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Literature Text
It's an Autumn night. The cold comes cutting
Across the seas and the Isle is in winter's for-pang.
I am still at my desk in sweats and fevers, pacing
Over long due essays and the morning's march.
The space on the wall is screaming at me
From where the picture hanged upon the arch
Above the study door. My phone has not rang
In days. In no way could you call me free.
Is it late or early or both? I cannot see
Past the window's blank abyss and I delve
Into another long since read book and look to find
The clock is already far past twelve.
The creaking grows with roaring zephyrs
Of night-breath, the gate creaks in torment
And the dark and twisted line of the tree
Seems horrifying to me.
I close the curtain and shut the door
And pick my book up from off of the floor.
I look and see the clock is now past three
And it matter not in the least to me
And I pray to the Man of Galilee.
Lead-lined eyes and a slurring soul
And the hours awake take their toll
And I fall asleep.
Across the seas and the Isle is in winter's for-pang.
I am still at my desk in sweats and fevers, pacing
Over long due essays and the morning's march.
The space on the wall is screaming at me
From where the picture hanged upon the arch
Above the study door. My phone has not rang
In days. In no way could you call me free.
Is it late or early or both? I cannot see
Past the window's blank abyss and I delve
Into another long since read book and look to find
The clock is already far past twelve.
The creaking grows with roaring zephyrs
Of night-breath, the gate creaks in torment
And the dark and twisted line of the tree
Seems horrifying to me.
I close the curtain and shut the door
And pick my book up from off of the floor.
I look and see the clock is now past three
And it matter not in the least to me
And I pray to the Man of Galilee.
Lead-lined eyes and a slurring soul
And the hours awake take their toll
And I fall asleep.
Literature
The Kind of Girl
I’m the girl who swallows bullets
And paints petrol over stars,
I’m a girl that sits atop the moon
And hopes she’s gone too far,
This kind of girl screams love letters
She dreams in black and white,
The kind of girl who runs in orbit
In the poetry of nights.
I'm the kind of girl who laughs at pain
A girl to hurt and love,
I'm the kind of girl who tries too much
A vision in the dirt.
© 2013 themagpiepoet
Literature
Remember That Girl?
Remember that girl, so innocent and sweet?
Who lived in a fantasy and believed in dreams?
That girl who would laugh and smile just for fun?
From monsters and terrors she never had to run?
That girl who let her imagination run free?
Unafraid to be all that she could be?
That girl that would never submit to the dark?
With so much spirit and so much heart?
That girl who would stand up for what was right?
Who was unafraid to live and enjoy her life?
That girl whose eyes were lovely and bright?
Who believed the only limit was the sky?
Well
She's gone now and she's been replaced
That sweet little girl has be
Literature
I loved a girl.
i loved a girl.
i loved a girl with a love
for cummings & sandburg
& sexton.
i loved an unflinching
poet of a girl.
& with no better diction:
they called the shaking fists
at her sides, her silent act
of pacifism, cowardice.
i’m the coward;
she bled for the both of us.
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lovely
you used the enjambment nicely
you used the enjambment nicely