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Literature Text
From Atlas’ hands she wept to me,
atop Africas and South Atlantics;
this is one situation unaffected by
ember eyes and windy lashes
(it has no anatomy).
You are sparrows stranded
in tiny crevices and cliffside love,
though you rebuke flight
in the fear of chipping feathers.
So what do you do?
You reach for my soul,
coveting flight with shaking
dainty arms…
and perhaps I’ll let you:
With flytrap lips and
glass shaped hips…
you are unfit for anything but
sight.
(But beauty isn’t everything)
Literature
I'm doing this all for you
Please forget that I am here, but don't forget that I once existed.
This world I wanted to abandon has now embraced me, in the most loving of ways.
Forgetting my old emotions, I embarked on this new journey in life.
But instead of being welcomed.
I was destroyed on the spot.
Fighter planes gunning me down.
Once again I found myself at a roadblock.
Pretending that the exit behind me didn't exist.
Nor did the signs leading me in the right way.
Instead I ran straight into the bullets.
Pretending that I could take them.
That I was made of steel.
I ignored the cries telling me to turn back.
Unable to close my eyes from this fearful sight.
The
Literature
Arrhenius
The birds are
keeping to themselves
this evening
as the earth shifts
slightly-
ever so calmly
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have
to move).
Here and there, I
witness these
beautiful strangers
with perfect bodies
and long hair
walking down the road
in tightly knitted packs.
They are animals
like we are animals-
like we are
animals without
claws and fur,
with scratches on our
skin that yields to
fragile and
familiar hands.
The winds respond
as quiet birds rush
from telephone wires
in panic and
in beauty; she
tries to brush the hair
dancing circles in her eyes
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have to move).
Literature
Kitchen Blues
Sunday was chicken and collard greens with rice.
Yesterday was fried ham and chit'lins served twice.
But today, yes sweet Lord, it's now in your hands,
Ain't nothin' shakin' now but the baby grand.
I'm tipsy when bread dough rises, like my love.
Oh dear God, I can't help myself, like my love.
On the stove, butter melts on hot slabs of bread.
I'm tipsy when the yeast goes straight to my head.
Can't hear you, you know what I'm talkin' about.
Soon's the weather breaks tonight she's goin' out.
She'll be dressed for sin, and won't be stayin' in.
She's smellin' BBQ from the chicken shack
Near the house of ill repute across the track.
But thi
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where did this come from? Good question 
I have no idea! Ever had that compulsion to just post (which is probably why I give you guys so many crap pieces... I'm sorry)? Some of this piece savors of some bitterness... and probably some envy. I could have been more blunt with a specific line... but I like the soft aspect of this poem and didn't want to ruin that. I hope this piece can be enjoyed!
Your thoughts? Any weak spots in need of some serious attention?
~ critique is much appreciated
~
Thanks for your time!
I have no idea! Ever had that compulsion to just post (which is probably why I give you guys so many crap pieces... I'm sorry)? Some of this piece savors of some bitterness... and probably some envy. I could have been more blunt with a specific line... but I like the soft aspect of this poem and didn't want to ruin that. I hope this piece can be enjoyed!Your thoughts? Any weak spots in need of some serious attention?
~ critique is much appreciated
~Thanks for your time!
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Comments8
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I feel a description of beauty, it's power and vanity together, symbiotic. This is very beautiful itself, but that's not to say it's lost significance.