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Literature Text
Colors are the things that should distract us,
The things that we should notice.
What color will the sky be?
When you fall in love?
When you fall down and give up?
When you depart from this world?
What shade of orange will the sunset be?
When you entrust your life with someone?
When you get back up and keep pushing?
When you manage to survive against all odds?
What color is your voice?
Is it a passionate turquoise?
A proud azure?
A seductive scarlet?
What color will the world remember you by?
What color will your spirit be
When your soul ascends from your body
And moves towards the light?
The things that we should notice.
What color will the sky be?
When you fall in love?
When you fall down and give up?
When you depart from this world?
What shade of orange will the sunset be?
When you entrust your life with someone?
When you get back up and keep pushing?
When you manage to survive against all odds?
What color is your voice?
Is it a passionate turquoise?
A proud azure?
A seductive scarlet?
What color will the world remember you by?
What color will your spirit be
When your soul ascends from your body
And moves towards the light?
Literature
Ignorant Wisdom
The best of us die young
Why?
We are blood and body
Mind and muddled matter
That decays from the very air
Necessary like an addiction
Our eyes are skin and sinew
Senses intaking a surface
But to the machine of faults
What is there lost to us?
The best of us are of will
As what will be passed belief
The demanding of subconscious
Edicts of the soul
Then why do they die?
Why must a will be severed
When it drives our existence
All that there is
And will ever represent us?
Why do vessels feed the muscle?
Bones hold up our legs
And a head with strong neck
That its aspirations rise?
The best of us accomplish
Tasks of a higher calibre
Like a
Literature
True Story
I once read a book
called How to Offend; it had
just one word: "exist."
Literature
Murder your Poem
Make your poem suffer,
it needs to know how you feel.
And if it doesn't, your poem is ignorant.
Gouge the pen deep within it, until bloody ink stains through.
Write very hard
so your poem can feel your scars.
If you crinkle the corners,
good;
it needs to have broken tattered bones.
Feeling exhausted before your done.
Do not share or post your poem so soon,
for it needs to feel rejection.
Most important, before it dies.
Never..
Clean it's wounds, or tape its rips,
do no accept forgiveness..
As your poem dies, you'll be surprised.
Your dead withered poem,
has found
new life.
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Lovely!