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Daily Deviation
Literature Text
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statue, a prison,
a tasteless reproduction of a child's Heaven
but you are no museum.
you may hang yourself in gilded frames,
forcing masses to silence with obscurity,
but that does not make you a hallowed hall.
no, I fear you're no Metropolitan.
you look at me, daring to think you understand.
your words trickle from my lips like a waterfall
as you tell me what a strange and marvelous Chimera I am.
your voice scratches at my spine, persistent, but
I've long since lost feeling in these flimsy balsa bones.
you think I'm your tangled marionette, a plaything
you awkwardly stitched long ago,
but I'm here to prove you wrong:
I tied myself up and hung from the rafters
a hundred times before I felt your touch.
today, I write you my goodbye letter.
you never suspected that your Pinocchio girl
could pick up scissors and cut herself free.
you were too busy playing god to notice.
the farther I run from your twisted lunatic asylum,
the more I realize that you're no Louvre.
you sad boy, you're no museum.
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statue, a prison,
a tasteless reproduction of a child's Heaven
but you are no museum.
you may hang yourself in gilded frames,
forcing masses to silence with obscurity,
but that does not make you a hallowed hall.
no, I fear you're no Metropolitan.
you look at me, daring to think you understand.
your words trickle from my lips like a waterfall
as you tell me what a strange and marvelous Chimera I am.
your voice scratches at my spine, persistent, but
I've long since lost feeling in these flimsy balsa bones.
you think I'm your tangled marionette, a plaything
you awkwardly stitched long ago,
but I'm here to prove you wrong:
I tied myself up and hung from the rafters
a hundred times before I felt your touch.
today, I write you my goodbye letter.
you never suspected that your Pinocchio girl
could pick up scissors and cut herself free.
you were too busy playing god to notice.
the farther I run from your twisted lunatic asylum,
the more I realize that you're no Louvre.
you sad boy, you're no museum.
Literature
Moving On
“No.” It was all I could say, taking in the carnage of what had just last night been my pristine kitchen. I wanted to collapse onto a chair, but they – and our spacious table – were covered in miscellany. Cleaning supplies, random knick-knacks from the living room, a thermometer, a scale. It was all there, strewn about.
My legs were shaking, and I fought the urge to cry. So messy. So dirty. No, no, no. I collapsed onto the shoe bench in between the Franco Sarto and the Gucci. I don't know where Giesswein had gone. I wished I could blame it on burglars, but no.
“She's doing it again!” I called, and my husb
Literature
tell a lie
i. rivers are stronger than oceans despite their size
they tumble through sharp mountains
but they never, ever stop
ii. i can rush and pick up sediments
and disperse them where i wish
iii. i'm lying -
i knew you saw it anyway,
there's seaweed in my fingernails
and salt on my breath
Literature
Sundiver
i.
When I was six a phoenix
tried to drown me.
Underwater I grabbed for fire.
Like Icarus, I was reaching
towards the sun.
I hope he still has
bald spots. I hope he still
cradles searing scars.
He was death,
I was the bird.
ii.
My uncle knows plastic-
wrapped soaps as well
as he knows fine wines.
If he drinks enough,
he thinks it’s love-
carved names rubbing
the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days
sweating, ship black against
sea. Like it had been peeled
from amber tongues.
iii.
On my fifteenth birthday, the boy
with stars on his fists and Saturn’s
rings in his eyes told me I was pretty.
It was the first time
anyone had
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A practice invective poem that I wrote in my slam poetry club. I haven't performed it yet, but I plan to...if I can work up the nerve! I'm actually fairly proud of this poem, which is weird for me. I won't say who this is about, but interestingly enough, when I read it to my mother she guessed it on her first try. She knows me so well.
If you liked this, let me know! I love your feedback!
EDIT: DEAR SWEET BABY JESUS. A DAILY DEVIATION? Now I'm really feeling confident enough to read it to the club...I'm dumbfounded. I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH.
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