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Literature Text
Your
hands
tremble
with sudden,
wary, butterfly
wing shivers—tiny tremors that
will keep rhythm with your quivering heart, only to
later, clandestine and yet nearly poetic, unravel you from the outside-in.
hands
tremble
with sudden,
wary, butterfly
wing shivers—tiny tremors that
will keep rhythm with your quivering heart, only to
later, clandestine and yet nearly poetic, unravel you from the outside-in.
Literature
Effortless
breathe in
you don't remember why you cry when you're happy,
and smile when you're sad
breathe in
you've begun to find answers
in the calluses of your fingers
and the cracks on the ground
that we built our lives around
breathe out
you're alive more than ever
breathe in
you don't remember what it means
when your eyes sting
and you think you know it all
until you see another day
breathe out
you forgot the words
Literature
Intervention
He let himself in through an unlocked window, following a cool breeze and far-away barking dogs. The window squeaked a bit as he eased it open, fractured moonlight scattering across a dark tableau of shadows.
The floor creaked beneath his boots as he stood, surveying the scene. There she was: the girl he'd come to see. Seated at her desk, head down, backlit by the gentle blue cast of an open laptop. It was so peaceful, but he'd been summoned because of recent violence done here. He sniffed experimentally: blood, cordite, something else… ah, honeysuckle. He liked that smel
Literature
Butterfly/Raven
So we are sitting on one of those
uncomfortably tight bus stop benches
and we've just met,
but she's rather pretty
with her artificially dark hair
and naturally dark eyes.
I tell her a story about my past
and a joke about drugs
and she's laughing-
she says: you sound like you want
a girlfriend,
my boyfriend says he would never
leave me;
wouldn't you want a girl
like me?
And I say no, I would rather
have a butterfly's proboscus
that I could unravel and slide down your throat
in order to better taste your nectar.
The little bench is suddenly too uncomfortable
for her and my laughing
probably doesn't help either.
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I don't want to watch you self-destruct so naturally.
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Written in the Fibonacci Number Sequence
(with a syllable count 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21)
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Featured:
Here by `LadyLincoln
Thank you so much!
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Comments56
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A former professor of mine used to say that poetry forces us to linger in the split-seconds that, if we tried to live in, would drive us mad.