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Literature Text
1.
he’ll say that i’m his favourite nightmare
i know it all too well, the gasps between breaths
and the choking that comes with breathing.
i know white light in waiting rooms
and i know boys like him, asleep
always asleep.
2.
sunset flickers over his face and his hollow eyes
his card-castle body curls into itself,
his hands are an empire of shivering and trembling
and there are shadows the colour of midnight running down his eyes.
he is the damaged good that was declared redundant at customs
and i love using pretty words to cloak the broken
and make them aesthetic masterpieces.
3.
daydreamer, he sits in terraces
with shoelace toes and matchstick fingertips.
i promised to weave him a blanket with his favourite constellations
i promised to put astral sugarcubes in his tea
i promised to paint the stars onto his cheekbones with glitter
but he never believed me.
4.
his existence was halfway between REM cycles,
he was terror shrouded in bedsheets,
i held him when the nightmares came and i told him
“we are all trying and we are all failing”
i told him there was nothing wrong with him.
yet he slept like a hurricane sadness
and i let him sob oceanic saltwater into my shoulderblades.
5.
one day i will paint him into the cosmos
one day i will name a constellation after him
one day i will sprinkle glitter over his gravestone
he was living life in a dream, and i,
i couldn’t pull him out of the nightmare that became him
eventually.
he’ll say that i’m his favourite nightmare
i know it all too well, the gasps between breaths
and the choking that comes with breathing.
i know white light in waiting rooms
and i know boys like him, asleep
always asleep.
2.
sunset flickers over his face and his hollow eyes
his card-castle body curls into itself,
his hands are an empire of shivering and trembling
and there are shadows the colour of midnight running down his eyes.
he is the damaged good that was declared redundant at customs
and i love using pretty words to cloak the broken
and make them aesthetic masterpieces.
3.
daydreamer, he sits in terraces
with shoelace toes and matchstick fingertips.
i promised to weave him a blanket with his favourite constellations
i promised to put astral sugarcubes in his tea
i promised to paint the stars onto his cheekbones with glitter
but he never believed me.
4.
his existence was halfway between REM cycles,
he was terror shrouded in bedsheets,
i held him when the nightmares came and i told him
“we are all trying and we are all failing”
i told him there was nothing wrong with him.
yet he slept like a hurricane sadness
and i let him sob oceanic saltwater into my shoulderblades.
5.
one day i will paint him into the cosmos
one day i will name a constellation after him
one day i will sprinkle glitter over his gravestone
he was living life in a dream, and i,
i couldn’t pull him out of the nightmare that became him
eventually.
Literature
tumblr boy.
you’re my aesthetic
with roses wrapped around
your fists and dressed
in all black from head to toe,
you’ve got wanderlust shining
in your eyes
and sad poetry dripping
from your lips,
just another punk rock loser
with steel in his veins and
fear in his heart—
your soul is pouting
but you hold every ounce
of that fuck all attitude
you can muster in
your slender shoulders
because we live in
an “eat or be eaten” kinda
world but you’d rather
just be laying on your bedroom
floor listening to the
rain make love to your window
and your favorite songs
whisper in your ear while you
silently contemplate life
Literature
to the boy who is a work of art
I was an artist,
but you were a canvas
already coated in paint
Literature
settle
They traveled out east
at the edge of the sink
while the sun crept west
toward the soft harbor lights.
They dripped from the ceiling
like heavy-love dreams.
And hid from the moonlight
as she growled like the sea.
They spun 'round your fingers
and tusseled your hair.
Coiled on paper
and carried conversations…
…
There were always shadows here, darling.
Tired beautiful cold things that filled the bed.
Froze the sheets,
and threw open the windows.
They don't breathe in slumber
but nest like memories…
…
I think they loved you more than I did.
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and we'll go back to being stars one day//
poem for JustACapharnaum based on their request. It turned out a little sadder than I'd have wanted, but well. It is what it is.
© a-girl-named-divine
written today; 2nd July 2016.
poem for JustACapharnaum based on their request. It turned out a little sadder than I'd have wanted, but well. It is what it is.
© a-girl-named-divine
written today; 2nd July 2016.
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Eustace: "In our world, a star is a huge ball of flaming gas." Ramandu: "Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is, but only what it is made of." - C. S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
"The sun? Conscious? How?" 'In a way lower organisms like you have difficulty to grasp. One thought from the source takes longer than a human life. A conversation with other stars takes thousands of your years.' "All the stars are conscious?" A dry laughter resounded. 'Of course. They are the original inhabitants of the cosmos. Without them there would be no organic life, let alone organic consciousness.' - Elian Lazaro, Elysium
"The sun? Conscious? How?" 'In a way lower organisms like you have difficulty to grasp. One thought from the source takes longer than a human life. A conversation with other stars takes thousands of your years.' "All the stars are conscious?" A dry laughter resounded. 'Of course. They are the original inhabitants of the cosmos. Without them there would be no organic life, let alone organic consciousness.' - Elian Lazaro, Elysium