There once was an earthen boy
Whom I’ve had the misfortune of loving
With coarse little hands
And long springy limbs
It already reads like a tragedy
On rubble we kissed
Covered in soot
Notes of muffled anguish
Eerily in the background
Were disregarded
We leapt forth into the shadows
Fingers intertwined
We swam in great lakes
Picked thorns out of each other’s wounds
Slept in a tangled cocoon
Under the moonlight
Spring fell short and droughts burned our skin
Breasts against his back I was the shelter
He crawled inside and hid
Plagued by whispers
Stirred out of sleep
At nights we went searching
For home was no longer s
Keep Your Face Battle Ready by fadingreverie, literature
Literature
Keep Your Face Battle Ready
Morning
Time to squeeze into the old meat suit
Time to match
Shoes to bag to skirt to depression
And breathe in
Ideals and goals
A foreign concept known as productivity
Tongue limp behind a wall of crooked teeth
Be sure to keep all fingers clock punching ready
Time to march dutifully out the door
While paying attention the staccato of your steps aligns with your sighs and heartbeats and traffic
Good morning
Don’t forget to be a willing participant
You've yet to uncover the true meaning behind broken promises and hollow commitments
Until the day reality becomes numb legs and shaky hands
While the fate of the universe rests
on your new-found inability to hold a pen
Meatpacking Boulevard by fadingreverie, literature
Literature
Meatpacking Boulevard
Kosher slaughterhouses are now covered
with luxury apartments
so we can all have our steak
wipe mouths with silk
as we rip that meat politely
all frantic crying is now encased in marble
ensuring death is at bay
Once we
sweat rivers as we hauled the cattle in
dined solely on fish
and picked bones out our teeth
Now we keep our skinny fists
deep inside our pockets
the blood rinsed away completely
Absentmindedly
we let our tongues skim yellowing canines
and note
polished marble sounds like decay
Silver tongued and self-assured
So aware that he knows best
With great success did he convince all
That it holds true
Silver tongued and well informed
He knows just what a girl needs
Vulnerable runs in her fishnets
Not so innocent marks on bony knees
Dusty circles overrun by slim dark rivers
Under fate accepting eyes
A harness-like braid
Useful when coiled ever so tightly
All complete with
Wrists constrained in unseen chains
Whilst the key belongs to him
Silver tongued and expectant
The self dubbed repairman thinks that a smudge of paint
To conceal unsightly failures
Some tape for ghastly cracks
Thin thread for
These lines are all
I leave behind
My boots are already pounding on the sidewalk
To my father
Despite your teaching
I failed to learn loyalty
To my mother
We spoke different languages
I tried to understand
To my brother
I'm not coming home
Not today
Not ever
To my sister
The moment I let go of your hand
My feet tripped on the path
To my lover
The tragedy of it all stands
In the very millisecond
I closed my eyes.
Desperately, I Grab Hold Of Something That (LT) by fadingreverie, literature
Literature
Desperately, I Grab Hold Of Something That (LT)
On the day I tried to read Ulysses
my feelings grew and shrank
in tempo with my horrid thoughts
(I couldn't decide what I truly want
in all the banality , in the all the mediocre ways
we hurt others).
You bought this book because I asked you to.
Now I can't read a page without seeing your face...
Humans have 12 ribs on each side of their ribcage.
I know this because Madame counts ours every week.
Less than 12 and back of the line it is.
Carbs are bad, fats are worse, remember to eat less next time. Someone always cries.
Until today, my record was pristine.
"You have 10 ribs."
Truth is usually uncomfortable. I didn't cry like the others.
At home I went through my father's drawer. I pierced my fingers.
Found it.
It amazes me how sometimes, life just hands you everything you need.
"I see you cut back on the garbage." I've never seen her eat. "Well done".
I'm in the front again.
When they all left, she bent over, adjusti
Dear Mr. Mixed Bag,
There is a small pile of ash
on my coffee table
a remnant
of your (oh so very) thought filled
morning cigarette
A similar pile
resides downstairs
where I rested my head
on your shoulder
When you stared
into the polluted distance
I found myself caught
in realization
Doubt means possibility
while truth
with its nasty, gravelly voice
forever reminds me
that I miss you too much .
Talking Is Worse Than Trespassing by fadingreverie, literature
Literature
Talking Is Worse Than Trespassing
The gates were open
I followed through unsuspecting
Placed myself
On the left side of a wooden bench
I found no beauty in hindsight
When the light coming from behind the fence
Cruelly unfolded a night
I‘d rather forget