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Literature Text
I emboss you, your lips
pressed against mine.
in the crystal ball of a
bedroom window,
the clock radio pulsates,
swaying
with the shift of our hips
something inexplicable
dances in and out of us, time is
an intangible thread tonight,
and your breath tastes
like unripe peaches
in the morning,
as the sun splinters in
through the window, I watch
the expansive light articulate
the line of your cheek and your
eyes are beautiful, even
when they are closed,
I wrap myself around you
and touch my hand to your hand.
we sleep underneath
the blanket that is last night,
and the sheet which is the
amorphous fluid of morning.
pressed against mine.
in the crystal ball of a
bedroom window,
the clock radio pulsates,
swaying
with the shift of our hips
something inexplicable
dances in and out of us, time is
an intangible thread tonight,
and your breath tastes
like unripe peaches
in the morning,
as the sun splinters in
through the window, I watch
the expansive light articulate
the line of your cheek and your
eyes are beautiful, even
when they are closed,
I wrap myself around you
and touch my hand to your hand.
we sleep underneath
the blanket that is last night,
and the sheet which is the
amorphous fluid of morning.
Literature
chill 2.0
friday night vibes are
a dialogue
between streetlamp
and sidewalk.
i am the strobe and
i spin again,
bullet-mouthed,
and so you tell me
to bite down.
you,
you reason,
are a good enough explanation,
expectations entrenched
insinuations undressed
on earth that feels too much like paper.
you,
you reason,
are good enough for a lulling conversation,
consolations congregating
up there for your consideration
up there with your condescension
condescension, condescension—
this is your slipping confession?
no.
this is the slip into heavy summer
when bitter winds still bite you
softer than i ever could.
this is the saturdays and sundays
eating i
Literature
Angstxiety
I am work weak on Wednesday
in a heap of hangover and hesitation
with fingers on a phone haptically
actively anticipating feedback—
I need that why do I need that.
My angst and anxiety
is constant and courses
and throbs with a pulse
that demands concern
of a baby boomer crooning poetic
in the distance to call me antisocial, or you know,
you could just call me.
If being this busy in an age
of constant communication
feels like having slept
but not feeling rested,
I'd rather cancel my plans
like a responsible millennial
and go to bed.
Literature
Write-a-Novel Exercise 1.2
Disclaimer
The following is a typed out version of chapter 1 “Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone” by J.K. Rowling. This is not an original piece of work but a one-page excerpt typed out, by hand, for the purpose of commentary and education. I am not trying to “improve” the original text, only learn about writing by altering it for different effects and to learn the techniques that Rowling masters so well.
Chapter one - Original version
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into
Suggested Collections
morning after
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