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Literature Text
I dream that you cheat
Sometimes,
Though mostly we’re in black-and-white
And Sunday-bests,
Framed as the childhood sweethearts
Who hang above the mantelpiece
In the Vaseline-scented peach front room
I know like the lines of your face
So it doesn’t make sense-
God knows I’ve tried
To trust you.
Sometimes,
Though mostly we’re in black-and-white
And Sunday-bests,
Framed as the childhood sweethearts
Who hang above the mantelpiece
In the Vaseline-scented peach front room
I know like the lines of your face
So it doesn’t make sense-
God knows I’ve tried
To trust you.
Literature
Looking
I'm looking for somebody
That I can call my other half
He doesn't need to have muscular calves,
Or a chiselled jawline with cheekbones so dreamy
As long as he is pleasant to my eyes
Looks good wearing glasses or without it
Has good manners, won't resort to telling me white lies
I will love him whole, from his hard edges to his cuddly bits.
I'm looking for someone, my bene elim
Who I can dedicate the song "Somebody" by Depeche Mode
Martin Gore had sung all that I want to say to him
But still I wrote this because I'm in love & am plain bored
He will be my rock and my pillow
And I will share to him what makes me mellow
I will tell him about my
Literature
Holes for Ears
I live in fear,
because I was torn ear to ear.
Or rather my ears were torn off,
after being repeatedly told off.
Or maybe I was told, "I'm off."
It's hard to remember and hard to know,
because I can never hear again.
Unless my ears regrow.
But the holes that are left
left better access to my brain.
Hopefully by seeing straight in there,
I can better diagnose the pain.
But instead I think I see just mush,
thoughts and firing and lots of stuff.
But I don't see love, I don't see sane.
I just see stuff you call my brain.
I wish I could still hear,
but I can still see your smile.
And if they tear out my eyes,
you'll still be smi
Literature
instructions on never falling out of love
invent countless scenarios where pieces
fall into places and you fall into
his arms.
rip your chest up with bitten nails,
scourge your insides with laser-sharp
self-homing
precision-guided missiles
of unending scrutiny:
what's missing, what's missing,
what's missing.
discard fictions, soft-spoken and faceless.
you've met the real deal
and he doesn't want you.
write songs, write
this poem,
write, sing, remember
old melodies
of the broken loves of your youth.
tell yourself every bit of pain that had
passed through you before
carved a perfect spot
for this love to fill.
tell yourself, you loved him before you met him.
what you've learnt to
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