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Literature Text
describing him wasn't really as easy as they thought. they'd think of the first thing that popped to mind, and it tends to be; "he's like a stolid shell of whirling thoughts and jumbled words that seem to rush out of him in one sharp breath."
to me, he's an unlimited number of letters, words and numbers. he's a collage of the world's images, and he blends them together into a pièce de résistance. he lives by his superstitions and adores clichés, and refuses to believe in the ordinary. he pulls people to him, and they are oblivious to it.
they say, "being with him is like plunging into a whirlpool, impossible to clear your head and get out of. it's like sticking your finger into a pot of glue and trailing it over shaved paper. never comes off altogether at once, does it?"
to me, being with him is like falling off the shorter end of a rainbow and narrowly missing the pot of gold. it's the feeling when you're at the highest point of the swing, where time seems to stop and gravity doesn't seem to work. and he's there beside you, while the world swirls beneath you, and nothing can get to you.
they murmur, "he's like a roar of flames rushing over your head, heat unbearable, as it eats you inside out."
but i'd stop them there and say, even as my throat chars to ash, and as my eyes blacken, there's always a taste of yes, i want more. he's my addiction and i'm on a rush. and i don't see myself falling anytime soon.
but then again;
to me, he's an unlimited number of letters, words and numbers. he's a collage of the world's images, and he blends them together into a pièce de résistance. he lives by his superstitions and adores clichés, and refuses to believe in the ordinary. he pulls people to him, and they are oblivious to it.
they say, "being with him is like plunging into a whirlpool, impossible to clear your head and get out of. it's like sticking your finger into a pot of glue and trailing it over shaved paper. never comes off altogether at once, does it?"
to me, being with him is like falling off the shorter end of a rainbow and narrowly missing the pot of gold. it's the feeling when you're at the highest point of the swing, where time seems to stop and gravity doesn't seem to work. and he's there beside you, while the world swirls beneath you, and nothing can get to you.
they murmur, "he's like a roar of flames rushing over your head, heat unbearable, as it eats you inside out."
but i'd stop them there and say, even as my throat chars to ash, and as my eyes blacken, there's always a taste of yes, i want more. he's my addiction and i'm on a rush. and i don't see myself falling anytime soon.
but then again;
he is; a noun, and definitely indescribable, undefinable.
Literature
Some Ways of Moving On
"You know everybody needs some time on their own,"
We all have our ways of dealing with pain,
Or moving on.......
Most of us cry our hearts out,
"A raging river rich with burning emotion"
And they drift away to new horizons on a ship with torn sails,
Some of us rot in their rooms,
Stuck with wild eyes for long hours,
Until it all fades away... Leaving them insane,
Some of us sleep into a narcotic dream,
Whilst they gently lose themselves vein by vein,
No more pain... their mothers lament for another loss,
Few of us sing the blues beneath an acid sun,
A droning tune of what's gone and what's been done,
But they never stop dreami
Literature
fair
i find beauty in our awkwardness, in the way we are pushed together all-too-unoften. fate just isn't fair to us. it's not the story of star-crossed lovers destined to be together. to hell with fate; to destiny - they're selective bitches anyway. they only choose the perfect ones. [and we're anything but, aren't we?]
your smile is crooked with all the times you've had to take it down and then hurriedly put it up again; an overused, bruised sign that says 'drop it. please just drop it.'
[if only they'd bother to look.]
and dark rings curl themselves around my eyes at the most inopportune moments - i wish you wouldn't witness just
Literature
Mountains.
She becomes a different person everyday,
changing before my eyes, her mind morphing to
match the waiting snow. There's an altitude in
her voice as she's defining her life here, teaching
me what's really worth living for; but her mind is
in the mountain ranges, soaring over cliffs and
hiding in the tall trees. We complete each other,
this mountain girl and I, crystallizing our memories
until we're wrapped in glass, too fragile to be
touched, just making ourselves bleed.
Her voice is steady and quiet as she's telling the
future, and no one seems to hear it but me. She
can pull the world apart, separating the arteries
fr
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comments/reviews/faves are appreciated.
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© 2010 - 2024 electrickiss
Comments47
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Wow, check this poem out, its brilliant! I love the concept you have going on, on others opinion and descriptions of him and then the actual authors description after. Its completely effective and shows just how much of an addition and importance this character plays to the author. I like the different adjectives you have got in here too, good idea, great writing and especially your most highest point of this is the way you wrap it up at the end perfectly! 