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I was built from the top all the way down
made out of evenings edged with a cold glimmer
pushing my own salute against the staining sky.
I am from the rooftops.
I was created in the crevasse between the bed and the wall
in the stillness of when everything
except me
is asleep.
Hugging myself and maybe a pillow
and aching around the rips behind my ribs
left by slurred words and red flashes all faded out to hollow.
I am from insomnia, alone.
I am born out of eraser smears
because I’ve tried and tried but the lines don’t fit.
I want to put the world under my pencil:
the skyline, telephone wires,
birds,
faces,
but my fingers are too young to belong to an artist.
I drink the world in like orange juice
even though I really want to make it all mine.
I am from the intense beauty everywhere, l
onging, almost painful.
But also from
mistakes.
This is beautifully conflicted, just like your origin. You seem to be interested in playing with sounds, clashing rhythms, etc., which I think is an interesting direction for you to try. Don't sell yourself short though - you're not at all too young to be considered an artist. You're a writer through and through, and ain't much you can do about that but just keep on getting better.
ReplyDeleteThis is really beautiful, it could be from a trained writer!
ReplyDeletethank
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