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hello my little singing bird by Junoza, literature
Literature
hello my little singing bird
hello my little singing bird
have you come to sing?
your songs are always heard
the same sweet songs you always bring
hello my little singing bird
i find you quite annoying
it seems you're always toying
i know your songs by word
hello my little singing bird
its time i've gone away
i've wasted more by coming here
your motives now, are always clear
i dont know what this all was for
and you are such a bore
so goodbye my little singing bird
i've nothing left to say
sinking somewhere deep by prairiedaisy, literature
Literature
sinking somewhere deep
i am so darkly imperfect
i fear i will stain your skin
in the ink of my shadows.
i am swimming through miles
and miles of murk and the sea
breathes me between
unholy terrors tossing me
in submerged currents where
subtext haunts me
like a streaming ghost, finning
my pulsing fear. something
is rushing my ears
and it is not just the weight
of water. there is the hand
of expectation collapsing
my ribcage till my bones
screech with powdery cries
and i am dying
for want of air
but when i open my eyes
you are looking back, and
you don’t know that i am
drowning in your skin
A knight -school project- by Junoza, literature
Literature
A knight -school project-
There once was a knight
not clad in shining armor
he hid from every fight
and dwindled his honor
he was of his eighteenth year
with tatered mail and plate
much from swords he had to fear
and thought death could wait
his face bore a quiet nobility
his hair cut short
skills gave him possibility
but some would always bring retort
on a shy paint horse
he rode with the sun
its hair was course
any other would shun
his family wealth was large
though his uncle took charge
his cousins rode strong
little did they fear
their deeds held in song
with armor none could tear
So this Knight named Stan
took action from his clan
enough m
i would gladly... by oldest-boy, literature
Literature
i would gladly...
I lost my edge
like a disposable razor,
or that perfect pencil
that was milked of poems
until I was pinching the eraser,
in order to drag the led-less
wooden stump across
half-worthy paper,
that took a bite out of silence
and chewed it into reassurance
before swallowing it down
with a sip of another day
left waiting for some one
to sharpen my wits on,
changing my life
as often as my mind,
with a lost look on my face
after ripping the bushes
I used to beat around
from their roots
and feeding them to the
hoarse voice I rode in on,
through the fields of
run-on sentences,
planting commas,
like descriptions of heaven
