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Literature Text
the tap water is too cold
to rinse the ice from my throat
and the chill from my lungs
but what does it matter, when
the birds in my ribcage
are all flying, up up up
and through my skull,
and falling, down down down
and onto the floor
landing in front of my feet,
the same ones that
stood me still in the snow
and wouldn't let me leave
to find somewhere warm.
to rinse the ice from my throat
and the chill from my lungs
but what does it matter, when
the birds in my ribcage
are all flying, up up up
and through my skull,
and falling, down down down
and onto the floor
landing in front of my feet,
the same ones that
stood me still in the snow
and wouldn't let me leave
to find somewhere warm.
Literature
i scribbled sex in my notebook
here's my heart;
side effects include:
paranoia and angry poetry.
sweat stains and shampoo.
intentional amnesia, scars.
discoloured bitemarks.
heart-shaped hickeys.
fresh flavourless flesh.
substitution:
manipulation
or replication
of generated
spacing ages
placing ages:
on immature,
disappointed
and replaced
or misplaced.
i lay on my bed,
with you in mind
(with everyone you replace
or everyone to replace you)
i lay on my bed,
writing nonsense in the form
of broken stanzas--
of haikus japan
would frown upon. you know what?
fuck syllables. fuck you, too.
(oh wait, i already did that.
oh
Literature
our sleeping patterns collide.
I wake up tired.
I wake up tired and it's afternoon again.
I wake up tired and I am alone.
It's like every night i fall asleep with you on my mind, and I quickly sort through my thoughts leaving the prettiest ones on top so I can try them on in the morning. So everyday, I wake up and try on being in love with you. Except every morning, it's three inches too big or a centimeter and a half too small or it's brushing my kneecaps like it's too long. But I wear it anyways, since I'm used to being a shade left of ordinary or two steps past crazy. I'm used to wearing love and I'm used to you.
I'm used to falling asleep next to you and waking up
Literature
words or blood or something
we are writers and we're choking on the words, drowning in them, but yet we're still looking everywhere for them. we dig into the emotions, label them with whatever our pens can spit out. sometimes we create our emotions with our words. sometimes it's how we bleed. when we don't know how we feel, it's dangerous because we write and we can convince ourselves that we feel a certain way and we let ourselves dwell in a feeling that was never meant to exist. sometimes life is put on hold until all our blood has been poured out and we're done screaming from the inside, but now it's starting to really hurt. but sometimes when we're dying, we realize
Suggested Collections
winter blues
all artwork in my gallery is © me, bailey elizabeth. do not use, reproduce, or modify my images or writing in any way without my written permission. don't steal my art - make your own.
all artwork in my gallery is © me, bailey elizabeth. do not use, reproduce, or modify my images or writing in any way without my written permission. don't steal my art - make your own.
© 2011 - 2024 bailey--elizabeth
Comments28
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Really cold.