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Literature Text
Speak to me in roars and booms like thunder,
To inspire wild visions in wonder.
Or whisper like the softest breeze in spring
Of a scholar who overthrew the king.
Debate in Fauvist colours, shamelessly bright
And dare to make sunshine in the dead of night.
Shout and scream, hoarse as the Bedlam inmate
On the dagger-sharp edges of cruel fate.
Lie to me in dull dreams like a trickster god,
Tell tales where I can spark like a lightning rod.
Murmur in tones from falsetto to baritone
And make the planets rumble with a song of their own.
Sing to me more skillfully than an opera star,
Like an angel but holier by far.
Laugh like Balder before the arrow struck;
Confident, easy and just out of luck.
But don't stay silent.
Literature
four years old
the killdeer is dead.
my little girl cried for a week.
she cried for that noisy little
feather-devil, that god-forsaken
puppet.
that warmed-fleshed thing that
kept me up all night with it's
whining.
i loathed it's dependancy on me.
"i need food"
"i need water"
"i need love"
"mommy, make it stop"
(just shut up,
shut up,
please!)
i'll be honest with God,
she scares me.
that blonde haired,
brown eyed creature that i birthed.
she scares me with her gaze.
Literature
forever and ever and ever
as in love with love and
life as i am,
i am struggling to accept that
good things can't last forever
and a touch
is simply
a touch, fleeting yet
so very beautiful & i'm so stuck
in my own (not so beautiful) brain
dreaming up things that i know
i don't even believe in,
but i want them
Literature
Ceteris Paribus
In an eon
You and I will greet the choate moon
Surrounded by her fairy dogs
warrior wolves and magnetic fox tails
who howl some foretelling tune
decoded only by the whistling winds
within my once listless room
I nip your Adam's apple by my Cupid's bow
we are a perfect art, a Sistine Michelangelo
We are stomata of the umpteen,
swimming in each other's dulcet drippings
of halved and pitted French tongues and ears
Let the years pass in this gentle deaf-muteness
where Ceteris Paribus
In this, Hallowed and His Seraphims know
how in the glow of one night tide
the firmament of all
folded into my limitless room
You and I part in sweet sorrow
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I wasn't sure whether or not to separate the couplets, but I thought it might make the theme of talking clearer...
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Silence is golden, that is what am told. Sometimes you wonder though, is it really, or is it what we are told to preceive. To know me, is to know that do not believe that. Though cannot hear my own voice, everyday surround self with the sounds of other. Silence is not golden, The musical sound of one's voice in their own ears is golden. The sound of others is that of a bell, it rings gloriously for all to hear. Silence is deafening.