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Literature Text
For the first time his hands
are wider than my hands.
The pads of his fingers tell stories across my wrists,
deeper lines than I've ever seen trap glittering minerals.
And despite his outward roughness,
he is softer still than the bunched fists that held me fast,
kept me for years in a harder bed than his.
He tends a wider history,
kneels among the rows and breathes life into the tired soil.
In the absence of rain, he draws from a deeper narrative:
I borrow the ladle and drink.
If I could, I'd bring him the world while he sleeps,
the fondest victim of his midnight whisper --
dreams we know,
years spent harvesting the fruit of the seed we sowed
when I was a child, when he was just a boy...
I wend myself around the stock and wait to put down roots.
We will grow beneath the same sun.
The garden gate is shut.
are wider than my hands.
The pads of his fingers tell stories across my wrists,
deeper lines than I've ever seen trap glittering minerals.
And despite his outward roughness,
he is softer still than the bunched fists that held me fast,
kept me for years in a harder bed than his.
He tends a wider history,
kneels among the rows and breathes life into the tired soil.
In the absence of rain, he draws from a deeper narrative:
I borrow the ladle and drink.
If I could, I'd bring him the world while he sleeps,
the fondest victim of his midnight whisper --
dreams we know,
years spent harvesting the fruit of the seed we sowed
when I was a child, when he was just a boy...
I wend myself around the stock and wait to put down roots.
We will grow beneath the same sun.
The garden gate is shut.
Literature
Lullaby
"I've been waiting my entire life to tell you that I'm dying and I figured I'd finally get it over with.
So here I am, carving forgive me
into my teeth, so every time that I speak
I can still say that I'm sorry.
More years have passed in the last than I care to remember
but I could never forget:
In eighth grade my chorus teacher always told me,
'Michael, you'll never be good enough.'
and it always excited me. It reminded me of my mother.
On the last day of school she smiled,
her teeth jagged like a train wreck,
she didn't say a word,
but I knew exactly what she meant.
In high school I fell in love with a roadside bomb waiting to be deton
Literature
At Night, I Cry
At Night, I Cry
At night, I cry because I can’t stop thinking about the old me
When no one’s around, I weep warm tears that slide down my cheeks slowly
And it’s odd, I feel so unsatisfied but I refuse to use the word “unhappy”
I think back to the times where I would just laugh with my little friends, gleefully
Now that I’m older, I feel myself constantly over-thinking
Just constantly thinking of bad habits and fears
Maybe it’s something I did; maybe I’m the bad seed
Maybe I do deserve this horrible treatment by my peers
Or maybe I’m just doing what I do best, over-think
I do it
Literature
Insomnia
Insomnia is the epidemic no pill can quell.
{The days fade into nights and the nights bleed back into days}
Time is just a notion; sleep is a fictional bedtime story.
There is no concept of division, distance, or separation.
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Happy poetry doesn't usually happen...but this did. <3
© 2013 - 2024 xxDearOblivionxx
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What is really striking about this piece is that with its level of specificity you can still take it in different direction. It could be about a woman with a much younger lover, or (because there is no overt sexual element here) it could be about a mother and son.
I'm gonna take the latter, because it is a little harder to prove, but certainly the first lines indicate a passage of time that favor it. Them holding each other could be reference to when he was much younger, scared of something or perhaps in a desperate situation where all they had was each other. He is know grown (possibly a farmer?), when she refers to herself as a child and him a boy, it may infer a teenage pregnancy. She finds the two of them growing together on a farm, out of those bad times when they were just so close.
It seems like in this work it paints this view of maternal love, that in a way can make it more desirable than romantic love. While the narrator never explicitly discusses it, it seems like after her teenage pregnancy she's taken this sorta love over the romantic type. It is a safer choice, a child is dependent for most of its life so is she is free to love as much as she wants. She was probably a single mom and with that developed a hesitancy towards romance, where love can be inequitable and people can walk away. However the work maintains a happy tone overall just focusing on the fact that they've made it, not the sacrifices they made to make it.
Great stuff. I'm not a fan of substituting romantic love with paternal, but this certainly shows the comfort that one may find in such a substitution.