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Literature Text
The past has happened
Yesterday is dead
Yesterday was horrible
It was wicked
Full of lies and conflict
Tomorrow is full of mystery
It's not yet part of history
It can be beautiful
It can be horrible
But it remains a mystery
The present is today
It is history in the making
Do what you want
Because the present is a gift
It will be better than yesterday
And who knows tomorrow will be even better
Yesterday is dead
Yesterday was horrible
It was wicked
Full of lies and conflict
Tomorrow is full of mystery
It's not yet part of history
It can be beautiful
It can be horrible
But it remains a mystery
The present is today
It is history in the making
Do what you want
Because the present is a gift
It will be better than yesterday
And who knows tomorrow will be even better
Literature
hemmingway's
You can’t ask for a good poem. You can tease a poem, write it a slip, write a note to the doctor in curse and verse asking for medicine to make you a bit hazy. You can drink big mouthfuls, so you trip on the way out of the bar, into a man, a bear, who’ll give you something to write about. You can seal your lips or you can deal. This is the goal. You can’t ask for a ride home or a dollar, a fine, a fee your skirt collects on the way out. You gather that spare change because it’s your calling, your clutch, chicks to a hen. Just like you gather a dozen words to fit in holes and to paper-pale on the wall. Your call. Your ball; did you really think that would go over easy? Did you think poems cared about you? You're like a dog snuggling in with bones. Alone. You come home. The house is so dusty now. Your desk has so many bottles, and so little lines. You sit down to write down your account of what went down but you put the pen down and you look out at the sun down and
Literature
marigolds
i. must be nice being a live-in crypt-keeper lounging on stones till they fall over keeping the grass warm for ‘em ii. i sip my juice glass of box wine (it’s been six months oh god); i make eye contact with the deer, freezing: a woman feeds them breadcrumbs from her car around noon and they all saunter over: gods examining their offerings on an altar in the mausoleum parking lot. when the sun sets, they approach loose dirt and chew on the marigolds some suckers planted in fits of poetic reverent irony and i watch them(and i know they hate the taste or i bite my cheek and know they’re supposed to) iii. i always wanted to live in a crypt: stained glass concrete windows and all the kids wondering what might be inside like the doors to dracula’s castle too distant for fists to reach no wi-fi no hi-byes no glowing screens or angry yellow eyes through dusty curtains(that have the grace and decency to close so i’m alone) and no need to save my neighbors’ numbers or pretend the
Literature
Fool Me Once
It was that little glimpse of joy That got me so enthralled When it turned out to be a ploy I wished to end it all Mountain of shame, a sea of tears And valley of lost hope Pain that lasted me for years As I struggled to cope I looked for signs of deep regret For all the damage done Or just a little guilt, but yet I found that there was none All responsibility Was mine alone to bear Cowards like that bring tragedy And vanish in thin air Stricken down, I rose anew I'm not easy to kill Once now beaten black and blue Honestly, quite the thrill Just a bit of gratitude For the hurt that made me wise The life within me is renewed And you cannot fool me twice
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yes I wrote again
name was made up with the help off
© Me
You want to steal it huh? Well do you feel lucky? Huh, punk. Go ahead make my day
name was made up with the help off
© Me
You want to steal it huh? Well do you feel lucky? Huh, punk. Go ahead make my day
© 2012 - 2024 Calmaffine
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This is really good(: