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Literature Text
i walked up the drive,
and was reminded
of how little attention
i actually paid to the place
when i had the luxury
of being there.
i never walked the drive,
far too lazy.
just twice,
once there, once back,
two separate occasions.
both at night,
both with company.
i debated hitchhiking,
still lazy.
i picked someone up once.
a third year choreographer.
she was late for a tutorial
and smelt of alcohol.
everyone i walk past has grey hair.
i look out of time.
two years late.
there's no room now
for an art student with a suitcase.
i walked the halls again,
because the door was propped open,
framed with familiar white handprints,
that fit comfortably under mine.
it smelt just as i remembered,
musty, and comforting.
with the paint still peeling on the stair rail,
from where we'd sat for hours,
pulling it off in strips.
i wrote a letter to my room.
the room in which i fell in love,
lost my mind,
and changed my life.
it's just a room.
just a place,
a space.
but so much was shared,
with the air in there.
and i can't explain the relief
that it isn't in rubble.
i hitch hiked back,
or i'd have missed my train.
a lovely man picked me up,
and i felt the drive from a car,
how i remembered it.
we talked about the place,
about it what it did.
he was as upset as i was.
he was the type of person
i'd forgotten existed.
someone who wasn't one of us,
but understood our loss.
a stranger on the street
who felt what i felt.
and was reminded
of how little attention
i actually paid to the place
when i had the luxury
of being there.
i never walked the drive,
far too lazy.
just twice,
once there, once back,
two separate occasions.
both at night,
both with company.
i debated hitchhiking,
still lazy.
i picked someone up once.
a third year choreographer.
she was late for a tutorial
and smelt of alcohol.
everyone i walk past has grey hair.
i look out of time.
two years late.
there's no room now
for an art student with a suitcase.
i walked the halls again,
because the door was propped open,
framed with familiar white handprints,
that fit comfortably under mine.
it smelt just as i remembered,
musty, and comforting.
with the paint still peeling on the stair rail,
from where we'd sat for hours,
pulling it off in strips.
i wrote a letter to my room.
the room in which i fell in love,
lost my mind,
and changed my life.
it's just a room.
just a place,
a space.
but so much was shared,
with the air in there.
and i can't explain the relief
that it isn't in rubble.
i hitch hiked back,
or i'd have missed my train.
a lovely man picked me up,
and i felt the drive from a car,
how i remembered it.
we talked about the place,
about it what it did.
he was as upset as i was.
he was the type of person
i'd forgotten existed.
someone who wasn't one of us,
but understood our loss.
a stranger on the street
who felt what i felt.
Literature
My Past is Presently Future
My mind swims in vitriol
Corrosive thoughts form burnt offerings
Decayed and deconstructed pieces of my soul
Presented in black wrapping and blood colored bows
I backstroke through the ash, choking on smoke
Floating in the void between losing and loss
The beginning and end
The who
The what
The why, where and when
Lost in the poisoned hallways
The byways
The highways
The lostways of what I was then
I will wander here in wonder of what I became
Never saying goodbye to the old me, my hated friend
A weak, sad reminder of what I could have been
You see, when you say goodbye you must mean it
Else, you'll be saying hello again be
Literature
why i'm scared of ghosts
dear ghost of christmas past,
it's christmastime. christmas eve, to be exact. i can't look outside without seeing the shimmer of the snow, like tiny fireflies etched into each flake. glistening strands of colorful bulbs christen the neighborhood, like they're declaring us worthy of a little light.
i'm shivering like i got caught in a snow bank, and i'm blinking like i'm hoping my eyelashes will tangle together and pull my lids closed.
i was wondering; if dreams are so pretty, why do they shatter like sherry glasses against tile as soon as we open our eyes? maybe they aren'
Literature
w i s h.
Shooting stars? One wish - For you
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For the first time since I left, on the 26th June 2009, I went back to Dartington a couple of days ago. It's taen me a while to process what I felt going back there, and to put that into words, and this is what I've come up with.
All poems on this page now available to buy hand type on cartridge paper with my typewriter, just specify which poem you want at checkout: www.etsy.com/listing/121441956…
All poems on this page now available to buy hand type on cartridge paper with my typewriter, just specify which poem you want at checkout: www.etsy.com/listing/121441956…
Comments12
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Beautiful. I concur with the Mother. So simple but with depths with which to get lost in.
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