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Literature Text
There are butterflies in my skull,
A brewing storm of silken wings
As they emerge one by one from their cocoons –
The crepuscular hulls in which they spend most of their days,
Tenebrous prisons hanging from the emaciated branches
Of the forlorn, termite-infested neural tree.
I rejoice at the colors the butterflies bring –
The amethyst, cerulean, emerald, crimson, amber.
They illuminate the wasteland as they stretch their wings of prismatic splendor.
The inside of my skull is a frayed canvas –
Just ashen shades of desolate bone.
But the butterflies’ flight will paint the cadaverous murk;
They will compose a symphony of colors and words,
Each wing-beat its own orchestra.
This flurry of life and color they effortlessly bestow –
Ginger, lavender, saffron, magenta, pearl –
Is vivid, striking, eloquent like nothing that exists in the outside world.
Luminous wings, tipped in teal and tawny articulation, massage the river of thought
(Whose fingertips quiver unsoundly in the reservoir of cognition),
From a bleak drought to what it once was:
The cascade of ideas, the rumbling waterfall (not quite yet roaring again)
Of youthful ambition, the reliable little stream of intuition.
Such depth, expanse, intensity;
It fires the nerves, heats the blood, electrifies the skin,
Loosens the tongue, sharpens the eyes.
And I feel like a living, breathing human again.
A brewing storm of silken wings
As they emerge one by one from their cocoons –
The crepuscular hulls in which they spend most of their days,
Tenebrous prisons hanging from the emaciated branches
Of the forlorn, termite-infested neural tree.
I rejoice at the colors the butterflies bring –
The amethyst, cerulean, emerald, crimson, amber.
They illuminate the wasteland as they stretch their wings of prismatic splendor.
The inside of my skull is a frayed canvas –
Just ashen shades of desolate bone.
But the butterflies’ flight will paint the cadaverous murk;
They will compose a symphony of colors and words,
Each wing-beat its own orchestra.
This flurry of life and color they effortlessly bestow –
Ginger, lavender, saffron, magenta, pearl –
Is vivid, striking, eloquent like nothing that exists in the outside world.
Luminous wings, tipped in teal and tawny articulation, massage the river of thought
(Whose fingertips quiver unsoundly in the reservoir of cognition),
From a bleak drought to what it once was:
The cascade of ideas, the rumbling waterfall (not quite yet roaring again)
Of youthful ambition, the reliable little stream of intuition.
Such depth, expanse, intensity;
It fires the nerves, heats the blood, electrifies the skin,
Loosens the tongue, sharpens the eyes.
And I feel like a living, breathing human again.
Literature
Angstxiety
I am work weak on Wednesday
in a heap of hangover and hesitation
with fingers on a phone haptically
actively anticipating feedback—
I need that why do I need that.
My angst and anxiety
is constant and courses
and throbs with a pulse
that demands concern
of a baby boomer crooning poetic
in the distance to call me antisocial, or you know,
you could just call me.
If being this busy in an age
of constant communication
feels like having slept
but not feeling rested,
I'd rather cancel my plans
like a responsible millennial
and go to bed.
Literature
What Is It Like?
I question myself all the time
Nothing makes sense.
Facts become myths,
Theories back to hypotheses.
“The sky is blue” is only a rumor to me
Thoughts rush around my head,
Never stopping, never-ending.
It eats at my sanity.
I do my best to let it go,
But it always finds a way to come back.
I hope no one gets panic attacks.
They’ll claw at your brain,
Put things and ideas into your head.
Hands shake, vision blurs,
And no one seems to even care about it.
Literature
Bargaining Hours
Do not trust Death
or the deals it strikes
as it creeps
with its steady hours.
Time is the secret
hand it keeps flat
on the clock face.
Always moving forward,
if imperceptibly or suddenly
sliding closer to the present
moment passing by
like the shadows that are slow
to embrace me as the light drops
and everything loses its luster
under a pallid ageless grin.
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My first attempt at free-verse poetry...weird to not be trying to make it rhyme but I am fairly happy with the way this turned out.
Any comments would be immensely appreciated! :3
Any comments would be immensely appreciated! :3
© 2015 - 2024 rainpeltkitty
Comments4
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Wow, I love it! Beautifully written, great job!!