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Literature Text
the photo mocks me.
write about me,
it insists. be
right about me.
the artist
forced
the camera's
perspective,
then his own,
down our throats
like the last
acid dregs of rotgut
(or a one-two punchline).
so where does that leave me?
scrabbling
to force another perspective,
weaving through a minefield
strewn with cliché upon cli—
—k. boom
write about me,
it insists. be
right about me.
the artist
forced
the camera's
perspective,
then his own,
down our throats
like the last
acid dregs of rotgut
(or a one-two punchline).
so where does that leave me?
scrabbling
to force another perspective,
weaving through a minefield
strewn with cliché upon cli—
—k. boom
Literature
Hate
I hate
I hate well
I hate feverishly
I am the churning acid in your stomach
I am the blood pounding in your head
I am the white-knuckled fist clenching to strike
I am the red haze dimming your eyes
and clouding your mind
I am the rage that lashes out at the weak
the small and defenseless
justified by tears and fueled by alcohol
I hate passionately
I am the shaking in your hands
and grinding teeth
nails digging into your palms
I am everything you hate
boiling to the surface in a froth of
bile
blood
and excrement
I am the indiscriminate spray of bullets
at the school
church
nightclub
I am the madman raving on the news
heaping blame
Literature
nothing good happens drunk
I swayed into the kitchen. I might still be drunk, I thought sourly.
Awkwardly bending my knees, I scanned the bottom shelf of the fridge. What should you eat for a hangover? I recalled some article from Pinterest and grabbed the almost empty container of yogurt.
I found a pack of pecans and tossed some into a tiny sandwich bag. I proceeded to crush the nuts with the blunt end of a vodka bottle. Crushed pecan nuts will absorb the alcohol in my stomach, right? I thought back to my drunken stupor at the bar and cringed.
The door swung open and she walked to the sink, water bottle in hand. “I feel like complete shit,” I said. She
Literature
Rosebush
If I were to tell you,
"Life is not a bed of roses."
Would you still continue
To pull the weeds from beneath the rows?
If I said,
"There are some wounds that cannot heal."
Would you still reach between the brambles
And allow the thorns to pierce your skin?
Were I to mention,
"Even the brightest of flowers
Will eventually succumb to time."
Would you still cut the heads
In preparation for the new spring buds?
You simply smile and say;
"Yes.
For even the most vapid vine deserves to be cultivated.
Only then can it bloom
And truly enjoy its time in the sun."
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Comments31
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I like the first stanza in your poem and my favorit stanza is when you say where does this leave me . Orin other words you can call it a hotspot in a writters work. Nice poem.