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Literature Text
i have a thing for butterflies -
they were tattooed across my skin
when i left my mother's womb.
they rest between my ribs
and the hollow of my throat
i was kissed with colors before i was born.
you were kissed by h a p p i n e s s
and embraced by Eden -
so you could find refuge
in the color under my skin.
instead of a heart,
my blood beats with butterfly wings.
and they glow when i smile
or when my cheeks forget to blush.
in the place of the heart the butterflies took away.
so your smile-stained lips,
and my butterfly-tattooed skin
met under despair
when it was well
over
the brink.
and every time you tell
anyone that i'm yours
the spaces between my ribs g l o w
with the timid smiles
of my blushing, trippy butterfly heart.
they were tattooed across my skin
when i left my mother's womb.
they rest between my ribs
and the hollow of my throat
i was kissed with colors before i was born.
you were kissed by h a p p i n e s s
and embraced by Eden -
so you could find refuge
in the color under my skin.
instead of a heart,
my blood beats with butterfly wings.
and they glow when i smile
or when my cheeks forget to blush.
in the place of the heart the butterflies took away.
so your smile-stained lips,
and my butterfly-tattooed skin
met under despair
when it was well
over
the brink.
and every time you tell
anyone that i'm yours
the spaces between my ribs g l o w
with the timid smiles
of my blushing, trippy butterfly heart.
Literature
Cinnamon Souls
"You're mixing water in your coke again."
"I know."
"You do that when you worry."
"I'm always worried."
"No, you're usually cinnamon-in-your-tea worried. This is water-in-coke worried and that is seriously beginning to freak me out."
"I know."
"..."
"What?"
"What are you worried about?"
"You're going to think it's stupid."
"Try me."
"Well...do you ever wonder about the kind of guy you're waiting for?"
"I think we all wonder about that guy, love."
"I've been thinking about him more often than not lately. What he would be like, I mean."
"Oh. Well...if it helps any, I know what mine would be like."
"Really?"
"Sure. He will be tal
Literature
I tried
I tried to count my scars,
But I couldn't tell
Where one began
And another ended.
So I tried to count the cuts,
But I couldn't, because
Blood smeared across my skin,
Connecting them like a thin,
Red veil of pain.
And so I cried.
I cried a single tear, because
When I need to cry,
I can't.
Finally, I sat down,
And put pen to paper,
Or fingers to keys.
And tried to write my emotions.
But I couldn't, because
I don't know how to tell the world
What I feel like,
When I have no right.
I looked from the blood stained tissues,
Across my torn body,
Into my own eyes, reflected perfectly by the mirror before me.
Another tear was p
Literature
After Words
"I wish you would give it back to me."
"Why? You'll just break it again."
"It's my heart. I will do whatever the hell I want with it."
"Yeah? Well, you take terrible care of things that are yours."
"Fine. Keep it. I am equal parts concrete and soul anyway."
"You say that, but I'm not entirely sure that you are. I think you're deep, and fragile and broken, and that makes you beautiful."
"Again, concrete and soul. "
"I wish you wouldn't make this so hard."
"So hard? I'm making this easy. You gave me dreams of half feathered swans and a stupid house on an endless beach and a city made of an ocean, and now you're taking it all away. But a
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because i don't remember living without it.
and i think things are getting better.
for my oobie.
and i think things are getting better.
for my oobie.
© 2012 - 2024 YesterdaysWake
Comments207
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Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactAt first I expected something within the likes of Langston Hughes, judging by the title. But this piece is much more transcendental than just racial contemplation, or even human beings as a whole. There's a wonderful vision being told here, entrapped in a beautiful absurd and surreal landscape. Hinting at an Eden, a perfect paradise for those who have had the pleasure of not being born yet. The constant whispering of the colourful creatures with their delicate wings.
Created with the likes of bold, large spacing and perhaps unnecessary italics. The execution of which can be seen as done by someone of ingenuity, but still with their heads in the clouds of youth. (I am to be blamed for this also.)
Finally, we can tell from the last few lines that, this, is a love ballad. That this glorious half-dream of birth is what simply shivers down the author's spine whenever she is able to proclaim her love. Not the most original, but still memorizing nonetheless.