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Literature Text
it started with lightbulbs, and it ended with jail.
and when she looked back on it it seemed suitable, like the lightbulb he dropped on her desk was the universe's way of saying that this [whatever this was] was a great idea.
but it wasn't just lightbulbs. every day there was something new, a perfectly random little something dropped on her desk without a word of acknowledgment, like a cat bringing home dead things as gifts [but much cuter, of course] and every day she would tap her fingers with anticipation, just waiting for him to arrive with something new.
and they were always silent in class, barely speaking more than a few words to each other [maybe because he always slept right through the lesson]. but late at night they would spend hour upon hour talking to each other, and she would struggle to keep her eyes open so that she wouldn't have to say goodnight, because she knew, after not very long at all, that he was special.
and for months they were like that - best friends, talking nonstop, staying up late and talking each other through all the crises that teenagers are prone to. sometimes they would tiptoe around the idea of romance, as though they were both afraid to really say it out loud. because really things were good the way they were, and why should anything ever change?
***
in a high school theater, on a big black stage, hidden from the rest of their class by a half painted wooden jail, he kissed her for the first time. and for the second time. and for the third time, too.
it started with lightbulbs, and it ended with jail.
and, she thought as she snuggled into his arms, jail had never been so romantic.
and when she looked back on it it seemed suitable, like the lightbulb he dropped on her desk was the universe's way of saying that this [whatever this was] was a great idea.
but it wasn't just lightbulbs. every day there was something new, a perfectly random little something dropped on her desk without a word of acknowledgment, like a cat bringing home dead things as gifts [but much cuter, of course] and every day she would tap her fingers with anticipation, just waiting for him to arrive with something new.
and they were always silent in class, barely speaking more than a few words to each other [maybe because he always slept right through the lesson]. but late at night they would spend hour upon hour talking to each other, and she would struggle to keep her eyes open so that she wouldn't have to say goodnight, because she knew, after not very long at all, that he was special.
and for months they were like that - best friends, talking nonstop, staying up late and talking each other through all the crises that teenagers are prone to. sometimes they would tiptoe around the idea of romance, as though they were both afraid to really say it out loud. because really things were good the way they were, and why should anything ever change?
***
in a high school theater, on a big black stage, hidden from the rest of their class by a half painted wooden jail, he kissed her for the first time. and for the second time. and for the third time, too.
it started with lightbulbs, and it ended with jail.
and, she thought as she snuggled into his arms, jail had never been so romantic.
Literature
like a bad dream
my loved ones
are all falling
apart
dripping construction-paper
[stalks of] bleeding hearts
onto rainy pavement
mother maple
tree was felled
feeding off the emotions
her daughter claimed to quell
sadness trapped her mouth like glue
now she aches to see you [whole]
twinlike,
carbon copies right down
to the scars on their wrists-
diamond sharp rapier wit
clash together,
advice isn't worth it.
peeling sliverscabs of guilt
off, never ceasing the habit
endings:
brown hair, red-eyed tears
confessions dunked in coffee
dribbling cigarette crumbs
[her vices vary, now her only vibrancy]
ocean-bound, she drank
too much salt w
Literature
stuck to the back of my throat.
yesterday i saw you in cracks of my staircase
and inbetween the pages of my class novel.
you look like hell, and i thought the
darkened circles under your eyes
resembled the colour i think my
love for you would probably be.
its saddening that the thick oxygenated
purple and red mix is kind of like
what i saw once one one
of those anti smoking commercials
spilling forth from a dissected lung.
thats what you are.
you're my personal cancer.
Literature
Failure
She was the Thief Girl with no faith and half a heart, and she didn't care if they never ever saw her soul anyway. She was almost content in the half broken life she had created for herself. Her fingers were always drenched in ink, her mind was always preoccupied with her treasure. Words stolen from conversations, from homes, from mouths that didn't need to speak any more.
She found the Lost Boy somewhere in an alley of poetry and a war of lyrics, fighting for his life with a broken piano and a worn tuxedo. She stole him before the bass viols, the gleaming guitars and the thrashing drums could kill him.
He fought with her all the way, telli
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A little something I wrote for my boyfriend. This all really happened - when I went to see the play that the jail set was for, all I could think was 'he kissed me behind that!' 
Comments are always loved
Comments are always loved
© 2011 - 2024 aprilwednesday
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This is so romantic! 
I freakin' love it!
I freakin' love it!