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Literature Text
In our early days we had short haircuts and
Long legs (that wander)
Endless questions and
Loud voices that got louder
Our hands touched everything
And our minds sang songs
No one understood
But our mothers brushed our
Tangles away and
"Sang" us to sleep
Our fathers explained everything
And lifted us high
(So much we actually thought
We felt the sky)
We saw them as superheroes
Invincible, convenient and just
AWESOME~!
- - - - -
But you open your eyes now
In a quick gesture you see,
They've grown and so have you--
But you can't help looking back
To your dreams at 2002.
Long legs (that wander)
Endless questions and
Loud voices that got louder
Our hands touched everything
And our minds sang songs
No one understood
But our mothers brushed our
Tangles away and
"Sang" us to sleep
Our fathers explained everything
And lifted us high
(So much we actually thought
We felt the sky)
We saw them as superheroes
Invincible, convenient and just
AWESOME~!
- - - - -
But you open your eyes now
In a quick gesture you see,
They've grown and so have you--
But you can't help looking back
To your dreams at 2002.
Literature
january
“did you know,”
she asks, sitting
beside me on the
sofa. the room is
sweltering, thick
like an ocean made
of air. a sea our
eyes can’t
see. summer
makes me feel like i
am breathing underwater,
like i'm suspended in
a world where hard hits
close in on me in gentle
waves, like i’m constantly
tumbling but i'll wash
up somewhere, eventually.
i do know. i don’t know
it yet, but this time
i'm landing with two feet
when the tide comes in.
(“did you know that today
was his birthday?”)
Literature
the greatest poem
The greatest poem I’ve never read is lying in a notebook somewhere, probably in Bangladesh, written in a language I can’t speak by a person I will never hear. I’ve never seen it nor heard of it because this person doesn’t know what they have and no one knows to dig where a mosaic is laid. And in the silent space that poem leaves I tremble. I ache, like an untouched woman. The greatest poem I’ve never written is lying in my heart right now, it's gatekeepers grief and shame. It’s there because of emotions I can’t give names for fear of unlocking too much and it all flowing out like a broken dam. You have never seen flood; you have not known storm. And in the silent space that poem leaves I cry. I bleed, from my fingers and from my palms. The greatest poem that never was must be in a dead man’s heart, or a woman’s, and I think of hiring grave robbers and a necromancer but the past is a torn sheet that can’t keep us warm. Although, some things can mend. I think I could revive this
Literature
grow
To the dandelion,
In this part of the world,
the heart of July is frigid.
Frost renders the clay-earth firm as concrete
while gusts from the snowies
raze any hope of warmth.
Things do not thrive here,
yet this is where fate cast your seed
and you, unwillingly, grew your roots,
and became mangled
by what should have nurtured.
But spoiler alert:
survival is no pretty thing.
You are no spring tulip,
no summer orchid,
no autumn rose.
Though it shames you now,
the day will come
where you are proud
of having grown
out of a crack in pavement.
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