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Literature Text
I’d plug a microphone into my mind
if that would help me speak it.
The message is always incomplete
by the time it gets to you.
I want to believe that communication is more
than tapping the pane of a TV screen
and twisting bad antennae
hoping something filters through.
I have tried and I have tried
to believe that we can synchronise
but I’m never on your network
and you’re never watching mine.
There must be something more than what we know,
some higher frequency.
Because words have made me feel powerful so many times
and so many times they have failed me.
if that would help me speak it.
The message is always incomplete
by the time it gets to you.
I want to believe that communication is more
than tapping the pane of a TV screen
and twisting bad antennae
hoping something filters through.
I have tried and I have tried
to believe that we can synchronise
but I’m never on your network
and you’re never watching mine.
There must be something more than what we know,
some higher frequency.
Because words have made me feel powerful so many times
and so many times they have failed me.
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Literature
Elsewhere
I do not cede your life to you.
All things begin in my aching bed.
Baristas, starmen, nothing has survived the light.
The living lose their space to me.
The last fond ritual before the ghosts will be allowed their speech
is the moment that I really live, when I breed all neurotic wants at once:
to king, to beggar, to whore out every figure
yet to be betrayed by gross approximation
and dumbly muddled by these dumb fingers.
The all important touch is just a disillusioned brute
hanging like an ugly halo around an arbitrary mass
that hosts your hidden magic.
And I kill the world to have it.
What bizarre and dissolute intelligence births its
Literature
wholeness
i climb inside not woman
and make a place there
for myself
i throw away the space
that does not fit
and take one
never offered:
i am as much a girl
as a mountain
i am as much a boy
as the sea
i am the sound
of unborn voice
and swollen tongue
i am the sound
that the word home makes
when i think
but do not speak
Literature
To depression, for creating days without end
Wake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those qui
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Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DLR (Daily Literature Recognitions) in a news article that can be found here. Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by ing the News Article.
Keep writing and keep creating.