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Literature Text
Look at that.
That sort of window-like wall.
You can see through it,
right?
Go ahead,
try to walk through it.
Try to get past it.
Try to break it.
You can't.
All you can do is observe life;
look at it pass you by,
look at it ignore you,
look at it stifle you,
suppress you.
Look at it through these four walls,
these four transparent, unbreakable walls.
Watch everyone who "cares" about you
stop caring about you.
Eventually,
you stop caring, too.
No doors. No windows.
Just your unbreakable see-through walls,
and your unattached, neo-stoic, misguided self.
Did the world build these walls?
Did you build these walls?
Who knows?
Who cares?
That sort of window-like wall.
You can see through it,
right?
Go ahead,
try to walk through it.
Try to get past it.
Try to break it.
You can't.
All you can do is observe life;
look at it pass you by,
look at it ignore you,
look at it stifle you,
suppress you.
Look at it through these four walls,
these four transparent, unbreakable walls.
Watch everyone who "cares" about you
stop caring about you.
Eventually,
you stop caring, too.
No doors. No windows.
Just your unbreakable see-through walls,
and your unattached, neo-stoic, misguided self.
Did the world build these walls?
Did you build these walls?
Who knows?
Who cares?
Literature
unarticulated
tonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
mouth.
repression is a series of images
golden streetlights
blinking
pedantically
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
of listless
lips.
mutual poison.
Literature
butterflied
it is a snake
coiled in my stomach,
the urge to vomit
everything inside of me, to purge
all the toxic not-
good-enoughs. to retell
the same story and expect
a different ending is
the dysfunction that landed
us in here. I'm sorry
I don't follow you into
your dreams at night. I'm sorry
my smile is not the moon,
I'm sorry I did anything
to make you notice
me at all. no finger
down the throat could ever
take that
away.
Literature
Unable to feel
Joy
Pain
Fear
I can't even
Feel them
Anymore
This damn
Numbness
Is overcoming
My being
And I am
As good as
Dead...
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Comments3
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Lovely work, thank you for submitting it to the Weekly Review; I'll be publishing this in today's issue.