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Literature Text
And so you've left the path,
Where your mother cannot find you,
And you might bite from the apple,
Handed to you by the old crone
But there is no woodsman,
To cut open the wolf,
Nor a prince in shining armour,
To wake you from sleep
Instead I give you a sword,
So these beasts may not harm you.
Instead I give you the knowledge,
To you make much wiser
For this world we live in,
Is full for tricks and traps,
But you must be the one,
To solve all these riddles
So lift your sword up high,
And lay waste to those monsters,
And use your wits well,
To dispel the fog of dreams
For this is no fairy-tale,
But it is your story,
Where you must be the hero,
And forge your own path
Where your mother cannot find you,
And you might bite from the apple,
Handed to you by the old crone
But there is no woodsman,
To cut open the wolf,
Nor a prince in shining armour,
To wake you from sleep
Instead I give you a sword,
So these beasts may not harm you.
Instead I give you the knowledge,
To you make much wiser
For this world we live in,
Is full for tricks and traps,
But you must be the one,
To solve all these riddles
So lift your sword up high,
And lay waste to those monsters,
And use your wits well,
To dispel the fog of dreams
For this is no fairy-tale,
But it is your story,
Where you must be the hero,
And forge your own path
Literature
Give Me A Break Already
I feel like I’m constantly living in a state of being sick with the flu - I am constantly heating up to the pointing of pouring sweat or freezing to the point of fingers and toes being painfully numb from cold. Sleep is a myth to me at this point; between the fever dreams and either excessive sleep or insomnia that leaves me drained, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to have slept well.
My temper boils close to the surface, everything is an annoyance or an upset, because I’m so frustrated with my own body and its attempts to keep me bound to a chair. Nausea is a constant thing, my head hurts and stings from constant headache
Literature
The beast of the good god
Fly, fly, my ladybug,
Takes your energy from the sun,
Fly as high as the heavens,
You're the beast of the good god,
Little Ladybug shiny,
You arrived in good weather,
Your shell with multiple spots,
Lucky charm until evening,
You're the ogre of aphids and scale insects,
Starving, you eat the pests,
And you feed off all your offspring,
Metamorphosed into pupae diurnal,
When the rainy season arrives,
While following your cycle slowed,
You find shelter under the leaves wilted,
Peacefully, you will return to the summer season.
Literature
How the Devil Cries
How does the devil cry?
Does he cry as silent as a mouse?
Or as loud as the thunders above?
How are his cries?
Are his cries like weeping violins?
Or are they like angry drums?
Or is it that he is the musician?
Does he weep in sorrow,
When he lost his perfection?
His wings, his glory?
His love, his stories?
Is he an instrument,
One that cries beautifully?
Or is he a musician,
Who plays the instruments?
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A quick poem written as an excrise and no much else. The general idea of it is breaking away from some of old fairytale ways.
EDIT: I change the lat line, since I had used an older version of this poem.
All tips and critcism is welcome and wanted!
EDIT: I change the lat line, since I had used an older version of this poem.
All tips and critcism is welcome and wanted!
© 2012 - 2024 Hallowedlady
Comments4
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I love this sort of flipped fairy tales. The sword idea reminded me of Angela Carter's 'The Company of Wolves'.
A really interesting piece to read, and well written.
A really interesting piece to read, and well written.