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Sammylovesyoulots

Published: Sep 16, 2015

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Literature Text

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Literature

Young and stupid

I feel like I grew up too fast Now maturity is expected of me However I don't feel ready What if I want to be a stupid kid? Let me fuck up, Maybe get a little fucked up Nothing too crazy Not a lot of trouble Just have some fun I know it might sound like a bit much I just wish I felt happy being alive I'm too afraid to even try

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I Will Love Myself

Silence was at my doorstep. Rain fell from the storms of my eyes and hit the cold earth of my cheeks. Sunlight fell down my face in gentle waves. And blood tinted lips smiled only slightly. The gentle spring that bloomed inside my chest had begun to grow and flourish and replace the winter whose frost had held tightly onto my heart. Silence was welcome. Tears were shed in joy. Sunlight was here to warm and blood to live. This was it. I had made it. I know who I am.

Literature

bpm.

lately you've been lost in between your veins and in-tricate threads of a vision that she gave you. she finds your tremors addicting and your rhythm is a song playing repetitively in the back of her mind. lately, you've found her hand on her own chest hoping that she is in tune with your own heart beating. but your beats per minute counted down to zero a year ago when you entrapped her gaze in your eyes, and watched her lips as words relished off her tongue; speech was her creation and it flowed so perfectly. now, she traces her fingers down your spine, to uncover all your secrets she wants to know all of your imperfections, wan

Literature

how many broken relationships does it take

it was easy to forget to love you. so perhaps it’s my fault for our brokenness for our extinguished spark; it’s as if i forgot to plug us in or light our candle but how many broken relationships does it take to screw in a lightbulb? none because there was only screwing up not screwing in none because you screwed your lightbulb in someone else i am trying to forget to love you again but i’m still writing poems about what broke us, summing us up in stanzas about lightbulbs; do you

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read when you feel drained

There will be days when your thoughts overflow, teeming like hot tea in the kettle of your mind and you may feel steeped like a tea bag, as everyone extracts what you have to offer, and you're s l o w l y becoming drained but just remember when you're put in hot water: you have the strength to change it into something greater.

Literature

your smile

the sky has grown caliginous- the moon is out of sight the stars are tucked in the cosmos' blanket- enigmas of the night and as I roam through the universe, I seek safety forevermore a crinkle-eyed smile pierces the darkness- I'm so glad that it's yours.

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believe in yourself

they can steal the match away from you, but they can never steal your fire rub your bones together now, and watch your flame grow higher

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My Life Story Isn't A Poem

This is what it feels like to crumble down in a blazing squall. You are muffled gunshots wrecking yourself in high speed collision with his brass armor. You compress every eruption by choking ashes and swallowing shatter glasses because god forbid you are a frostbitten girl with hitched breath and messed up mascara and god forbid you are explosive and god forbid you crumble down because no, you are an inspiration and you are clenched fist and sculpted chest, you are concrete and you are statue, you are the ice cold dusk and YOU DON

Literature

Why Books Suck

Let me write you a story of all you want to hear. Of intercourse and romance, drugs and beer. Of simple plots and story devices, where no thinking is required. I'll even make it into a series, everything you've desired. Pick it up in the middle, why not? It's all the same. So-and-so get together, there's sex on every page. It's the best story in the world, and it only took me six days! Don't worry about morals, there's none to be learned. If you hate life-long lessons, then enjoy every word. The characters are flat with the basic of descriptions, with no voice of their own. If one dies, no tears will be shed, there's another just arou

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to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.

i. to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub: in the magazine I own that published your story, they blurred out the crime scene photographs, erasing your face and the full curves of your breasts. some part of me wonders if you would have wanted this, or if you would have liked for the public to see you in your final moments, half-soaked in grey-looking water, your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain, eyes closed and mouth gaping, no breath stirring, no bubbles rising. ii. sometimes when I look into the depths of my bathroom sink, I hear your voice (or what I imagine it to be-- after all, we never met). you sit on the edge

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stagmata

cross of the open wound, i've been on the deathbed. i have pleaded with your angers and made peace with the red. around the corner you are listening, two steps of isolated waist. craze me with one grasp in lace. look on your facet harmonizes with the falling reign. purple with prose like it matters to the vagrant. scarlet 'round the ankles and sunlit neck bit. your sway makes moonpace look hectic. eclipse me, sweet as the dusk. cold as the dim fog of lust. slow as the silk of touch. i've been on the deathbed, drunk. crossing off sins with full plunge. dripping and scurrilous with each expunge. faculties harmed and waning, your thrust a

Literature

choker

please do not ask me to keep you, blurry and greedy and bleeding, don't let my weakness bring shame. bark christened with a new frame cracks with the terror of a new day buried. hold me like cherry blossoms keep our secrets tucked neatly within, no grins though the knowledge spreads thin. ivy on the dashboard, the leather of the backseat, the smooth, wet metal of the engine. when you make moves there are sparks from your crushed bones rustling like the leaves that you're leaving behind, hurried. please let your desperate grave of a mouth have the power to be kind to my name.

Literature

epitaph

the girl i did not run over looks at me with eyes that say that i am part of the problem, when i could have been her solution, looks at me like she’s blaming me for swerving away, like she’s measured every one of her steps from her door to the curb, and i am the one thing she failed to account for. i almost double back to try and tell her all the same things that i have been told but i do not. her feet are too heavy, by now. her stomach too hollow. she does not need more empty words to swallow, she does not need stop signs or yield signs or ‘for the love of god think of everyone you are leaving behind’ signs. i do no

personal tired

I litterally fell off my damn bed when I wrote the last 2 lines because I'm so tired. I feel so blah. I'm just not okay and I'm so tired. I want to sleep and never wake up. Live in my happy dreams, and soft blankets.
i'm so tired.
The kind of tired sleep doesn't seem to fix.

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