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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
August 7, 2016
liii. by summeryates is a poem that is easy to relate to, with questions brimming just behind its words.
Featured by TheMaidenInBlack
Literature Text
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
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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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
contrary [e]motion
Every once in a while
the mountain winds
taste of salt,
so much that I could
cup my hands
like shells
and picture white waters
marvel at oak roots
for the first time,
hear the seagulls
cry for food
let’s build a castle
you and I,
made of stardust,
down the street
where the last wish
went to die,
let’s make boats
of these empty pages,
and flowers,
and hats
to call our crowns.
Let’s dance alone
you and I,
to the sharp
light melody
of a moon
and let’s stay,
oh let’s stay,
grow old
you and I,
in the place
where the roses lay.
Imagination
keeps the earth still
beneath my feet
but the clouds above
bring your nam
Literature
traffic on the overpass under the fingernails
and while alacrity
is still
quite far out of reach,
my hands stretch, spreading out
like skeletal maps, each bone
finding breathing room, each vein
a highway being built
even as the cars continue to drive
(trying to fix a train as it moves down the tracks)
and they disassemble,
they pull themselves apart
at the joints,
to build a floating bridge of
little white hopes,
thin little ribbons
licking the potential
to fly
(but the road is anfractuous,
and they’ll drive forever,
circumnavigating the potholes
and finding their way back
to where they started)
our cognitive maps don’t h
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AYE SOMETHING THAT WAS NOT WRITTEN IN THE PAST, WOO! This poem thing practically wrote itself, you know. It took like 10 minutes and everything i write either takes 10 minutes or 2 weeks so this is one of those 10 minute ones. Also I'm sick which is surprisingly a good motivator.
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Comments51
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My first comment fell into nothingness. I don't think that it's coming back. In short, I said that your words are stunning and that I particularly like the words "the shooting stars that happen behind your back." And then I told you that it was well done.