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Literature Text
His smile tasted like sour candies
and his eyes reminded her
of broken dolls and beheaded toys.
His hands felt like snakes,
coiled around her porcelain thighs like ropes
and his breath reminded her of rotting leftovers.
And she:
she was only a child
(but not for long
[enough]
and his eyes reminded her
of broken dolls and beheaded toys.
His hands felt like snakes,
coiled around her porcelain thighs like ropes
and his breath reminded her of rotting leftovers.
And she:
she was only a child
(but not for long
[enough]
Literature
coming home
moments no longer
hang
delicately suspended
waiting
instead
deliriously happy
racing the storm
running down a street
thunder and sheets of rain
all around
wind curves around
pushes forcefully forward
leap
storm raging
pulls
up
Literature
It Is Hope
Dollar signs swarm like wasps,
Threaten to sting from all directions.
They thicken, become the fog of depression,
The choking, crippling fog, threatening to solidify,
Become the dark abyss, the place knowledge fails
to picture out of pure terror.
But then, a spark.
Will it ignite?
What is it?
Employment? Success?
Happiness?
It is these things and more, yet it is not.
It is hope.
Literature
In the Syllable
...then there is a way in diswaiting.
Dust some yellow sand covers,
here uncover bare bedding.
...suffusing red planes, blushed dunes,
under incidentally quilted blanket
wet as arid curves, as sounds.
...in a persistent pavement,
in a solemn unsuited promise,
some written words erase
some letters drip and soak
unto a perfuse miracle,
a dislocated split,
a letting go of...
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It's not the monster under your bed that you need to be afraid of anymore:
he's in your bed, now.
he's in your bed, now.
© 2011 - 2024 Alleyana
Comments16
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wow! Creepy, great job!