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Literature Text
i blame the rain,
for the tears in my eyes,
even a grown man,
breaks down and cries,
between broken truths,
and whispered lies,
what a happy mask,
that becomes your guise,
no matter the burden,
no matter the size,
pick yourself up,
for its time to rise,
its time for us all,
to take to the skies,
to rescue our princess,
and capture our prize
for the tears in my eyes,
even a grown man,
breaks down and cries,
between broken truths,
and whispered lies,
what a happy mask,
that becomes your guise,
no matter the burden,
no matter the size,
pick yourself up,
for its time to rise,
its time for us all,
to take to the skies,
to rescue our princess,
and capture our prize
Literature
Dreamed a Little Dream
Dreamed a Little Dream
I am the river, still and tranquil, the moon creating diamonds of my surface.
I drift, and sift, brushing ever so softly against the sandy shore.
The soil so bibulous, porous, drinks me in with a purpose, of sustaining the life that it grows.
I seep around the rocks and the past, to be touched by something more.
The root of a tree finds what it needs, and participates in my potation.
I do not feel used, its much more mutualistic.
I nourish, it grows, then we both are witness to my transformation.
A vein in a leaf, I feel a cool breeze, and we dance apart, but together.
The sun shines through me and I feel it again, a ch
Literature
Believe in a Thing Called Love
Finding someone who you truly love is finding the hidden parts of your own entity while they help you extract it from
the depths of your own self-doubt.
The thought of wonders of another soul that matched your beating hearts’ pulses seemed so far-fetched that you reminded yourself every chance you got that love was for other people, and that you would never find it.
That you were beyond the care of a single person in this world.
Because you believed that the real grandiose being that is yourself was too dull and too different for love to ever find it’s way into your narrow path of self-loathing.
People would tell you all the ti
Literature
a little bit like dying
I think I’m losing something every day
Bit by bit everything goes away
The memories I’ve let go
From good times long ago
Are nothing but numbers in a notebook
Where I don’t bother to look.
Everything is gone now and I’m alone again
And the same old empty crying in the rain-
Became more like a screaming
Where nobody’s hearing
More and more like dying
A little bit every day
Since I’ve stopped fighting
And there’s no turning back-no way.
If it would all be on a paper
Written in a chapter
I’d burn it all
I’d grab a pen
And I swear that if I could
I’d start again.
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great work