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Literature Text
who you dream when you sleep,
and for which ways would you wake?
now open that door, and let in that dark
(quiet as a slip or a slouch)
from the sinking ships that no one sees.
and come hither; with a fuse and a fuss
almost anything can be unmade.
oh, but what of this bad blood begs to water―
see, those grey-gutted rivers which b(l)urry my night
are always sweetest in the thick of a loss.
and for which ways would you wake?
now open that door, and let in that dark
(quiet as a slip or a slouch)
from the sinking ships that no one sees.
and come hither; with a fuse and a fuss
almost anything can be unmade.
oh, but what of this bad blood begs to water―
see, those grey-gutted rivers which b(l)urry my night
are always sweetest in the thick of a loss.
Literature
Thirty Three Percent
"What are you doing?"
"I think…I finally figured out percentages."
"We learnt those in the third grade."
"Yeah, but we always complained that we'd never use them in real life."
"And you know how to use them in real life now?"
"Eighty four percent."
"What's that?"
"That's the percentage of how many basketball matches you lost to me when we were kids."
"That's not fair! You're taller than me!"
"Fifty two percent."
"Is that how much taller than me you are?"
"No. That's the percentage of times you speak out of turn and get into trouble for it."
"Very funny."
"Twenty three percent."
"Let me guess, that's how much I annoy you?"
Literature
Inside
I watched my best friend die.
It wasn't in a hospital and it wasn't an accident on some road somewhere. There's a saying, and I guess it's also… funny… how you never know what's going on behind closed doors.
I guess you're probably thinking of suicide - overdose, hanging by the rope, or (god forbid) the knife, but... it's not that.
Because it's one thing to die and it's another to die. I believe you can exist without properly living.
What is a life? We are born into this world with no say on the matter, and yet the majority of us take for granted that tomorrow we will wake up to another morning, another routine, another day in
Literature
Grandfather
I recall,
He was white.
But, not the
--"controversial at political dinner parties" and "this racist comment will cost him the election kind"--
Stark, snowy, riveting white.
His hair was always victim to the static that came from
resting against
the mountain of pillows that topped off his hospital bed.
He always lay there,
a beacon in the middle of the dark, mudd brown, living room.
I suppose it was hell to live the last of his life there,
but at six, I thought he was God,
living on a cloud that was Heaven.
I remember his warm hands, their blue lines, and their wrinkles,
the way his smile never met his eyes--
and his eyes said he
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this was the original first part of my "forty veils/as many whacks" series (which is approx. halfway done and yet to be posted) that i ended up discarding because the writing itself is so sub par. but hey, you know what they say about humble beginnings.
anyway, i don't want to give much away about the project itself, but: it's basically 40 ten-line poems, or one 400 line poem depending on how you wanna look at it. progress is slow for a variety of reasons, so idk when they whole thing will be posted. but i guess, thematically speaking, you could consider this a sneak-preview of sorts!
anyway, i don't want to give much away about the project itself, but: it's basically 40 ten-line poems, or one 400 line poem depending on how you wanna look at it. progress is slow for a variety of reasons, so idk when they whole thing will be posted. but i guess, thematically speaking, you could consider this a sneak-preview of sorts!
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