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Literature Text
This bar has our song on repeat,
And how ironic the lyrics have become,
And how ironic is it that I'm terrified of
Contacting you for the same reason that
Makes me want to message you.
And I feel like everything between
Us was a lie
And I feel like I will always wish
We hadn't ended like this.
And perhaps somewhere there are
Two people living in some country
On the other side of the world that
Were also in our situation
And maybe they made better decisions than us
And maybe they were able to fix what
We couldn't.
And maybe, just like this song,
One of us will get on their knees
And crawl back to the other,
And maybe this time the other
One will swallow their pride
And
This can all just become a funny story
We pretend didn't happen.
And how ironic the lyrics have become,
And how ironic is it that I'm terrified of
Contacting you for the same reason that
Makes me want to message you.
And I feel like everything between
Us was a lie
And I feel like I will always wish
We hadn't ended like this.
And perhaps somewhere there are
Two people living in some country
On the other side of the world that
Were also in our situation
And maybe they made better decisions than us
And maybe they were able to fix what
We couldn't.
And maybe, just like this song,
One of us will get on their knees
And crawl back to the other,
And maybe this time the other
One will swallow their pride
And
This can all just become a funny story
We pretend didn't happen.
Literature
Waiting
The summer of ‘67, funerals fanned out
like a poker hand in Mother’s family.
You could see she'd waited a lifetime
for this one, black dress in plastic,
handkerchief ironed and folded, ready.
She forced herself to touch the badge,
the service revolver, sweat-stained
brim on a hook in the hall.
She would conjure everything in time,
enough to rise above the casseroles,
the Jello salads melting in our kitchen,
hoarded tears poised above the glare
of Tupperware and Avon calling.
It was in the way she held her mouth,
her breath, waiting for something beautiful.
A childhood ago, summer nights,
her skin had prickled at the cru
Literature
Over
To be over something
is to ride a speed bump
up to its crescent
and crush it
under tire
until the road is wrinkle-free.
To be over, some
tires have to lose
their grip
on past reality.
To be over someone
is to drive a car
through potholes
to find smooth road
ahead.
To be over, some
one has to say
those potholes
don't feel like quicksand
anymore.
Because it is over -
you are the speed bump
that can become
a level crossing.
You can watch
your train of thought
passing by, lay
a thumbprint upon the ground
and cry
Then step back,
let the vision vanish
into dust
Let the life tracks
left behind
form a new railway.
Then,
drive away.
Literature
diary of a psychologist: on hearts
2.
next time you're alone with your lover,
look deep into their eyes
they might ask you what you're doing
and scrunch their brows
they might crinkle their nose
and tip their head
impatiently.
Tell them to wait.
watch the ribbons in their irises,
the milky muddle of color near the peripheries,
watch the little broken bridges of fibers
that once let the light walk right up to the pupils
and shrink them with a mischievous touch.
then, take their hand after a time
and hold it close to your chest
like you would the rest of them.
there is a phenomenon yet to be explained which occurs
when two people in love stare into each others eyes.
Wh
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3 September 2014 @ 12:25 AM
I wrote this whilst intoxicated at a bar. The song "Crawling Back to You" by the Arctic Monkeys was playing on repeat for some reason and I was suddenly overwhelmed with inspiration. This just kind of vomited itself out of my fingertips and onto my Facebook page.
As a submission for the September 28 contest on the
group page, the "mess" that this symbolizes is "The mess that we have become, and the mess I am without you".
I wrote this whilst intoxicated at a bar. The song "Crawling Back to You" by the Arctic Monkeys was playing on repeat for some reason and I was suddenly overwhelmed with inspiration. This just kind of vomited itself out of my fingertips and onto my Facebook page.
As a submission for the September 28 contest on the
group page, the "mess" that this symbolizes is "The mess that we have become, and the mess I am without you". © 2014 - 2024 MusicInducedDaydream
Comments18
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Reminds me of the episode of futurama where fry and leela go to the resteraunt at the end of the universe and see the other universe versions of themselves.