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Literature Text
I sit
Hot tears spill
rivers pouring down my cheeks
as I tell myself i'm happy.
I have a mask
that nobody can tell is fake
but as soon as i'm alone
it all strips away
The way to trigger it back
is to talk to me
and my mask will come
happy as can be
but i'm so fragile
though I may seem strong
that with a snap
just a little snap
of your fingers,
i'll come crashing down.
Hot tears spill
rivers pouring down my cheeks
as I tell myself i'm happy.
I have a mask
that nobody can tell is fake
but as soon as i'm alone
it all strips away
The way to trigger it back
is to talk to me
and my mask will come
happy as can be
but i'm so fragile
though I may seem strong
that with a snap
just a little snap
of your fingers,
i'll come crashing down.
Literature
The Frozen Burn of a Broken Heart
Out of childish fears
And knowing you'd disappear
I knew not to touch or feel
For every time I do
I retreat pale and blue
From the icy burns within my heart
After being stabbed and ripped apart
Trying not to feel a thing
And knowing I'd be broken again
But I still try to hope
Tying crimson ribbons into rope
But the rope's become a noose
And there's no way to make it loose
Maybe I should give my wings a try
Find a building and try to fly
After all I'm not that great
I just found you much too late
Now it's only me and my shattered mind
Left to sit and replay memories on rewind
Looking for the tiniest thread to grasp
Forever
Literature
Circles
Circles by Adam Robbins
We're going around in circles while
The pendulum swings away from
The truth that's hiding in your
Eyes, as pure as coveted gold rings
That women wear to show
Ownership of the men that
Leave their shameful lives in
Search of something more shameless
Than previous tries at
The same thing that they failed not
Hours before the last time
They said their farewells from
Women with gold rings that
Swing on pendulums that
Are there to show the truth that
Is hiding in your eyes while
I sit and wonder why we're
Going around in circles
Literature
This Heat
This heat is not a temperature
It is a weight, a drag on ones bones.
It settles around ones shoulders, limply hanging.
It is a slope towards shadows and places of rest,
A climb up level open cliffs called parking lots.
One steps inside, and over the course of long minutes
It uncoils and falls away in thick salty layers.
To go back and take them up again is herculean.
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