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Literature Text
take a step into this deadly wonderland,
be greeted by what was once merely sweet snowflakes in your auburn hair.
innocence is for the weak-hearted and i am no more
a child seeing dreams in the first snow of the season called tragedy.
winter is a term weaved off of festivities and holiday lights
but this season is not only hot chocolate on snowy nights - not anymore.
we watch as the sky darkens and freezes the words we never got to say,
see the beating hearts - heavy with sorrow -
and we know that the seasons have changed: no more is the warmth of autumn.
we're wrapped up in the timeless hope that we don't stare out the window
only to watch the end of the living as the landscape is blanketed with our eventual doom;
but as the hollow shock of another death too young settles onto the town,
we cannot help but see now that winter
is simply another word for grief.
be greeted by what was once merely sweet snowflakes in your auburn hair.
innocence is for the weak-hearted and i am no more
a child seeing dreams in the first snow of the season called tragedy.
winter is a term weaved off of festivities and holiday lights
but this season is not only hot chocolate on snowy nights - not anymore.
we watch as the sky darkens and freezes the words we never got to say,
see the beating hearts - heavy with sorrow -
and we know that the seasons have changed: no more is the warmth of autumn.
we're wrapped up in the timeless hope that we don't stare out the window
only to watch the end of the living as the landscape is blanketed with our eventual doom;
but as the hollow shock of another death too young settles onto the town,
we cannot help but see now that winter
is simply another word for grief.
Literature
broken bones
I want to write rough and raw and unbearable
the way cigarettes taste at midnight
to a tired atheist knocking on a locked church door
wondering whether to pray or scream
I want to write cold and brutal and honest
like fog-choked dawns on unfamiliar city streets
when the silence presses behind your eyelids
and breathing feels like blasphemy
I want to write like the midnight air that burns the back of your throat
like cold fury and boiling hatred
like the panic that eats into bone marrow
the fear that runs prickling fingers down twisted spines
I want to write of you and me and everything
pin
Literature
I can't write poetry for dead girls.
there are too
many pills in this
world and too
much misery in
the human heart
but that didn't mean
that you could just
up and leave when
we both know it
could have gotten better
and i miss you like
a wolf misses her pack
or a goddamn dragon misses
her fire and i'm sorry
that i can't give you
a bouquet of jasmines
(they were your
favorite, after all,
because that was
the only princess
with a pet tiger)
because poppies are
too cliche and i'm
sorry i wasn't there
when all you needed
was a hug and for someone
to whisper "it's okay,
you're perfect enough
for me, don't listen
to that junkie bitch
who just happened to
give birth to you" and did
Literature
oxymoronic.
i am so
full of empty
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I've written more than this lately, but it hasn't been post-able... too personal or depressing and just... things I'll keep to myself.
But here's this... a boy from my school died this morning in a one car accident - it was snowing and icy/slippery on the roads and I don't know the specifics about it... only that I, and pretty much everyone else in the school, at least recognized him, if not knew him personally. I.. don't know what to think of the third death at my school in less than a year.... RIP 
I'm scared of death now, and of winter.
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Comments18
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I think this is a very interesting and different view on the festivities of the season - most people would not think to look on the "real life" aspect of winter and the ever present realities of it. It's sad that, despite the whole Christmas feel, terrible things do still happen and I think your imagery within this poem is beautifully sad and almost haunting and forbidding