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Literature Text
They gave him a single sheet of paper, one pencil. "Say your goodbyes," they said, "You'll be gone by tomorrow." He lay, curled on his hard thin mattress, facing the cement wall, and ignored them. Ignored the paper, ignored the warning.
It was nearly midnight when he finally stood. The moon had risen outside, gleaming through the single window, silhouetting the bars.
He sat up and looked at the paper that had remained untouched on the floor. Say your goodbyes, he thought, and picked up the pencil.
It was an hour before he finally finished. The paper was covered - frantic scribbling filled every inch: dreams, confessions, hopes - all written out at last.
With an air of finality, he laid down the pencil. He stared at the paper, tears blurring the words. Then without a sound, he picked up the paper and began to fold, just like he'd been taught, years and years ago.
Minutes passed and still he bent over the page, his fingers struggling to mimic the creases nearly forgotten.
At last he straightened, and stood before the barred window. He watched, paper in hands, as the stars began to fall.
He reached through the bars and gently - oh so gently - released his carefully, painstakingly created paper crane, filled with all his deepest secrets, into the gentle wind. He watched as it drifted on the breeze and smiled, for now a part of his soul was free, and no one could take that away.
They executed at dawn.
It was nearly midnight when he finally stood. The moon had risen outside, gleaming through the single window, silhouetting the bars.
He sat up and looked at the paper that had remained untouched on the floor. Say your goodbyes, he thought, and picked up the pencil.
It was an hour before he finally finished. The paper was covered - frantic scribbling filled every inch: dreams, confessions, hopes - all written out at last.
With an air of finality, he laid down the pencil. He stared at the paper, tears blurring the words. Then without a sound, he picked up the paper and began to fold, just like he'd been taught, years and years ago.
Minutes passed and still he bent over the page, his fingers struggling to mimic the creases nearly forgotten.
At last he straightened, and stood before the barred window. He watched, paper in hands, as the stars began to fall.
He reached through the bars and gently - oh so gently - released his carefully, painstakingly created paper crane, filled with all his deepest secrets, into the gentle wind. He watched as it drifted on the breeze and smiled, for now a part of his soul was free, and no one could take that away.
They executed at dawn.
Literature
this metaphor hurts the worst
he dreams in blackandwhite
because color has always hurt his heart
and maybe he envies the moon,
maybe he's jealous of the stars,
maybe he just wants to burn in his one-bedroom house
without the dramas of letting everything go.
his metaphors are flatandgray
because emotion has always soured his stomach
and maybe he envies Hemingway,
maybe he's jealous of Poe,
maybe he just needs to get lost for a while
away from this bleeding-heart world.
Literature
things you lost this year.
your virginity. a keychain
from your dead mother
you kept
in your pocket. your lucky pencil.
luck in general.
a pile of post-it notes
that said
fuck you, life
and, my flowers don't grow anymore
and, i'm not a flower
and, i guess it doesn't matter
because i'm still not growing.
your guiding star,
even though
it was only
on your ceilling. a sense
of urgency. the belief
things will get better.
the person
in the mirror
you thought
you knew.
Literature
anthem for the damned and lost
i'll settle for the outliers
in their imperfect homes
and assume them Gods
and Kings and paragons
of what-i-wish-i-was.
i'll ignore the fire
surrounding the
castle and focus
on the gold.
i'll realise Time is jealous
of Infinity for never
worrying about ending,
yet Infinity is jealous
of Time for never
handling the thought
of eternal Eternity.
mirror, mirror, on the wall.
who's the most fucked-up
of all?
we all are we all are we all are we all are
we all are each other's untold secrets;
we all are each other's forgotten past;
we all are each other's invisible eraser;
we all are each other's inabilities to be
loved, to l
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Well... just...
All I have to say is that I didn't even know that cats could cry.
Wow...
Would it be okay if I made a piece based off this?
All I have to say is that I didn't even know that cats could cry.
Wow...
Would it be okay if I made a piece based off this?