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Literature Text
I watch her,
As she walks through the streets,
Like a shadow,
She moves through the crowd,
People don't seem to see her,
Her sickly sweet smile,
Her long, blond hair,
Her small frame hidden in the swarm of bodies.
She sits by the corner,
Looking down at her shoes,
Hat at her feet,
Yet no money comes,
Her young, beautiful face,
Rejected by so many people,
She just keeps looking down.
Her hands covered in blood,
Her eyes bright with fire,
He hair cut and short,
Her clothes torn,
Her sweet smile now bared teeth,
As she looks down on the corpse,
That rejected her once again.
She sits by the window,
All I can see is her face,
Her short blond hair frayed and split,
She moves through the crowd,
People don't seem to see her,
Her sickly sweet smile,
Her small frame hidden in the swarm of bodies,
Hidden in what she is.
As she walks through the streets,
Like a shadow,
She moves through the crowd,
People don't seem to see her,
Her sickly sweet smile,
Her long, blond hair,
Her small frame hidden in the swarm of bodies.
She sits by the corner,
Looking down at her shoes,
Hat at her feet,
Yet no money comes,
Her young, beautiful face,
Rejected by so many people,
She just keeps looking down.
Her hands covered in blood,
Her eyes bright with fire,
He hair cut and short,
Her clothes torn,
Her sweet smile now bared teeth,
As she looks down on the corpse,
That rejected her once again.
She sits by the window,
All I can see is her face,
Her short blond hair frayed and split,
She moves through the crowd,
People don't seem to see her,
Her sickly sweet smile,
Her small frame hidden in the swarm of bodies,
Hidden in what she is.
Literature
The Ghosts of Words
Words are for men
and women's minds will twist them.
They may speak, permission granted,
but the pen in all its might
is for men alone.
She knew better. All around
were women writing letters, books, lives.
Her brothers learned, and she listened.
One or two took pity, taught a, b, c
and she remembered.
And she read in cramped dusty rooms
where father never went.
Writing was next, with some practice.
Page after page of letters until her marks
looked like theirs. Until she truly wrote.
From then on it was all hers,
friends and family, towns and journeys,
words and worlds.
Love and denial and despair mixed in
carefully cramped
Literature
Forgotten
I am the voice for the mute
And the eyes for the blind
I am the fighter for the weak
And the protest for the meek
I'm the ears for the deaf,
The hope where none is left
And the love where it's been long forgotten
Literature
psychosomatic demons.
/inhale and exhale. listen for the rise and fall of your abdomen, because it might be the last thing you ever feel./
it begins when you feel the fire warm across the expanse of your back. in an attempt to extinguish it, you twist and turn, falling onto a heap on the floor and arching in ridiculous angles in order to scrabble at the seemingly raw skin. you give up when your joints begin to protest, and the fire happily proceeds to eat through the rest of you. oh, you're so beautiful, it says, words as slick as ice, and it cools down the burnt skin so well. the glint of the mirror catches your eye, and you take in the sinister air, the inky fl
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