violent rebirth of a moon by RichardLeach, literature
Literature
violent rebirth of a moon
Not that the moon wanted to be reborn It wanted things to be different Not that the moon wanted rebirth to be violent It was bound and wanted to be free Not that the moon had never settled for less But it wanted beauty and surprise And the violent rebirth of a moon Gave it all of these and more All of these and more
It sleeps. The darkness reverberates with its movement. The man has stumbled into ancient darkness, dragging his wetness through the chamber, hurt, abandoned, unlucky. The man is lost to humanity. It dreams. It has been waiting for so long. The man has found light, light he wishes he had never seen, light, that illuminates the tentacled god, trapped, light, that fragments his sanity. He exists in a moment of pure terror. He is undone. It still sleeps. God help us all when it awakens.
starlight carries its weary moon the same way you cradle my way-worn blues: asterias illuminate crestfallen skies with your scattered smiles spangling my sunken bones, dim and languid in your dusky arms under heavy nights holding moonlit sighs
many ways to corrupt a man. a woman a job a stroke of the ego it's all it takes. we are simple creatures natural born killers raised by mothers who taught us to lower our eyes when a girl approaches. what mothers didn't know is that a killer instinct gets you ahead even when murder is not on the table even if you only dabble in word porn. oh, dear momma - take away your education and i'd be somewhere even if in prison even if on Mt. Everest choking for oxygen i'd be dead and done as i should have been. as it stands i'm 10 miles from where i was born and there's no end in sight of all the chances diminishing. i hope you're happy. you've raised a good boy. and all he can do produce share give is shit. you've raised a good boy. and you don't even get a birthday card.
curious case of futons by naaprimerjanez, literature
Literature
curious case of futons
let's go my friend underneath deeper being still like a rock. the ocean you wear is taboo and your voice an outrage and as you delay your worth the words become corporations. we were never meant to dream alive we were supposed to clone talent. and there's no money or fame more tasty than that which is borrowed.