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Literature Text
Your words surround me;
Twist and twirl in front of my eyes.
Everywhere I look, everywhere I run,
Again and again I hear goodbyes.
Your voice rings out,
A mist only my mind can see.
My body rooted to the ground,
My heart never to be set free.
The memories bring pain to my heart,
Enemies I cannot hope to outrun.
Our story is a tragedy;
A history that life has undone.
I wish to see beyond you,
But to life I am blind.
Your shadow covers the light;
Only darkness in my mind.
Twist and twirl in front of my eyes.
Everywhere I look, everywhere I run,
Again and again I hear goodbyes.
Your voice rings out,
A mist only my mind can see.
My body rooted to the ground,
My heart never to be set free.
The memories bring pain to my heart,
Enemies I cannot hope to outrun.
Our story is a tragedy;
A history that life has undone.
I wish to see beyond you,
But to life I am blind.
Your shadow covers the light;
Only darkness in my mind.
Literature
I wanted to grow old with you
I wanted to grow old with you:
turn grey and fade away, subdued.
To walk with you through all the years
and face, as one, our darkest fears.
We'd burn too brightly for this Earth
and share in sorrow and in mirth;
to each the other's soul would bare
and twice the love, at once, declare.
For each would know the other's mind
and there a perfect solace find;
we would be two, though as one known –
discrete though merged & mingled grown.
I wanted to grow old, it's true:
turn grey and fade to dust with you.
Literature
An old kind of love
One hundred years from now
The paint we picked out
Will be seven shades different,
Or old bricks made wise
By some graffiti prophet.
The note you hid in my mittens
– All I dream about anymore
Is the ocean
And you
(But mostly just you) –
Will be drifting through dream-catchers and
Those sapling hopes with
Roots tangled like our fingers and
Branches trembling with the vastness of our memories
Will be driftwood adventures
Nodding off with the tides
But I know in this heart of mine
That the smooth-bark-rain-soaked Beech Tree
You planted for me (there's a swing on it now)
Will still be there
And it will remember wha
Literature
Constructive Criticism
"Tell me what you think."
"Of the poem?"
"No, of my face. Yes, the poem."
"I was going to say, because your face is just stupid."
"Very funny. Read."
"..."
"What did you think?"
"Why did you write this?"
"I wrote it for you."
"For me?"
"Yes."
"You make me self conscious when you say things like that."
"I know."
"I'm not worth this you know."
"What does that mean?"
"I am half a girl, and I deserve half a poem."
"That is not true, and you still haven't told me what you really thought about it."
"It's as broken and complex and half hearted as a sad song about the way you feel ink trail between your fingers like it's blood. There
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