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Literature Text
i. engine churns:
the dog's left at home,
he agitated Her again
and all he can hear
is the motor burning.
ii. his whines grow hoarse:
wrapped windows bind sunshine
but he sniffs for it
when he knows daylight
won't comfort him.
then the walls grow mold,
as its paper falls off
and folds into the
depressions of the floor.
(he claws to get out)
he has itches to scratch out
of his bowl-like stomach;
his nose is dry,
starving to be happy.
spilled milk is now spoiled,
but he laps it up
as the
heater cooks his home,
makes him cry again.
iii. postcard said She flew north:
She left without a care,
but he's still waiting;
sounds familiar.
the dog's left at home,
he agitated Her again
and all he can hear
is the motor burning.
ii. his whines grow hoarse:
wrapped windows bind sunshine
but he sniffs for it
when he knows daylight
won't comfort him.
then the walls grow mold,
as its paper falls off
and folds into the
depressions of the floor.
(he claws to get out)
he has itches to scratch out
of his bowl-like stomach;
his nose is dry,
starving to be happy.
spilled milk is now spoiled,
but he laps it up
as the
heater cooks his home,
makes him cry again.
iii. postcard said She flew north:
She left without a care,
but he's still waiting;
sounds familiar.
Literature
Missing Pieces.
I am a missing piece. Something that someone needs.
But at the same time, I feel so incomplete.
I’ve wandered way too far, wondered for far too long
Am I a missing piece? Or a piece that won’t belong?
Is it possible I’m damaged and not missing at all?
That I’m just as dysfunctional as everybody else?
Pretending to be perfect never softened a single fall.
But neither did admitting that you’re broken and flawed.
A broken missing piece. Is that all I’m meant to be?
There is no master plan that includes the likes of me.
Being all alone, it’s a hurt that will not cease.
A hundred thousand years from now
Literature
Icarus
Sun girl,
the whispering stars
& feathered clouds dance
for you tonight.
Do not let anyone
clip your wings;
you were made for the skies.
Literature
R.I.P.
Did anyone notice that she winced if you raised your arm?
Did anyone notice that her eyes were wide with alarm?
Did anyone notice that she never looked you in the eye?
Did anyone notice that her voice was but a sigh?
Did anyone notice that her skin was always bruised?
Did anyone question whether she might be abused?
Did anyone question why she walked in obvious fear?
Did anyone question why one day she did not appear?
Did anyone recognize her face on the six-o’clock news?
Did anyone see her remains pulled from the river refuse?
Did anyone care that this quiet girl no longer exists?
No. No one did. And she will never even be missed.
R.I
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majorly edited!
Old version -
there's a dog at home,
and he's tied to the door.
(he can hear the motor run)
he sniffs for the sun,
but daylight can't comfort him.
(he stares at the boarded window)
he has itches to scratch,
while butterflies swell inside.
(his whines sound hoarse)
walls start to grow mold,
as its paper falls off.
(he claws to get out)
spilled milk is now spoiled,
but he laps it up.
(his nose is dry;
starving to be happy)
heater starts to burn,
and the floor starts to melt,
making him cry again.
he's still waiting;
sounds familiar.
nobody told him
that she will leave
without a care.
now he'll die
with no one there.
Old version -
there's a dog at home,
and he's tied to the door.
(he can hear the motor run)
he sniffs for the sun,
but daylight can't comfort him.
(he stares at the boarded window)
he has itches to scratch,
while butterflies swell inside.
(his whines sound hoarse)
walls start to grow mold,
as its paper falls off.
(he claws to get out)
spilled milk is now spoiled,
but he laps it up.
(his nose is dry;
starving to be happy)
heater starts to burn,
and the floor starts to melt,
making him cry again.
he's still waiting;
sounds familiar.
nobody told him
that she will leave
without a care.
now he'll die
with no one there.
© 2013 - 2024 nosedivve
Comments72
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I really love this poem. Your diction is beautiful, and purely strange, as always. And here it is soaked in cold reality. It drips regret...hits bone. Great work.