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Literature Text
I have a black old sweater
some of you may know it
you've seen me wear it so many times,
too many... some might say.
it has a few holes
the sleeves are almost falling apart
there's a pink decolored spot
on the left side, near the stomach,
where bleach fell on it.
but it's my favorite sweater
and I still wear it very often
in fact I'm wearing it right now
while I write these lines
and though I don't attach myself to things
there are some that no matter how much you try
you can't completely replace
and you will always love
and you will always miss
after they're gone
Literature
Without the Individual
Without the Individual
Can you imagine a world, directed by a single mind?
A collective conscious, a living hive.
Each time we are born, we receive a part of it
And when we return, we share in the pool.
There would be no fear of death;
No fear of the unknown…
For a thousand souls would bolster our hearts.
We could live—truly LIVE—to the fullest extent of our capabilities.
And when we succeed?
That success returns to the hive…
That success can be shared across the next generation.
We would become an ever-evolving organism.
One with a thousand faces, but a single driving purpose.
Can you even imagine how that woul
Literature
Red Dress
Don’t put on your red dress
for he doesn’t know the meaning
he doesn’t want the commitment
he doesn’t care for the color.
The red dress you love to wear
that’s stained from wine and beer
but still carries so much meaning
for who could find a second red dress
Don’t go out on your red dress
for the man who wants nothing more
to screw around and doesn’t understand
the meaning behind a simple red dress.
A red dress for when you dance.
A red dress for when you cry.
A red dress for when you need it.
A red dress for when you care too much.
Don’t put on your red dress for him darling
he doesn&rsqu
Literature
Resonate
I want to be more than just
a tangle of arteries and cartilage
I want to be pink sunsets,
poppy tendrils, and puzzle pieces:
things not to be lost in the folds of time
or buried to feed summer grasses;
I want to mean something
through the small things,
so even if this poem is forgotten
amongst greater works,
and even if my small deeds are lost
amid the grandiose ones,
I will still resonate;
I will resonate in the way
that I held my daughter’s hand
and braided her hair into plaits,
in the way that I spoke
gently and with a honey tongue,
in the way that I carried myself
like I had never felt grief’s weight
settle on my bir
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before I get misunderstood, this is just a metaphor about people who stay with you, no matter if they need to somehow get out of your life.
I couldn't care less about the sweater
I couldn't care less about the sweater
© 2013 - 2024 hypnothalamus
Comments6
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Even though this is about people I have felt this way about objects before