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Literature Text
If I could paint a picture of what is in my heart I would paint something beautiful.
If I could write a song of what is in my soul it would be breath taking.
If I could take a photograph of my hopes and dreams,it would change the world.
If I could create a sculpture of my morals it would be tall and elegant.
If I could make a theatrical production of my life, you would see my inner being.
If I could do an interpretive dance of my fears, you would see my darkness.
If I could make my joys into jewels for you,you would sparkle.
If I could write a storey to show you who I am, it would be a best seller.
I can not paint a picture of the goodness in my heart.
I can not sing out what is in my soul.
I can not make my morals into sculptures.
My life is not a show on the stage.
I can not dance to show my fear.
I can not make joy into jewels
I can not show you who I am though stories.
You will know that I am not beautiful.
You will know I am not perfect.
You will know I am not always brave.
You will know I am a dreamer.
You will know how hard I try.
If I could write a song of what is in my soul it would be breath taking.
If I could take a photograph of my hopes and dreams,it would change the world.
If I could create a sculpture of my morals it would be tall and elegant.
If I could make a theatrical production of my life, you would see my inner being.
If I could do an interpretive dance of my fears, you would see my darkness.
If I could make my joys into jewels for you,you would sparkle.
If I could write a storey to show you who I am, it would be a best seller.
I can not paint a picture of the goodness in my heart.
I can not sing out what is in my soul.
I can not make my morals into sculptures.
My life is not a show on the stage.
I can not dance to show my fear.
I can not make joy into jewels
I can not show you who I am though stories.
However, there are some things I can do.
I can show you in my heart by loving you and accepting your love in return.
I can show you what is in my soul by the good deeds I do, the way I help who I can.
I can show you my hopes and dreams by making them reality.
I can tell you the story of my life.
I can explain my fears to you and tell you how they scare me.
I can share my joys with you by doing fun things with you.
I can tell you who I am though my actions and my life.
In this way you will know me.
You will know that I am not beautiful.
You will know I am not perfect.
You will know I am not always brave.
You will know I am a dreamer.
You will know how hard I try.
In the end it is my hope that you will accept me.
This really is who I am and I hope it's good enough.
Literature
The Moon
To gaze upon an empty night
Showered by the darkest light
The moon, hangs with beauty show
Pale and sick in it's dim glow
Oh envious moon, reaching her demise
To shining sun and morrow's rise
And slowly sinking into black
Where path and light start to lack
As the moon floats into a starry sea
And sinks in depths to try and flee
The approaching dawn and sunlight's kiss
Oh moon, for you I truly miss
As earth hangs on the verge
Watching the moon, begin to submerge
Drowning under space and ocean
Sinking into celestial motion
Drowning only to run away
Trying to escape the coming day
Literature
Love Letters On the Train
Dear Stranger,
I'm leaving this post-it tucked in the side of the train-seat. If you're reading this, you've seen it. I've seen you sit here every few Monday mornings, sometimes tapping a bent, unlit cigarette against your thigh, sipping from your tea (who brings a tea cup onto a train anyway?); sometimes staring at the rain outside, or reading your well-worn, beaten copy of Jane Eyre (I hate that you fold the corners down - it's bibliophilic abuse. I wish the book would papercut you to defend itself a little, but I digress).
You seemed so sad this Monday morning past. Please smile again. I love it when your eyes catch the light of something
Literature
Mabon
there are dead leaves
sprouting from her amber spine,
reaching with child-fingers
to devour the sun.
her skin is freezing,
seeping winter through
november pores.
seeking warmth,
the whiskey tongues
of godless boys
wish to decipher
the atlas of her thighs.
counting the sleepy fireflies
alight in her lungs- there is
wanderlust churning & warming
her frostbitten heartstrings.
swinging pendulum hips,
"I am the tease of autumn flames.
I breathe in mint sunsets,
& gasoline dreams."
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I don't think there is anything else left to say.
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