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Literature Text
Dance is a fluid,
Flowing, softly, streamlined.
Every movement effortless
Pointed, structured, controlled
Cutting is a fluid,
Fast slashes with a cool blade.
Every movement effortless
Eyes wide, shocked, emotionless.
Dance is an art,
Choreography the paintbrush,
This is your canvas:
The dance floor, sturdy
Cutting is an art,
Painting a picture in blood.
This is your canvas:
Pale, white skin, scarred.
Dance is your life.
Continuous shows, performances.
Nothing comes between you and it.
Focus: Kicks, twirl, smile
Cutting is your life.
It beckons you to never stop
Nothing comes between you and it.
Not even love, you live pain.
Flowing, softly, streamlined.
Every movement effortless
Pointed, structured, controlled
Cutting is a fluid,
Fast slashes with a cool blade.
Every movement effortless
Eyes wide, shocked, emotionless.
Dance is an art,
Choreography the paintbrush,
This is your canvas:
The dance floor, sturdy
Cutting is an art,
Painting a picture in blood.
This is your canvas:
Pale, white skin, scarred.
Dance is your life.
Continuous shows, performances.
Nothing comes between you and it.
Focus: Kicks, twirl, smile
Cutting is your life.
It beckons you to never stop
Nothing comes between you and it.
Not even love, you live pain.
Literature
Could I Send You The Stars
Can I send you the stars?
A million twinkling lettters
Waiting above your head each night to be read
In gentle melody like midnight lullabies
For the girl I dearly wish could hear them.
Can I borrow your moon?
I know without it your nights may feel empty
But I envy its lovely radiance shining
Upon those two eyes
I wish I could see wish I could gaze into
So instead could I borrow your Moon?
And gaze into it hoping I'll find the loveliness
Of your eyes there instead.
Could I steal your Sun?
And pocket it's millions
And millions of memories
Of lightly caressing you with its rays
Knowing the feel of every beautifully delicate
Part of you
Literature
lost but never found
september/october/november/december passed
and not once did i utter your name to my father.
never did i breathe a single syllable about our injustices.
the world never knew how these 2 raging skyscrapers came to be.
through the months of false beginnings,
i spiritualized 4 a.m. walks to abandoned amusement parks.
thought God was somewhere in the rusted roller coaster tracks
speaking in clicks and gusts of wind.
that's what happens when human bones
search for misplaced forgiveness.
we garnered our sincerest apologies
when we swapped wristwatches.
we lost all sense of boundary
when you became an owl
and i blended into the darkness.
Literature
back then,
i was a wildflower girl,
(battle the mountain,
savor the rain.)
but
2 am, this is when i miss you most, because
i,
i am not atlas,
i cannot carry the world
on my shoulders,
in the darkness,
in my shadows,
alone
so i will just tell myself
over
and over
and over
to hang onto
hope, because i have nothing left anymore, not even
the boy who tasted my name
like sucre on his lips, not even
the boy who knew
every inch of me
in the moonlight,
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It's hard to live a double life. It's hard to hide the scars in tight clothes and short dresses. It's hard to fake a smile when you're dying inside.
~ASuicidalPoet
~ASuicidalPoet
© 2013 - 2024 AOnceSuicidalPoet
Comments7
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I could never dance. I don't have the grace....
and yet I wanna do gymnastics.
I'm getting a tattoo soon. It's going to be black with blue butterflies where I had cut most.... my ankle.
and yet I wanna do gymnastics.
I'm getting a tattoo soon. It's going to be black with blue butterflies where I had cut most.... my ankle.