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Literature Text
In the Napoleonic Era, the Muse was France,
not only a nation, but an idea, a love so great, the General gave everything within him to it,
his soldiers, his never-ending procession of victories, his very freedom,
until the only thing it was left was his name, fated to eternity.
Lord Byron's Muse was a mad one,
a crazy woman full of misteries and morbid thoughts,
that made more mistakes than anything, driving every single poet to the edge,
until the only thing they could think of was death.
Hello there, Edgar Allan Poe, how are you?
I hope the drink hasn't gone to your head, though there are so many obscure things in there,
I think it would be better just to wash some of them away.
His Muse was darkness, pure darkness, that left him with nothing until he found her himself.
To be or not to be, Shakespeare? This was the only question that ever mattered,
but it seems you went away before you could answer it,
and your Muse cried that night on the stairs of the once great theater,
until your dream faded and reality broke it down.
not only a nation, but an idea, a love so great, the General gave everything within him to it,
his soldiers, his never-ending procession of victories, his very freedom,
until the only thing it was left was his name, fated to eternity.
Lord Byron's Muse was a mad one,
a crazy woman full of misteries and morbid thoughts,
that made more mistakes than anything, driving every single poet to the edge,
until the only thing they could think of was death.
Hello there, Edgar Allan Poe, how are you?
I hope the drink hasn't gone to your head, though there are so many obscure things in there,
I think it would be better just to wash some of them away.
His Muse was darkness, pure darkness, that left him with nothing until he found her himself.
To be or not to be, Shakespeare? This was the only question that ever mattered,
but it seems you went away before you could answer it,
and your Muse cried that night on the stairs of the once great theater,
until your dream faded and reality broke it down.
Literature
Her Life
I saw her life in those eyes
with cut-throat stares
and withered looks of daze,
each lid half open
and their cores darted where
they thought it was safe.
Her pupils swirled as hurricanes
with streaks of rain
maroon across a razor blade.
Sharing what words can't speak
and luring in the
sting of the day.
I saw her life in that skin,
painted with a tiny needle that could
delve deeper in what she knew
and who she was, then what.
Like an apple tossed aside to rot
darted across were plum-hue stains
and beautiful scars, an abstract dance of
healing and hurt.
Covered in what she screamed,
her body was masked in poetry,
long-tol
Literature
cycle.
(birth.)
i walk home, crisp shoelaces, bloodied nose
middle of autumn, frothing at the mouth
kids took summer skin too far, brought on apocalypse
i tell myself it will be over soon, wintertime freckles
will be here
incensed
(childhood.)
stove milk and delicate murmurs
the technicolor alphabet teaches itself
purple bowls with animal faces
hospital bracelets around tiny wrists
won’t come loose
mama
(adolescence.)
the clouds are gasoline, wisps of gin, addicted
there is vomit on the floor, new candy sores
sky is burning, orange with hungry flame, vying
i don’t know who to talk to, crying
let me go
alive
(adulthood.)
doctor
Literature
Feel
Sand beneath your feet
You walk but do not see
Hide between the trees
Feeling nothing but the cool breeze
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The good ones are the first to rest
But mine was always one of the worst.
(Muse, o Muse, wherefore art thou?)
But mine was always one of the worst.
(Muse, o Muse, wherefore art thou?)
© 2014 - 2024 PhoenixOfWinterfell
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