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Literature
Remembrance
I sit here with the Mogwai going loud and
Discussions of poetry ringing around my head
Like Saturn and her rings, golden, wedding her to
So many moons, words about words.
Poetry is for tasting, honey,
Rather than autopsies and
Scientific histories.
How we have loved,
Loving moments and
Connections
How we have Celebrated
Fictional moments never
accepting we are as we are
as
We would rather be.
We put ourselves together
one word at a time
Remembering
Not with memories
But as an opposite
Poetry is not an autopsy
A biopsy
Poetry is the opposite of everything that cuts
Clean
Poetry tears us together, bloody and new.
Literature
A Feel of Deprivation
I am a human, unique and set apart,
I celebrate myself and sing myself,
And so, like everyone, I deserve my own respect.
But your disregard and contempt for my human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged me and others,
But I shall not be taken lightly,
I permit to speak at every hazard, you do not control me.
I am allowed to stage a rebellion against your tyranny and oppression.
What say you about my rights?
Stop this day and night and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
Read my poems and you will see what you’ve done.
I have the right to recognition everywhere,
Even you,
You won’t listen to
Literature
In the Mirror
She cracks the door just an inch, peering through the crack into the darkness of the room beyond. Lightning flashes through the window, illuminating vague figures standing still. Fingers twitching, mind racing, heart pounding, she pushes through the door and reaches to grab the nearest figure. The white fabric slips silently off as she touches it, revealing the chair underneath. A wry grin finds its way onto her face and she moves through the room. Dust bunnies run from her falling footsteps, jumping quickly then slowly drifting back to the floor. She slides the cloth from several pieces, a table, a couch, more chairs, a trunk, a vanity.
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