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Literature Text
I'd like to write about me
in the plainest words,
or, better yet, not utilize
a human tongue at all.
For words are seldom meaningful
and only sketch where they should strive
to care- and thoughtfully describe
the detailed truths and hidden lies.
Yet still I wish to write of me;
explain, in detailed sketches
things I do not understand –
nor ever hope to have explained.
Consider this an open letter;
friend to friend,
from fool to fools,
a message to the wind:
Were I to tell you of myself,
in person, not in written word,
I'd joke, tell excerpts of my life
and never show the storm inside;
This storm, so meagrely described
by all I'll ever do or say
is source of what goes on in me
of motion, movement, peace and strife;
It leads me from without within me,
lets me dream the world outside
with waking eyes and fully conscious;
paints the ways in front of me.
In some ways I am good and righteous
or at least prefer to be
shown other situations you would surely
break your bonds and ties with me.
I've often lied and never killed,
I cannot break this habit,
likewise I get down at least
a week or two a year.
But still I pray to gods of men
if only to my own
and fear the devils, hastily
described by words of them.
I'm not much use for talking with
or entertaining strangers;
have my fears and prejudice
both based on facts and not.
I tend to talk for hours and days
if I find any point to start
and yet tend not to talk at all
for even longer terms if not.
Yours dearly, the writer, who feels that an ending
to this special letter would somehow be wrong,
but whose limited lifetime prevents him from adding
more details to maps of his mind like this.
in the plainest words,
or, better yet, not utilize
a human tongue at all.
For words are seldom meaningful
and only sketch where they should strive
to care- and thoughtfully describe
the detailed truths and hidden lies.
Yet still I wish to write of me;
explain, in detailed sketches
things I do not understand –
nor ever hope to have explained.
Consider this an open letter;
friend to friend,
from fool to fools,
a message to the wind:
Were I to tell you of myself,
in person, not in written word,
I'd joke, tell excerpts of my life
and never show the storm inside;
This storm, so meagrely described
by all I'll ever do or say
is source of what goes on in me
of motion, movement, peace and strife;
It leads me from without within me,
lets me dream the world outside
with waking eyes and fully conscious;
paints the ways in front of me.
In some ways I am good and righteous
or at least prefer to be
shown other situations you would surely
break your bonds and ties with me.
I've often lied and never killed,
I cannot break this habit,
likewise I get down at least
a week or two a year.
But still I pray to gods of men
if only to my own
and fear the devils, hastily
described by words of them.
I'm not much use for talking with
or entertaining strangers;
have my fears and prejudice
both based on facts and not.
I tend to talk for hours and days
if I find any point to start
and yet tend not to talk at all
for even longer terms if not.
Yours dearly, the writer, who feels that an ending
to this special letter would somehow be wrong,
but whose limited lifetime prevents him from adding
more details to maps of his mind like this.
Literature
Four years.
I was nine when they left me, when my best friend became my father, when the cancer got bad and I had to learn how to cook and clean and tuck myself into bed at night.
I was nine when my mother quit her job, and began spending every hour she had in the hospital, when my father began breaking promises and changing rules and getting lost on the highway because the hospital was the only place he knew.
I was nine when I understood what it meant to grow up too quickly, when they pulled me out of my classroom to tell me she was dying, when I realized that losing my sister would end more lives than one.
I was thirteen when they decided they could
Literature
Mendacious
The heart falters;
it is a weak and
fragile thing.
I feel a clasp
tight as a clamp
around it when I
hear your voice
echoing in this
dark corridor.
What beckons me
are the demons
that dwell within you.
They speak in tongues
and I curse them.
Your language
is mere poison;
a dialect long
bereft of veracity.
-Brian Shuffett
March 19th, 2010
Literature
Singing to the Wetlands
I'm the girl with bayou eyes,
twigs, mud and death snaking into my curls.
I pause to breathe and s-h-o-c-k,
shock sets in:
Day One.
Earthen clasps latch on my arms,
pulling me back down;
the meandering waters clutch
at my bell-shaped elbows.
Day Six.
My smile is climatic;
the sun always seems to shine,
burning the layers of leaves
but I can't even put up a fight
to remember its grace.
Day Seventeen.
I'm surrounded by an animalistic embrace--
mismatched light from alligator stares
and throaty frog musings.
Day Twenty-eight.
I forget what color
the back of my eyelids were.
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Comments16
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Hmmm... So... A man who cannot fathom himself (much like others of his brethren). A quiet one, unless roused with the right words. Often speaks out of society's expectations, rather than on his own. Likable in a ways, detestable in others (yet would that come to the surprise of any of his kith?). A tormented spirit, a wound that does not close. It bleeds ink from which he writes.
Now... That may not be everything (I needn't do nor know), yet tell me friend: have I fathom well and rightly so?
Now... That may not be everything (I needn't do nor know), yet tell me friend: have I fathom well and rightly so?