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Literature Text
I. Truthseers
"Mortality" is a word
spoken soft in onerous rooms
over lips thick with chapstick
to smother
our truth.
Over a road twenty feet
deep a child soars
on creaking rusted flowers
and laughs
at us.
They know
those little grinners
as they spin plates on noses,
toes, and ears.
They know
our great lie
that we've masked in powder,
foundation, and rouge.
"Mortality" is a word
we've made dirty.
Yet it is all we have
for truth.
II. Danse Macabre
Camille Saint-Saëns knew what
he was talking about.
Or playing</u> about.
I don't think he spoke much.
Zig zig, zig zig.
A violin shrieks across
the autumn night.
Or is it winter?
Chill cakes the window.
Crackle, crackle.
From ashy dust he rises.
And plays a single note.
An instrument of bones.
And strings of muscle sinew.
Among croaking trees they spin.
And leap in ghastly air.
Stone-heavy feet.
And branches for arms.
Death is playing for you.
Won't you listen?
Life is screaming for you.
Won't you listen?
III. End Days
Embers strive to glow
in this cold
this chill
pale, unable to warm.
Screeches easy to rise
in this day
this light
foretelling, to an awful end.
A couple embraces
amongst a tragedy.
Twisting, turning, olive steel.
And the people stare
leer, hungry for blood on the pavement.
Three blocks away
a crooked cross
is borne down Main Street.
Thrown in and sinks
beneath muddied green.
Things are shifting
now confess to what is.
Confront the truth of ultimatum
and live in ceasement of fear.
"Mortality" is a word
spoken soft in onerous rooms
over lips thick with chapstick
to smother
our truth.
Over a road twenty feet
deep a child soars
on creaking rusted flowers
and laughs
at us.
They know
those little grinners
as they spin plates on noses,
toes, and ears.
They know
our great lie
that we've masked in powder,
foundation, and rouge.
"Mortality" is a word
we've made dirty.
Yet it is all we have
for truth.
II. Danse Macabre
Camille Saint-Saëns knew what
he was talking about.
Or playing</u> about.
I don't think he spoke much.
Zig zig, zig zig.
A violin shrieks across
the autumn night.
Or is it winter?
Chill cakes the window.
Crackle, crackle.
From ashy dust he rises.
And plays a single note.
An instrument of bones.
And strings of muscle sinew.
Among croaking trees they spin.
And leap in ghastly air.
Stone-heavy feet.
And branches for arms.
Death is playing for you.
Won't you listen?
Life is screaming for you.
Won't you listen?
III. End Days
Embers strive to glow
in this cold
this chill
pale, unable to warm.
Screeches easy to rise
in this day
this light
foretelling, to an awful end.
A couple embraces
amongst a tragedy.
Twisting, turning, olive steel.
And the people stare
leer, hungry for blood on the pavement.
Three blocks away
a crooked cross
is borne down Main Street.
Thrown in and sinks
beneath muddied green.
Things are shifting
now confess to what is.
Confront the truth of ultimatum
and live in ceasement of fear.
Literature
we are the moment.
i don't
mean to
be a
bother, but
i'm scared i
suppose.
-
everyone has to be somewhere.
-
and i guess
i'll go home now,
because
we smell, of smoke
from our favorite brand of
cigarrettes, and
we're not even smokers.
-
everyone needs a place to stay.
-
and i still plan to
color my scars someday,
but for now
i'll have to do
with
red.
-
everyone wants to be in love.
-
but,
don't you
break
my
heart, because i
just
want to go home.
-
don't you believe me. i'm a liar.
-
and if i
swore that
tomorrow
never came,
even though we still believed
in yesterday
then we,
are only meant to
be liars, and i
think
Literature
014.
people are drowning
in small paper sailboats
that are not meant for
the rough waters of
your heart as birds flutter by
your eyes and blind you
from the truth. a thing
called ignorance invades your head
and reality
turns to fantasy.
vinegar-soaked wishing bones
wait on your dresser
to be broken and
make someone's day grand, but they
are too misinformed
about the truth and
continue to collect dust,
lingering on the
thought of being oh-
so-magical. but the clocks
continue to tick,
people continue
to walk, and we will all fade
into nothing but
words and bones. we will
fall into oblivion.
out presence is
insignifica
Literature
Unsigned
Dear Peter,
I'm wondering if you'd be so kind as to lend me your eye. The left one, the flighty one. I only ask because I'm frightened at feeling closed in and closed off as I have been, certainly you of all people understand that. It should go without saying, of course, that yours are a hard shade to find nowadays, and, being that we're much more than acquainted, you were my second thought.
I expect times have been no less than difficult for you, Peter, and whatever responsibility for that you'd feel comfortable placing on me is deserved. Consider this letter whatever ratio request to apology you see adequate.
Ah, I digress. The specimen
Suggested Collections
I don't have much to say about this.
A week or so ago I was driving home when I drove by an accident in which an SUV (guess what color it is and where in the poem I mention it) had flipped over, and an enormous crowd had gathered. I'm assuming that there was more than just the flipped SUV with a crowd of that size, so there were probably some injuries.
I got the first stanza in my head as a result, but when I tried to write it, I got what sounded like three different poems - the first stanzas of the first two sections and the first two stanzas of the last section. But I couldn't quite make them seperate, so I tied them together in a multi-sectioned poem dealing with HEAVY subjects. Y'know, like death.
Muh.
Make of it what you will, I'm too tired to say much else right now.
Life Cycle copyright Megan Schmidt ( ) 2009
A week or so ago I was driving home when I drove by an accident in which an SUV (guess what color it is and where in the poem I mention it) had flipped over, and an enormous crowd had gathered. I'm assuming that there was more than just the flipped SUV with a crowd of that size, so there were probably some injuries.
I got the first stanza in my head as a result, but when I tried to write it, I got what sounded like three different poems - the first stanzas of the first two sections and the first two stanzas of the last section. But I couldn't quite make them seperate, so I tied them together in a multi-sectioned poem dealing with HEAVY subjects. Y'know, like death.
Muh.
Make of it what you will, I'm too tired to say much else right now.
Life Cycle copyright Megan Schmidt ( ) 2009
Comments9
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Part 1 was lovely. I enjoyed it the most.