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Literature Text
They always shared
a cup of tea
whenever either visited the other.
It would always be a new tea,
vanilla orchid,
earl grey,
whatever they haven't yet tried.
He loved her organic jasmine,
she loved his orange pekoe,
but they both adored
the time they spent together,
under a blanket,
lying on the couch,
taking each other in
as much as possible,
before taking in a sip
of something new.
But then he suddenly ran out of tea,
or maybe he had just found another her;
a new someone to share his new something with.
So she stopped visiting,
sipping her something in stony solitude,
alone with herself and the paint on her walls,
painted the red he adores.
The scarlet he adored.
Soon enough, she forgot about him,
the only reminders of all the him she took in left,
a bucket of ruby brushed on the walls,
and a cup of room temperature jasmine tea.
A cup of soon-to-be cold tea.
A cup of soon-to-be gone tea.
a cup of tea
whenever either visited the other.
It would always be a new tea,
vanilla orchid,
earl grey,
whatever they haven't yet tried.
He loved her organic jasmine,
she loved his orange pekoe,
but they both adored
the time they spent together,
under a blanket,
lying on the couch,
taking each other in
as much as possible,
before taking in a sip
of something new.
But then he suddenly ran out of tea,
or maybe he had just found another her;
a new someone to share his new something with.
So she stopped visiting,
sipping her something in stony solitude,
alone with herself and the paint on her walls,
painted the red he adores.
The scarlet he adored.
Soon enough, she forgot about him,
the only reminders of all the him she took in left,
a bucket of ruby brushed on the walls,
and a cup of room temperature jasmine tea.
A cup of soon-to-be cold tea.
A cup of soon-to-be gone tea.
Literature
one night stand
Inspiration kicked me out
of bed, threw my
clothes-
said, I'll call you-
and moved on
to the next.
Literature
Dying to meet you
I courted Death
in a burnt out pub
with faulty lights and dirt-cheap drinks;
She had tarred fingers
which danced hypnotically
around her hazy smeared glass.
Word round town was that she had the
Kiss of death
and a tongue as sharp as a scythe,
it was a challenge I couldn’t resist.
I seduced Death
bought her a drink or two
and with rum burning my heart
I stroked her arm,
(coffin cold)
and licked my lips like a predator
(a lamb in wolf’s clothing)
and when she grinned back,
I realised which of us was really prey.
I danced with Death
in a dark alley,
in an abandoned warehouse,
a trashed motel room;
it was fast and heady and yet -
t
Literature
Why I Slammed My Door
When my parents came home
and told me my grandmother had passed on
I remember slamming my bedroom door
and sitting on my bed with my face
towards my window.
“Are you alright?” my dad asked
as he peaked in. I didn’t answer.
He said something about death—
I can’t recall what
but it was his way of comforting me
because he thought, as anyone would,
that I was in pain.
But the truth is, I wasn’t.
I slammed my door because it was
an acceptable reaction
and the only one I felt I could perform
with any sincerity—without the need
for mental urges: Once more, with feeling!
I kept my face turned so
no on
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Comments3
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This is lovely. It's so sad, but it's lovely. 