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Literature Text
There he stands,
The man simply known as Dream.
He's different now, fallen from grace,
And risen back up to it.
He was a joyous man, but he was beaten,
Torn and scarred, starved and tormented.
How did he get past it all they question me.
I know the answer, only because I asked him myself.
This is what he said to me,
"You can only be broken so much,
Eventually they stop trying,
Then you take every scar,
Every fracture and shattered piece,
And turn them into strengths and advantages.
Since they can't hurt you anymore,
You have nothing left to fear."
He turned his tortured soul into flawlessness.
That is who he is now, a happy wounded soul,
A perfect little broken Dream.
The man simply known as Dream.
He's different now, fallen from grace,
And risen back up to it.
He was a joyous man, but he was beaten,
Torn and scarred, starved and tormented.
How did he get past it all they question me.
I know the answer, only because I asked him myself.
This is what he said to me,
"You can only be broken so much,
Eventually they stop trying,
Then you take every scar,
Every fracture and shattered piece,
And turn them into strengths and advantages.
Since they can't hurt you anymore,
You have nothing left to fear."
He turned his tortured soul into flawlessness.
That is who he is now, a happy wounded soul,
A perfect little broken Dream.
Literature
I am
I am.
I am the shadows of a supernovaed sun
The air of a deep lagoon
The speckles of dust caught in space
Your hair after inescapable sex
I am the love
you fear
and the hate
you crave
and the innocence of a voice that whispers
kill
save
love
eat
sleep
I am the darkness
I am that darkness
I am the light
And you are the shadow
Shadow of a broken moon swept up by dying things
Harvesting fragments of a fallen celestial being
once called goddess
once loved and adorned
now lying on the wayside
waiting to be collected
by the shadows of her past
I am your past
I am your future
And I am tired
Of your desire
to not be present.
Literature
Should I? Am I? Will I?
Everyone told me I couldn't wear boy's clothes
That I would look improper
Wrong
Like a hobo, or a lesbian
But did I listen?
But did I care?
Everyone told me not to wear skate shoes
That I would look boyish
Stupid
Because I can't skate
But did I listen?
But did I care?
Everyone told me I couldn't dye my hair
That I would look fake
Bitchy
My hair would be fried
But did I listen?
But did I care?
Everyone tells me not be crazy
That I seem stupid
Mental
Something's wrong with me
But do I listen?
But do I care?
But what if they're right?
Literature
Signifying nothing
I.
I have crumpled pieces of paper, collected from corners in my mind
I have notes, and words and terrible troubles, all unwritten on a blank
piece of paper
Typed with no hands
Sung with no voice
Said with no words
And yet I have this, still: silence.
The echo of eclecticism, of a vast void of words, signifying nothing
and everything.
You.
You have these cast out watery words which you read from my post-its
You have these notes, my words and wonderings, all written, right here
on your screen
Typed with these hollow hands
Sung with a volume-less voice
Said with the only words I know how not to speak.
Do you hear them howling in the dark?
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I would love to know if this poem makes sense to anybody but me, please let me know!
© 2012 - 2024 FiyeroTigelaar
Comments25
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I love this...it reminds me of a poem I wrote...would you like to read it?