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Literature Text
These memories, these lines, are far too few
too few to capture full the moment gone,
too gone, to repetitious, to askew
with too much tired remembering. The song
he sings, I hold tiny hands, he allows
me with his young grandfather fingers. I
do not understand, but how he is now,
we are all now, we are. Reaching, blue sky
blown clean, reaching ourselves by what we've seen.
too few to capture full the moment gone,
too gone, to repetitious, to askew
with too much tired remembering. The song
he sings, I hold tiny hands, he allows
me with his young grandfather fingers. I
do not understand, but how he is now,
we are all now, we are. Reaching, blue sky
blown clean, reaching ourselves by what we've seen.
Literature
Home.
The night is pitch-black all around, save for the uncountable mass of stars winking benevolently at me from the tarp of deepest indigo that hangs overhead. Everything feels suspended in that moment—the stars, the crescent moon, the sparse, gray-black clouds, this little island called Earth, and even myself. It feels as if my feet don't even touch the ground.
I feel as if I'm falling into them, the stars. There are so many of them, filling my field of vision, that I am taken by a sudden bout of dizziness and fall back into the Earth's gentle embrace. In response she twirls me around playfully, pulling me into a slow-motion
Literature
Bubbles
Bubbles
Everywhere I look,
Guess, what do I see?
Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!
Are all around me.
I tried to run from them,
But they won’t go away.
Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!
Are staying in my way.
I ran straight to my house
And fast I locked the door.
Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!
Are not here anymore.
Now I’m missing them;
I wish they could be here.
Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!
Are only in my tear.
While I was asleep
I heard a little sound.
Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles!
Again, are all around.
Literature
A Letter of Understanding
Dear Heart,
Let us come to an understanding.
Welcome to your wake up call.
You are a fool. I'm sorry, but it is true.
Life isn't a fairy tale.
You knew this, always.
There is no such thing as happy endings.
The frog you wanted to kissed… he'd still be a frog.
And that prince?
He was perfect- sweet, smooth talking, a dream come true.
Until you found out he was only charming; not sincere.
Sitting on the steps as the dawn falls around you, waiting for him like in the movies?
Honey, he's already moving on. Those tail lights you see driving away in your mind's eye?
Yeah, they're his.
Never trust love; never think for a minute it's true.
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"These markings," he says, gesturing to the subway walls as we walked, "I made them, I put them down here a long time ago, but that was before I died."
He stopped then for a moment to examine a portion that had begun to fade, half chewed away by the sweat of the sewage and half by moldering disuse, and maybe, perhaps at one point, by excessive application. Almost tenderly he presses a gloved hand to them, and his mouth chews half covered thoughts through some far off wall that only he can see.
"Do you remember what they mean?" I ask finally, sick at heart of waiting to see of the words will leap in burnished golds and crimsons like in times before.
His eyes descend through a staircase coming back to me.
"No. No, of course not." He shoves his hands back into his pockets and so we move on.
He stopped then for a moment to examine a portion that had begun to fade, half chewed away by the sweat of the sewage and half by moldering disuse, and maybe, perhaps at one point, by excessive application. Almost tenderly he presses a gloved hand to them, and his mouth chews half covered thoughts through some far off wall that only he can see.
"Do you remember what they mean?" I ask finally, sick at heart of waiting to see of the words will leap in burnished golds and crimsons like in times before.
His eyes descend through a staircase coming back to me.
"No. No, of course not." He shoves his hands back into his pockets and so we move on.
© 2013 - 2024 Bobibillius
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