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Literature Text
noise is a deciduous tree originating in asia.
noise has been cultivated for millenia, and appears in many religions and legends.
there are more than 7500 types of noise.
wild noise grows easily from seeds.
noise can develop mildew, which typically appears as dull powdery areas on its surface.
noise is often eaten raw, and the skin is suitable for human consumption.
the seeds of noise are mildly poisonous.
noise blossoms in spring in five-petaled pink and white flowers.
noise matures in late summer or autumn.
when noise is ripe, its skin turns red.
noise has been cultivated for millenia, and appears in many religions and legends.
there are more than 7500 types of noise.
wild noise grows easily from seeds.
noise can develop mildew, which typically appears as dull powdery areas on its surface.
noise is often eaten raw, and the skin is suitable for human consumption.
the seeds of noise are mildly poisonous.
noise blossoms in spring in five-petaled pink and white flowers.
noise matures in late summer or autumn.
when noise is ripe, its skin turns red.
Literature
wondertow
perhaps love is meant to end. love opens one's eyes and mind to hope, validation, presence; meaning should exist before, during, after else one be lost in a sea of throwing-up-hands and mirrors smoked. tears are choked back often, smeared journal entries erode over time to be faint scars; we are libraries of guilt and apprehension stacked past icarus' wonder. once your fangs grow you're in the bite, only right to taste a throat or two before you file them away like wildflowers between pages of a book you will bury in dust. perhaps love is meant to remind us of kindness offered, of striving to be more, of how we know ourselves when we feel blessed, of coughing up beauty like stars aligned with expectations. and then, as a candle at dawn, let go.
Literature
The Weight We Carry
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean the fifty
pounds of textbooks
I stuff it with, filled
to bursting, then
take the stairs two
at a time to hear
my abdominal muscles scream
and feel my breath flee,
never looking back.
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean in pounds,
kilograms, ounces or stones—
maybe stones
the kind that Virginia Woolf
lined her pockets with
when she walked
into the Ouse.
When I say my bag is heavy,
I mean that Atlas staggered
under this weight,
and when my therapist asks
“Do you feel strong?”
I feel the crushing
of my collarbone
and answer truthfully,
“No.”
Literature
momentary.
✦ ✦ ✦
I am the sparks from a lost connection,
impulse on wires seeking a listener;
an unheard reply, silenced and aimless,
speeding in no apparent direction.
I can't stay afire - but before I'm smothered
by cold rooftop winds, I'll snap underneath
the talons of ravens, make them descent and
watch their arched wings spiral in turbulences.
╱ ╱ ╱ ╱ ╱ ╱ ╱ ╱
╱ ╱
Suggested Collections
inspired by the panic attack i had today in a very loud classroom, and a wikipedia article on apples.
© 2015 - 2024 scheherazades
Comments16
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i love the way this feels, if that makes any sense. lovely job 