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Literature Text
The ocean is a place we all find ourselves at some point. Maybe you go there a lot.
Maybe you've only been there once, and it was enough for you.
It's easy to drown and it's easy to swim once you get things going.
It'll pull you under, sometimes you won't come up.
Sometimes it steals your breath but it's the times it gives it back that matters.
You could be under the waves and all you could feel is cold,
but that temperature eventually changes. You eventually adapt.
Most people learn to cope.
It makes you shiver.
It makes you feel fresh.
It makes you hold your breath.
It makes you smile.
It makes you laugh.
You fear it. You might run when it strays near you.
You might wait till the very last second.
Or you could let it consume you.
Maybe you've only been there once, and it was enough for you.
It's easy to drown and it's easy to swim once you get things going.
It'll pull you under, sometimes you won't come up.
Sometimes it steals your breath but it's the times it gives it back that matters.
You could be under the waves and all you could feel is cold,
but that temperature eventually changes. You eventually adapt.
Most people learn to cope.
It makes you shiver.
It makes you feel fresh.
It makes you hold your breath.
It makes you smile.
It makes you laugh.
You fear it. You might run when it strays near you.
You might wait till the very last second.
Or you could let it consume you.
Literature
About Art
Nobody will ever love an artwork
as passionately as the artist
And nobody will ever hate an artwork
as deeply as the artist,
cause it holds a part of themselves inside
And it might be a photograph of
the beauty of their mind
but also a mirror for
the abysses of
their soul
Literature
the art of making love
you and i make love
without ever taking our clothes off:
through the cheesy poems we write for
each other, through all the sidelong
glances across the dinner table. your
palm pressed into the small of my back,
or when i have to reach up on my toes
(or sometimes, jump) just to place my
arms around your neck. when we nuzzle
our noses like inuits in the cold and
talk about growing old together. when
you start to fret when we aren't
holding hands, when i see your face
in a mirror and smile and suddenly
feel beautiful. all the gentle kisses,
laughing until my ribs might crack,
holding back tears when it's been too
long
Literature
The Art of Detachment
dehumanized:
I am a stirring in the breath
of an unswept sky, an itch
in the throat, a tear in
the lining of the sleeve you
keep fingering- like reminiscence
will repair loose strands
(I woke up this morning
in a new carcass, trapped,
by fleshed out flaws and
dismal dreams and the
hush hush thrum ,steady,
[pulsations are riddled with
intent] of my veins)
I am the dents in the floorboard
where boxes of I-can-never-forgets
lay, I am the aching cold of walls
untouched, I am the callouses
of your fingers forgetting
how to work.
(my voice will melt the icecaps,
it will draw all salt from
the ocean and carve a careful
coffin
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Am I really talking about the ocean?
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Comments7
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This poem explains its self very well. It's a very nice piece