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Literature Text
today i saw two birds sitting on a telephone wire and i wondered if maybe they were on a date. i wondered if i were a bird, if i would have lots of dates that we spent sitting on a telephone wire watching the clouds shape shift and watching the cars roll by, with little kids pointing out the window saying, "look mom, those two birds are sipping coffee in a cute little cafe on the telephone wire!"
of course, the wire would never be able to hold a cafe.
but i'm still stuck wondering if i will ever have a date, whether i'm a bird or not.
i wish i could tell you that i don't miss you in the type of way that makes my stomach churn, but i do. i really really do.
i miss hugging you from behind, even if you would just stand there and even if the backpack you never put in your locker got in the way. i liked being able to say i hugged you, even if you didn't like it and even if i didn't know how i felt and even if we weren't two birds sitting on a telephone wire sipping lattes at a small cafe run by paraketes.
i was talking to my old friend tyler and he asked me if i was single. i told him that i hadn't lived a second that i was in a relationship. i don't know what it's like to have my hand held by anyone other than marissa in the grocery store, or by justin and kurt at a birthday party in februrary. i don't know what it's like to have someone's lips pressed up against mine and i have to say that i'm scared to find out.
i don't know what it's like to love someone and have them love you back. i don't know what it's like to be on a date with a bluejay sitting in a cafe run by paraketes on a telephone wire.
today i was packing boxes and i realized that life is just one big empty cardboard box with the word "fudgeos" printed on the side. you have you to try and figure out how to fit all of your special things inside, without breaking them or squishing them or crinkling their edges. you have to figure out how to make sure everything is perfect and won't topple over in the trunk of your car when you're driving down the road. you have to make sure that nothing is going to break by wrapping your heart in newspaper. you have to try and remember what you put inside and what you decided to leave behind.
today i packed the first half of my cardboard box and i realized that i have no idea what i'm doing.
i am just a measley bird sitting on a telephone wire. there is no cafe. i have no date. there is no latte. i am just waiting for someone to join me as i watch the little kid in the backseat pointing and saying, "look mom! look at the little bird sitting all alone on the telephone wire."
the space next to my blackened wing is still available and i'm wondering if a parakete will join me anytime soon.
i'm still waiting all alone, but at least i'm still chirping.
of course, the wire would never be able to hold a cafe.
but i'm still stuck wondering if i will ever have a date, whether i'm a bird or not.
i wish i could tell you that i don't miss you in the type of way that makes my stomach churn, but i do. i really really do.
i miss hugging you from behind, even if you would just stand there and even if the backpack you never put in your locker got in the way. i liked being able to say i hugged you, even if you didn't like it and even if i didn't know how i felt and even if we weren't two birds sitting on a telephone wire sipping lattes at a small cafe run by paraketes.
i was talking to my old friend tyler and he asked me if i was single. i told him that i hadn't lived a second that i was in a relationship. i don't know what it's like to have my hand held by anyone other than marissa in the grocery store, or by justin and kurt at a birthday party in februrary. i don't know what it's like to have someone's lips pressed up against mine and i have to say that i'm scared to find out.
i don't know what it's like to love someone and have them love you back. i don't know what it's like to be on a date with a bluejay sitting in a cafe run by paraketes on a telephone wire.
today i was packing boxes and i realized that life is just one big empty cardboard box with the word "fudgeos" printed on the side. you have you to try and figure out how to fit all of your special things inside, without breaking them or squishing them or crinkling their edges. you have to figure out how to make sure everything is perfect and won't topple over in the trunk of your car when you're driving down the road. you have to make sure that nothing is going to break by wrapping your heart in newspaper. you have to try and remember what you put inside and what you decided to leave behind.
today i packed the first half of my cardboard box and i realized that i have no idea what i'm doing.
i am just a measley bird sitting on a telephone wire. there is no cafe. i have no date. there is no latte. i am just waiting for someone to join me as i watch the little kid in the backseat pointing and saying, "look mom! look at the little bird sitting all alone on the telephone wire."
the space next to my blackened wing is still available and i'm wondering if a parakete will join me anytime soon.
i'm still waiting all alone, but at least i'm still chirping.
Literature
Dear CouldBeMaybePossiblyLove
you should know that:
I'm not a writer. I'm just a girl that chews on other people's emotions and spits out the feelings on notebook paper. I'm just spewing out phrases with copy write protection and mapping newfound stories across your eyes. I give them titles and genres, I correct them of grammar errors and staple the pages together. Please don't think of this as noteworthy. Because I'm the result of word searches shoved down sore throats and question marks the spot, the exclamation points that hold me up will bring you down. and when I'm up at two o'clock in the morning with Microsoft word as my only companion it's not because I want to
Literature
dont write under the influence
Dr. Asclepius called me;
he told me i'm bipolar
(i still say it's luxuria)
My prescription?
Fucking medicine.
Take two pills:
Doctor's Orders
(as if anyone actually
obeys those, anyway)
Take another pill.
One for each time
you looked at me,
then two more if
i had looked back.
i'll take one more for that time you
branded fake
Literature
soft.
you said
the sky is a canvas,
and i have written
your heart
with its candles
(i love you)
and this truth
is soft, a whispered
confession, painted
in petals;
this promise
is fragile, a run
away cloud, a porcelain
child -
so please,
tread softly.
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The analogy between life and a box is so simple yet so fitting I admire the second last paragraph the most!