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Literature
after the party.
He's drunk in the backseat.
"Anna. Anna. Anna," he moans, as if my name is a broken record his throat can't stop scratching; his voice is nettles and thorns, every natural prick and annoyance. My knuckles go white on the wheel.
Ryan's riding shotgun and he won't look at me. "If you need me to drive him home, I can do it," he offers sheepishly. I don't answer, just press my foot to the gas and let the engine's rusty roar engulf John's voice.
I peek in the rearview mirror. John's laying across the seat like a dead trout, and I can tell Ryan hasn't even bothered to buckle his seat belt. There's a photo album in John's arms that he clings to w
Literature
To the days where books couldn't heal
Usually it's easy to live without you. I wake up with my baby nephew shaking and hugging and poking me because he wants to play with me and I have to comply because he's too adorable. Mum's bacon sandwich always makes me happy because come on, it's bacon.
But not today. Today feels like asphalt dust just blows up on my face when I speed to town. Today feels like the gears on clocks stop working and my eyes are thunderstorms and lightnings. I couldn't see or feel, but they are overflowing with the madness of static movement. I think
Literature
Writer
I am a scientist;
Pinning down ideas
like butterflies
preserving them in
their fragile beauty
as I take away their freedom,
their life.
I am a parasite;
sucking the soul out
of music and leaving it
a hollow shell
that plays like
the noisy silence in
my ears.
I am a thief;
taking what is not mine,
the world around me,
and pouring it into
a mould that
I claim is
my own.
I am a blasphemer;
playing God in a
sacred place, changing
the world to my
liking when the orchestra
is not under my
conduction.
I am a liar;
selling false havens
to lonely runaways,
giving them a glimpse
of a world more glamorous,
more fantas
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Good poem..I can relate