, but I don't consider a lot of my poetry to be good, so it'll blend right on in. It's just a little snippet that I've been toying around with, but I like how it hops about, like a bird. Did I mention that I enjoy writing about birds?
I have a lot of little snippets stored about my computer. Like a squirrel hoarding nuts. Maybe I'll start posting them again.
As you can see, I still haven't stopped writing about birds. This poem isn't very good, but I don't consider a lot of my poetry to be good, so it'll blend right on in. It's just a little snippet that I've been toying around with, but I like how it hops about, like a bird. Did I mention that I enjoy writing about birds?
I have a lot of little snippets stored about my computer. Like a squirrel hoarding nuts. Maybe I'll start posting them again.
© 2014 - 2024 Seilf
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Fragile and beautiful x