Tag: Poetry
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Where have I been you might ask? Into the world of BookTtube and Booktok. My Victorian Literature class requires me to do a vlog, (what in the world!) reacting to the books we are tackling in class, favourite classics: Bleak House, Moonstone, Withering Heights and Moonstone. Unfortunately, I’ve never been a social media savvy at…
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Why is it, I wonder, that something we write, is so often different than what someone reads.
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Prodigal much? Got lost in the life spin again. Back again though with a new muse. “Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute Will reverse” __From “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S Eliot
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Quite exciting, isn’t it? Writing death threats? Old receipts crumble a delicacy, Where tastes account for nothing, A bird on the window, And the wind whisper a shadow. The sky is red as the devil, Hands tied in litter, I’ve got no taste for peace, While wars are ranging. Disturbance…. Sick and slick with ignited…
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I play among perfect flowers, Scented, sweet, in rich black soil. Am tempted to peek at the forest, One tires of the rose, To see the untouched, overgrown, hungry weeds that thrive. I am told not to play their dangerous lurks, Wild and untamed, But I think its fine not being perfect, It’s different, when…
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Dreams And dreams, And dreams, Walking grace, And in passion, In desire too. Rivers changing courses, Clouds defying description, Spectacular right before they’re gone, Slipping my grasp, in the first ray of dawn.
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In some corner of the world, A small corner, I am bent over an old musty poetry book, With yellowing pages, And a smell of age, In a different language, but same, Most have never learned to read, It smells of pipe smoke and old coffee, Of warm cozy evenings and sunny Sunday mornings, And…
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Happy new year good people. Went on a lovely walk by a lake and the day was so beautiful it made me wish and hope that the whole year will stay that bright. Here’s to praying that the odds are in our favour.
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We are not cuts waiting, to be stitched back together by the right person but, Each person we meet is a thread, A link in the chain, that helps you mend yourself. You are not helpless.
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Well, that was a lovely break form the Internet, what did I miss?