Fugitive II by NemoX7 on DeviantArt

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NemoX7

Published: Feb 1, 2014

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Literature Text

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Literature

Descent

On the edge... On the winds of agony We fall in space Face to face And all turns to a nebula of stars Hearts beating another song Close your eyes and devour The memories of a time long gone Is this what it means to be alone? As darkness becomes a spectacle Breaking apart to a prism of flowers While we fall to earth Embracing each other as one.

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Writing

I am a writer I write what I wish I could say Trapping my feelings On paper everyday I am a writer I write what I see around me My eyes; wide open Have set me free I am a writer I write what I need to do Clear and confused Just give me a clue I am a writer I write what I feel And I feel what I write But when I stop feeling I stop writing And my little world Starts reeling I am a writer Who writes to find reason And maybe even some treason In this world Where insanity rules Behind a piece of paper marked: "Here are the fools"

Literature

Even if...

All this hurt and pain It builds up inside me Like water behind a dam. And I know I said it was okay, That I was fine, But I still expected your gentle gaze Meeting mine. Your warm hand Holding mine. Your calm words Hushing mine. And yet you say “okay”, Like it was definite choice Instead of a question hung in the air Like snow falling from the sky. I know if I wanted I could’ve asked you. I just put on the front Of not wanting to bother you, To take you from your friends, From happiness, From joy. But what hurts the most, More than anything I’ve ever known, Is that I thought you knew me Better than I knew myself. B

Literature

Truth

We are often eager to surrender, Because the burden of choice is harsh. We would rather blame others for our failings, Instead of seeking an answer within our mistakes. I am as guilty as anyone else when it comes to this. How many days have I spent screaming at the darkness; Spitting bitter words that blistered my own lips... Even as my eyes grew clouded, shrouded by hate. I railed against iron walls about a solitude I had created. Anger became my mask for an open plea: Because I simply wanted someone to acknowledge me...

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lunacy.

what the moon teaches us is no one exists as a constant. some days you will orbit elsewhere. the angles of light that make up the shadows of you will keep moving. it is the same with the ocean and how it does not meet the shore the same each time: some days it will come crashing, eroding: or it comes back to kiss its edges over and over there are some days i am more of a tsunami. there will be days you will be eclipsed. and i don't mind this. the moon is up in the sky but the ocean still feels the weight of its pull, always. i want to drown in the push and pull of your gravity in all the ways that's possible. i could get used to the di

Literature

Autumn Again

i. Autumn The leaves are just starting to turn – someone has been tattooing them, highlighting their silhouettes with goldenrod, and gossamer dew pearls hang in the grass in the early morning. We can feel the frost framing our days, the hint of it in our cups of tea and in our scarves draped over sweatshirts (it’s not quite cold enough for a coat yet), and in the musk of the understory and the fireplaces that fill our lungs and we exhale this out into the night and we form nebulae with the water vapor in our breath. And when the first echoes of shivers start to blur our outlines, we snuggle, sweater to sweater, and dream of

Literature

The Art of Poetry Killing

When I find an old poem Packaged beneath an allegory Or taped beside a piece of prose, Warm and balmy and still swollen Ripe with the undisturbed Words Within their plastic wrapper, I untangle its cellophane bindings To find it's too old And too stale for the proper use of a poem So I pluck out its Strings Like some guts of a creature And sew them Onto other dust poems Like the mismatched socks Of a child Just like murder is an art, I still walk away with ink on my hands.

Writing and Poetry

Literature

Slate Blue

Slate blue clouds cloak the dawn, crepuscular rays creeping round the blockade to wake songbirds and squirrels. The mill house wheel clacks and tumbles; yeast rises like a whisper. Only the blueberry thicket knows that the taste of sunlight keeps the bread warm.

Literature

but where is the blue

You know how to be just skin. You know how to remove every molecule of air. Every molecule of the unknown. You can nail yourself to the juniper trees. You think you will. Stab through every callus with peels of that ragged bark. Your back to the gnarls. They catch fire so easily, you know.

Literature

Gnossienne

You never told me that you play the bass. Some stories I hear over and over again - Xerox computers, meeting well-known authors - but others I learn haphazardly, stumbling into tidbits and details like a newborn fawn - a junior year spent living on pancakes; a car accident; animating projects in the early days of Flash. You never told me you play bass, piano, guitar. And I worry - what other talents and footnotes are buried too far in the past to light up on my radar? What will I learn about you only after it's too late?

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Literature

Tolerance

It is often said that tolerance is necessary in a free and democratic society, but there is considerable debate about what tolerance is. One standard is that tolerance means putting up with others and respecting their basic rights. Others regard this as insufficient, and consider almost any expression of negative attitudes on the basis of factors such as race or religion to be intolerant. The focus of this essay is religious tolerance. This is the form of tolerance that was most significant to the founders of the United States. It will become clear, however, that religious tolerance is not as special a case as it may at first seem. Religious

Literature

Untitled

Will you ever love me as much as I've loved you? We went through so much together. We beat the hard knocks together We laughed together We played together as kids We did so much for each other Why did you turn away? You stopped walking my way And went your own way Could this be heaven or hell I could never tell If you actually loved me Or I'm just another crash dummy.

Literature

all my friends are dead

When tension pulls my tight warcry loose and my Evergreen throat is strung up in your Dark chest where I ran the red light / I killed the girl / I put my shoes away Small things make me ache for you When you sit in the driver seat with the door open and I do not Take the space in your lap When you lean into my ocean and I Wash over you but That is all Your careful jaw and open wound mouth I could rest there I could rot you away I could wear out my comedown In the shadow of you loving me I could be born again Like any Used girl mountain passed between Any tree in Crucifix Valley could be you Any penance in tenderness Any doubt in b

Featured in Groups

Nth time trying to submit this. Numerous attempts on my phone failed, even though it has manage to submit my work in the past. Luckily, my laptop's working long enough for me to attempt a submission.

Anyway, even though I feel like I've repeated myself. Here's what I originally wrote as an annotation.

Been awhile since I wrote a poem off the top of my head so quickly. Wrote the first stanza and then, "Bang!", five minutes later I had the finished product. I quite like it's simplicity and the pace of the narrative.

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