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Literature Text
Xanthic hues of pale light settled across the sidewalk, thin blankets over shadows. The dim lighting fell over her legs, too; covered in black leggings, adhering to her curves, fading beneath the rim of her short, blue dress. Her arms were crossed and settled on a concrete veranda, and her eyes though present - present under the dim, poor lighting – were lightless; dark, and distant.
I knew her thoughts tumbled elsewhere, free from the confines of her physical presence; her spirit wandered, and in the absence of her attention her smile faded too.
She carried with her a cheap notebook – the type you buy for a buck at the dollar store, with a particularly girly design - and red ink pen. Inside you’d find scribbles of poetry, odd, random ramblings of a mad man – a poet engulfed in grief, spilling from her pen random notes without any concern for rhythm, or rhyme, or structure.
For writers, writing can be caustic. It can be suicidal, even; to purge the heart of negativity, of rage, of sorrow, of love or passion. Writing can be escape, absolution, damnation or salvation.
I’ll never understand what writing meant to her, but when I approached and slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into a hug, when we sat to talk and she poured out her heart, when she showed me her notes and I scribbled random gems of speech that left her lips, I understood clearly: writing was the common ground on which we stood. With her black high heels, curled hair and a sad smile and I with my suit and tie and a sad smile too, we stood side by side like only those who write can ever come to understand.
Savoring every moment, for every moment was immortal. Soon, I knew, she knew, the moment would pass from reality and be spilled unto white paper sheets with blank ink.
On her notebook, I wrote as she spoke;
One of those souls that wanders around,
Thoughts jumping – hopping- from thought to thought.
And when she read it, she giggled and shook her head; curled locks bouncing to the rhythm of her laughter.
I knew her thoughts tumbled elsewhere, free from the confines of her physical presence; her spirit wandered, and in the absence of her attention her smile faded too.
She carried with her a cheap notebook – the type you buy for a buck at the dollar store, with a particularly girly design - and red ink pen. Inside you’d find scribbles of poetry, odd, random ramblings of a mad man – a poet engulfed in grief, spilling from her pen random notes without any concern for rhythm, or rhyme, or structure.
For writers, writing can be caustic. It can be suicidal, even; to purge the heart of negativity, of rage, of sorrow, of love or passion. Writing can be escape, absolution, damnation or salvation.
I’ll never understand what writing meant to her, but when I approached and slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into a hug, when we sat to talk and she poured out her heart, when she showed me her notes and I scribbled random gems of speech that left her lips, I understood clearly: writing was the common ground on which we stood. With her black high heels, curled hair and a sad smile and I with my suit and tie and a sad smile too, we stood side by side like only those who write can ever come to understand.
Savoring every moment, for every moment was immortal. Soon, I knew, she knew, the moment would pass from reality and be spilled unto white paper sheets with blank ink.
On her notebook, I wrote as she spoke;
One of those souls that wanders around,
Thoughts jumping – hopping- from thought to thought.
And when she read it, she giggled and shook her head; curled locks bouncing to the rhythm of her laughter.
Literature
Untitled
sorry deleted
Literature
Untitled
The beginning of the our end.
So there we stood, surrounded by a silence that had deafened our souls yet we choose to continue to let it consume us,as we avoided eye contact.I felt my skin burning. My heart pounded as I spoke weakly,freeing us that screaming silence that had frozen us in time.
"I break everything I touch. Did I not tell you so?"
He replied with wrath and dispair," Do not give me your cheap phrases,stop bull-shitting with me."
I looked up at him,his eyes burning in anger that suddenly transformed into sadness, and then he said to me, " I know you, you know me. You don't have to recite all your frustrated poetry, you don't
Literature
Split
Run nails down my
arm; I won't let you under
my skin anymore
Suggested Collections
dedicated to a friend,
she asked me to write something about her.
she asked me to write something about her.
© 2013 - 2024 Konjuku
Comments4
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After going back to school while learning the concepts of analytic writing, your works now please me all the more.
Good to see you still writing, mate. It's been a long time.
Good to see you still writing, mate. It's been a long time.