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Literature Text
The walls of flames enclosing us within this dusty circle
Keep us concealed from the lives we once knew.
A battle to defeat, we fight it internally,
Breaking away from the searing fear,
Escaping the prison of singeing hatred.
Our enemies the weapons we trusted daily,
Turning against us because we’re not trustworthy masters.
We’ve lost control of who we were.
Now, we’re stuck tasting the ashes of ourselves,
Inhaling the dust and seeing the embers rain down
In the inferno raging on within our cores.
A battle to defeat, we fight it internally,
Wounds and all.
We rise quicker than we fall.
We may be caged within a battlefield,
But this war won’t last for eternity.
We will defeat this battle either alone or together.
Keep us concealed from the lives we once knew.
A battle to defeat, we fight it internally,
Breaking away from the searing fear,
Escaping the prison of singeing hatred.
Our enemies the weapons we trusted daily,
Turning against us because we’re not trustworthy masters.
We’ve lost control of who we were.
Now, we’re stuck tasting the ashes of ourselves,
Inhaling the dust and seeing the embers rain down
In the inferno raging on within our cores.
A battle to defeat, we fight it internally,
Wounds and all.
We rise quicker than we fall.
We may be caged within a battlefield,
But this war won’t last for eternity.
We will defeat this battle either alone or together.
Literature
wondertow
perhaps love is meant to end. love opens one's eyes and mind to hope, validation, presence; meaning should exist before, during, after else one be lost in a sea of throwing-up-hands and mirrors smoked. tears are choked back often, smeared journal entries erode over time to be faint scars; we are libraries of guilt and apprehension stacked past icarus' wonder. once your fangs grow you're in the bite, only right to taste a throat or two before you file them away like wildflowers between pages of a book you will bury in dust. perhaps love is meant to remind us of kindness offered, of striving to be more, of how we know ourselves when we feel blessed, of coughing up beauty like stars aligned with expectations. and then, as a candle at dawn, let go.
Literature
For Nice.
A strong Oak stands alone amid the hedgerow. Watching over this season's final yield of wheat. The last stage of the crop rotation. No more than a hardy grass, yet sufficient sustenance no less, for those that tend to the field. I note a ring of scarlet poppies circling the wheat. A blood-stain border, soaking the outer edges of the field. Speckled also, in amongst the crop, in that same sporadic pattern seen in blood splatter. A metaphor for the sacrifices made in ensuring that the village stays fed perhaps? Or perhaps, an aesthetic. Planted by the farm hand with little to no particular reasoning, other than just, well, for nice. The dog grows impatient, pulling at his lead as though to say that sometimes things just are, that I ought not to ponder on them for too long, lest I rob them of their inherent beauty. I scratch him behind the ears in agreeance. "good boy, lets get you home".
Literature
Paper Plane
I write my dreams on the wings of a paper plane And send it gliding from my window. Maybe someone will know To throw it again and continue this chain. I write my dreams on the wings of a paper plane. It's still flying, I saw it yesterday, It's now so far away And I don't know if my dreams are still the same. I write my dreams on the wings of a paper plane, And send it gliding from my window. The last one got destroyed by rain, But it's a sunny day tomorrow.
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I like this poem. To me it speaks of the never-ending war we wage internally with ourselves, in order to become the master of our own emotions and gain peace.