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Literature Text
would it be terribly insensitive
for me to say “good morning”
in a cemetery?
the sun lifts up slowly,
and the dead sleep in late,
as usual.
for me to say “good morning”
in a cemetery?
the sun lifts up slowly,
and the dead sleep in late,
as usual.
Literature
rest in pieces
how does it feel to have my heart on your hands?
here lies the best four years of your life
finish what you started, selfish heart-
pick up the shovel and bury me beneath the floorboards
the wind blows through my shadow
let me haunt you like you haunt me
cold bed, here lies love
i slip silently through the walls,
through the cracks,
through the days
this house is a cemetary
Literature
cynical: arsenical
splinter-thorn boy,
it will all start to
d i s i n t e g r a t e
beneath you
you are
the least beautiful way to unravel -
all maggot-rot, no
split-thread, no
ribbon-torn boy
an architect of
self-abuse;
a god of
ru(i)n(n)ing
[away] &
no:
there is nothing holy about you
Literature
liii.
while i sit in my crumpled shirt,
naked legs and bleached underwear
i ponder about silence and solitude
along with the brotherhood they share
they were the flat lines in heart monitors,
the shooting stars that happen behind your back
the budding flowers and sleeping children
the world that happens while you sleep
and like the ticking of the clock
they bear a loneliness
that was either too loud or unnoticed
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