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Literature Text
Is there a pattern to my life?
A thin thread that leads me left or right?
A small push that takes me up or down?
A goddamn fate that won't leave me alone?
Or can I make my own life?
Am I the face behind the mirror
that I can't blame because it looks too familiar?
Do your mistakes become my face
when I have no choice but to watch you drink yourself away?
Can I blame you, or are you blaming someone else, too?
Are your mistakes yours?
But do they affect me and mine?
Is there a pattern to this mess
that explains why we have everything but nothing?
I need a reason why
I'm here while so many of you are over there.
I need a few simple words
to put the blame on someone else.
A thin thread that leads me left or right?
A small push that takes me up or down?
A goddamn fate that won't leave me alone?
Or can I make my own life?
Am I the face behind the mirror
that I can't blame because it looks too familiar?
Do your mistakes become my face
when I have no choice but to watch you drink yourself away?
Can I blame you, or are you blaming someone else, too?
Are your mistakes yours?
But do they affect me and mine?
Is there a pattern to this mess
that explains why we have everything but nothing?
I need a reason why
I'm here while so many of you are over there.
I need a few simple words
to put the blame on someone else.
Literature
running.
you tell me that everything has a time limit on it; friendships, days, moments, love. everything is limited, you say, so we might as well rush, run. because it's all going to end anyway, right?
so i started to notice the time stamps painted on your hands, the calendars written all over your heart. i started to wonder, how much time do we have left? how many more held hands, secrets, inside jokes, i love you's? how many more?
i wondered and ran,
ran through the forests without smelling the scent of after-rain. i ran on the darkened streets at midnight without noticing the streetlights, passing lit houses of friends and the sounds of laughte
Literature
A Treasured Find
In empty moments, we open boxes
to find a universe tucked where shoes
should be.
Fancy this, me writing to you via
such a contraption. Rather disconcerting,
I must say.
These are the minutes wrought of marzipan,
where people with ink-eyes move
into the polar peaks between charm and restraint.
You are not a prisoner.
This is a mere example of our hospitality.
And instead of laces and tongues and soles,
I find letters, and language, and souls
hidden where no soiled fingers
can pry apart pages, and sully with eyes.
He's a house cat. But you're a mouse yet.
They sometimes speak of danger and risk,
but my trust is implicit; thus,
Literature
for lack of a simile --
every saturday,
i scribble away at words
that have prettyyellowcolours, but mean nothing.
because if i told you what was true about the both of us, it would be:
we had something special,
but now it's gone.
that's all.
because i don't have any clever similes about
magic and love and how fire falls into ash.
there's just me, and the page, and the stories
i tell you about how we are fire, we are the ocean
and we are the shore.
Suggested Collections
Um... ctually, this is about my dad.
© 2008 - 2024 kabirawhisper
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