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MFrenchPoetry
27/Cisgender Male/Where ever I've been writing for just about 12 years and I finally feel like I'm getting pretty good. Poetry is the nicest way I've made my mother cry.
Soft bedding shielding my body From the axis of frigid air that thrives Off the edge of everyone's bed. But as always my mind is Wrapped up in something else. The cord attaching me to The sail of blood and bone Tugs deep at my ankles and legs And moves me off, and out Into the waking world. And when did the world wake up, Breathe heavy and rub yesterday's dirt Off its dry and heavy eyes? Lifting itself from a cold pillow To pirouette the day away 'round the sun. I question it only because It feels, most days, like the planet Is sleepwalking. Shuffling and spewing nonsense, Just like me. At least I got to write this down Before I go back to bed.
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Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 11:27 AM UTC
sleepwalker
Awash in your glory – I will worship you, I am a zealot in your light. Reticent to behave – I reveal my nature, You nourish me with rite. Haunt with absolution – I'm at your altar willing, I will feed my days to night. Amber is your ocean – I will drown in you, I will give you my life.
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Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 11:23 AM UTC
(80)proof
When day breaks, And might should come, But nothing, Nothing but Nothing. When noon marches, And the sheets feel heavy, The air of the room Fastening you Down. Then night settles in, And your bones buzz, And your muse says "Tomorrow And Tomorrow And..." Wait That's something else.
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Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 11:00 AM UTC
carpe cras
I keep thinking – There must be a God of little death. To whom you never sing praises, But you do speak, the two of you. On days where minutes turn To crushing stone that hold you Down. When your friends Start to look like their parents. When your child tells the same lie That you always told. When beauty becomes feeling – Because it has to, Because the mirror doesn't Work like it used to. It happens when you least expect: Your blood stops simmering, And starts to thicken. On those days you talk to The God of little death And you beg, in a voice that haunts The air around your head: "Dignify me!" We're all invincible, Until we're inevitable.
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Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 8:42 AM UTC
little death