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Literature Text
In between the living and the dying
Dead on arrival
Overdosed, comatose, paralysis
Flat line
clynically dead,
thirty seconds to go
Dead on arrival
Overdosed, comatose, paralysis
Flat line
clynically dead,
thirty seconds to go
Literature
Starting Over
Sitting here Just spinning my tires in the mud And going nowhere fast. Complacency and laziness are two large boulders That I find myself shackled to, Making it hard to for me to move. I need to find a way to break these chains So that I can free myself from this heavy load that’s holding me back. I cannot afford to wait around any longer While the financial well slowly dries up. I must make the waters start flowing again, The only question is figuring out how. Too many considerations race through my mind And instead of writing them down and figuring them out, I run. I escape into a fantasy land where everything is easy And where I can take things exactly where I want to go. But I know this isn’t the right thing that I should be doing As, eventually, reality will come crashing down upon me. I keep trying to hit the reset button on how I go about things In order to better schedule out my time and be more productive, But bad habits are very hard to break And I find myself falling
Literature
Hungry Holler, pt. 2
For a bunch of people who saw one another on a pretty regular basis, you would think that Christmas wouldn’t be such a big deal. Most of Lyla’s family lived in the Holler, with some outliers living in the more accessible towns just an hour or so out. Sure there was the occasional odd cousin that had “escaped the South” and hadn’t been seen in ages, but Lyla’s family was so very attached to one another that scarcely a week (if that long) went by without somebody dropping by Granny Barb’s house unannounced. And taking how often they saw her into mind, you would think that certain folks could learn to let a little winter weight go. Have you seen Lyla lately—I don’t know what that woman’s been feedin’ her! I guess now we know why she ain’t done got married yet… Lyla’s getting a little thick… y’think she might be… you know… in the family way? What was so wrong with a girl putting on a little weight? It wasn’t like the rest of her family could stand shoulder to shoulder with each
Literature
Delicate
Every poem, a puzzle, And I, the maker and solver. Every poem, a shawl, And I, the heart undone. Every poem, an altar, And I, the candlelit soul. Every poem, an emotion, And I, more than. Every poem, by ends, divine, And I. . . Every poem, a moor, And I, the forager, The diviner.
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Comments5
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I kinda like the rhythm in this poem 