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Literature Text
there are days i
want to run with wolves.
to howl at the stars because
the moon has never done
anything for me, and swallow roses
like their thorns never
existed.
but this cage -
it seems there's no way
out,
and i fear it's
too
deep
down
for anyone to hear me.
life is just a zoo full of
all our monsters, and
[it's our fault] we
can't stop
feeding them.
want to run with wolves.
to howl at the stars because
the moon has never done
anything for me, and swallow roses
like their thorns never
existed.
but this cage -
it seems there's no way
out,
and i fear it's
too
deep
down
for anyone to hear me.
life is just a zoo full of
all our monsters, and
[it's our fault] we
can't stop
feeding them.
Literature
she can't keep secrets, i can't keep friends
the first time I see her in months,
she still hugs me like i’m the only thing
keeping her world up.
i remember a time when this was true.
we do not talk about anything we used to—
those things have become taboo,
almost while our heads were turned away.
subjects are now landmines, with us tiptoeing around them,
me in my beat up converse and her in her sky-high stilettos.
we do not talk about how she did not say goodbye.
we do not talk about her old-new-old-old-gone boyfriend.
we don’t mention any new holes in my heart
or any new episodes of a now cancelled television show.
we do not talk about the new kid who looks like h
Literature
Dear Poetry,
You will find out that I am not a strong person. Dragons do not make a home beneath my skin to hoard their treasured princesses. I am not that lucky. For I have misplaced collarbones just as quickly as I’ve misplaced hearts, a pulse still rhythmic against my fingertips. I am a monster of words, devouring Cummings and Plath with no ounce of self control left in my body. I promised myself this weight would not fall for the sharp edges of stars ground into your knuckles. But, write air into my lungs, poetry. Give this wild thing a reason to learn the definition of tamed.
Write me a poem, and I will promise to fall in love with you, sl
Literature
free bird
it’s a need to feel the suns golden fingers
teasing figure eights along my back,
& the wind on my cheeks.
i must have been
a bird in some past life,
a swallow or a hummingbird.
because, i swear on some nights
i can feel the growing pains of an atlas
ready to burst through my skin like wings.
i just want to be
free.
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I don't have much to say anymore.
Don't feed them.
Don't feed them.
© 2013 - 2024 lupus-astra
Comments36
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Love the last stanza!