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Literature Text
It's my indiscretion…
Blooming clinical depression
On an empty concession.
Don't mind my digression…
As I study my transgression,
Led to a misimpression.
Despite my aggression…
You have made quite an impression
To engage a closed session.
I have a confession…
I'm consumed by your obsession;
I yearn for your possession.
Blooming clinical depression
On an empty concession.
Don't mind my digression…
As I study my transgression,
Led to a misimpression.
Despite my aggression…
You have made quite an impression
To engage a closed session.
I have a confession…
I'm consumed by your obsession;
I yearn for your possession.
Literature
confessions of a misguided poet
certain things in my mind
would be better left unsaid,
such as:
i. how I stared at a bottle of pills
for an hour as if they would slide down
my throat on their own.
ii. when I stepped out of the shower
with bloody knees and didn't bother
to put a band aid over them.
iii. why I can't keep a smile long
enough for someone to take
my picture.
iv. who I wanted to be when I was
a little girl and who I am
right here and now.
v. where I tried to jump off a
bridge and landed in water
deep enough for me to swim in.
vi. what I wanted to scream at
you that day but I just stayed
silent and hoped you would forget.
no more pretty words and
l
Literature
Four of a Kind (Confessions of a King).
I am
The upward curl
Of her mouth,
The smile she wears
When she has no doubt
That what she sees
Is true.
I am all her cares.
I am the glimmer
In her eyes -
All she sees
Because I leave her blind.
I am the polluted oxygen
She thrives off of -
The very same toxicity
Coursing through her veins,
Merely a harlequin
Who increases her pains.
I am the king
Of her body,
Of her heart.
I am all that she values
And I value all that
She has to lose.
I am the fall
Before the pain,
The slow dancing
Of the dying leaves
In a season
Without the rain.
I am the largest planet
In her universe,
Maybe not her sun
But I am the only one
Her earth
Revolves around.
I
Literature
I never cry in the daylight
I know what it is to die,
curled up on the bed with the sheets
strewn about, leaking regret
into a pillow case
while daylight shines
through the window
as if everything is ordinary—
as if nothing died and
the world is as beautiful and
logical as ever.
I know what it is to sit
in a lonely room
with a dim lamp for light,
wanting desperately to cry,
but only able to sit
in silence as the nausea gnaws
and the images of toxic cleaner fluid
cocktails won’t subside
and cars keep driving by
outside the window,
their ghostly headlights
illuminating the darkness—
reminders that some people
still have a reason.
I know what
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The whiskey made me do it.
© 2014 - 2024 sioranth
Comments6
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*chuckle* At least it wasn't that demon rum... a fine work with several nicely crafted slide zones.