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Literature Text
Los Angeles is our girl,
she wears a white sundress,
her shoulder, the sunburn just peeling,
peeking out beneath
the strap that kisses the edge of her collarbone
sometimes, she wears
the wrong sort of dress,
and too much makeup besides.
It weighs her down, like a rusted
anchor, barnacled, and she,
decked in string bikini, drowns.
But beneath, if you peel her soaked
clothes off, layer by layer,
you see she's got the poise of Audrey,
the effect of Katharine
and of course, Marilyn's hips.
she wears a white sundress,
her shoulder, the sunburn just peeling,
peeking out beneath
the strap that kisses the edge of her collarbone
sometimes, she wears
the wrong sort of dress,
and too much makeup besides.
It weighs her down, like a rusted
anchor, barnacled, and she,
decked in string bikini, drowns.
But beneath, if you peel her soaked
clothes off, layer by layer,
you see she's got the poise of Audrey,
the effect of Katharine
and of course, Marilyn's hips.
Literature
this is the night .collab
the entire sky felt too heavy
so it sunk to its knees
begging for relief
for the emptiness
that always follows the pain
numbness in place of agony.
this is the time of dying suns
that donate brilliant colours to the sky
for those who admire the deep red vistas
and feel the end of another lonely day.
hot shock to the system,
this is sunlight
breaking your body
with unbending hands,
the heaviest hit
hurting even the hollows
between your bones,
this is the time that shadows grow
scurrying and juvenile in their footholds,
the newfound cracks and crevices
where dying light has lost its strength.
the wind has birthed us
tornad
Literature
what do i do when i .collab
the rain washes everything
but the love
from my skin,
imprinted as though
by fingers, sore like sand.
your fingers carved
love, fashioning in the
bruises. you formed welts
that rise as sand dunes.
you took my waxen skin
as a canvas and painted
it with your music
there are ten thousand songs
to which i cannot listen
because you left your lips in
their rhythms
the few melodies that had
been mine, you
stole away like breath,
wrenched from my
wavering throat.
there is nothing of me
that you have left untouched.
Literature
Song for Sienna
He watched her dancing to his song, her small, slender form no longer the graceful child-ballerina he had fallen in love with in their college years, when he aspired to philharmonic fame, and she to the world's brightest stages. It was this woman-child he had envisioned while writing the joyful piece, so many years ago, when the very air surrounding them had tasted of spring and innocence, when there had been no patches of needle-scars to mar her skin, no brokenness to halt her movements. When her lips had still held their secret kiss and her smile lacked the sad knowing that leaked from her eyes every now and again when he held her.
She dan
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I sat down and wrote this during a walk at the beach
Comments4
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very good love the metaphor