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Literature Text
They gave him a single sheet of paper, one pencil. "Say your goodbyes," they said, "You'll be gone by tomorrow." He lay, curled on his hard thin mattress, facing the cement wall, and ignored them. Ignored the paper, ignored the warning.
It was nearly midnight when he finally stood. The moon had risen outside, gleaming through the single window, silhouetting the bars.
He sat up and looked at the paper that had remained untouched on the floor. Say your goodbyes, he thought, and picked up the pencil.
It was an hour before he finally finished. The paper was covered - frantic scribbling filled every inch: dreams, confessions, hopes - all written out at last.
With an air of finality, he laid down the pencil. He stared at the paper, tears blurring the words. Then without a sound, he picked up the paper and began to fold, just like he'd been taught, years and years ago.
Minutes passed and still he bent over the page, his fingers struggling to mimic the creases nearly forgotten.
At last he straightened, and stood before the barred window. He watched, paper in hands, as the stars began to fall.
He reached through the bars and gently - oh so gently - released his carefully, painstakingly created paper crane, filled with all his deepest secrets, into the gentle wind. He watched as it drifted on the breeze and smiled, for now a part of his soul was free, and no one could take that away.
They executed at dawn.
It was nearly midnight when he finally stood. The moon had risen outside, gleaming through the single window, silhouetting the bars.
He sat up and looked at the paper that had remained untouched on the floor. Say your goodbyes, he thought, and picked up the pencil.
It was an hour before he finally finished. The paper was covered - frantic scribbling filled every inch: dreams, confessions, hopes - all written out at last.
With an air of finality, he laid down the pencil. He stared at the paper, tears blurring the words. Then without a sound, he picked up the paper and began to fold, just like he'd been taught, years and years ago.
Minutes passed and still he bent over the page, his fingers struggling to mimic the creases nearly forgotten.
At last he straightened, and stood before the barred window. He watched, paper in hands, as the stars began to fall.
He reached through the bars and gently - oh so gently - released his carefully, painstakingly created paper crane, filled with all his deepest secrets, into the gentle wind. He watched as it drifted on the breeze and smiled, for now a part of his soul was free, and no one could take that away.
They executed at dawn.
Literature
anthem for the damned and lost
i'll settle for the outliers
in their imperfect homes
and assume them Gods
and Kings and paragons
of what-i-wish-i-was.
i'll ignore the fire
surrounding the
castle and focus
on the gold.
i'll realise Time is jealous
of Infinity for never
worrying about ending,
yet Infinity is jealous
of Time for never
handling the thought
of eternal Eternity.
mirror, mirror, on the wall.
who's the most fucked-up
of all?
we all are we all are we all are we all are
we all are each other's untold secrets;
we all are each other's forgotten past;
we all are each other's invisible eraser;
we all are each other's inabilities to be
loved, to l
Literature
letter to a psych somewhere
after my mother told me i would be getting a shrink, i daydreamed of all the things i would tell you about myself, how i am sometimes irreparably lonely and how on long car trips i sometimes stay awake for periods of time training my eyes to be unfocused over the white lines on interstate highways, or i sleep with my feet tucked underneath the floorboard carpets, or i read kurt vonnegut novels. after my mother told me she wanted me to talk to someone, i panicked.
here are some things you should know about me: i memorise poetry for fun. i would have an entire vonnegut novel engraved on my tombstone if it would fit. i am good at lying to oth
Literature
i scribbled sex in my notebook
here's my heart;
side effects include:
paranoia and angry poetry.
sweat stains and shampoo.
intentional amnesia, scars.
discoloured bitemarks.
heart-shaped hickeys.
fresh flavourless flesh.
substitution:
manipulation
or replication
of generated
spacing ages
placing ages:
on immature,
disappointed
and replaced
or misplaced.
i lay on my bed,
with you in mind
(with everyone you replace
or everyone to replace you)
i lay on my bed,
writing nonsense in the form
of broken stanzas--
of haikus japan
would frown upon. you know what?
fuck syllables. fuck you, too.
(oh wait, i already did that.
oh
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Well... just...
All I have to say is that I didn't even know that cats could cry.
Wow...
Would it be okay if I made a piece based off this?
All I have to say is that I didn't even know that cats could cry.
Wow...
Would it be okay if I made a piece based off this?