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Literature Text
Jared Williams was a boy I barely knew. He had
cornstraw-blond hair and a jaw shaped
like a Lego stepped on one too many times.
He listened to bad music during lunch time,
crap electronic that always managed
to clear a six-foot perimeter around his
five-and-seven inches frame, his
rickety legs and broken wire-hanger shoulders and
gray Vans that wrapped around his feet like ghosts and
his green green eyes like grass underneath glass,
thin wire frames that always hung crooked.
He always hung crooked.
Just a little bit.
Jared Williams was a boy I barely knew. He had
six different illnesses by the time he was seven
and even when he was five he could tell you which cancer
had come back by the colors had to swallow every day,
to keep the dragons from burning his weak lungs away.
Four surgeries by nine and he could map you
incisions - even the ones that left no scars,
welled no red, from no scalpels.
The dragon monsters came back
in the back of his head. Oh the things that they whispered.
Oh how their love cut too deep.
Jared Williams was a boy I barely knew.
He drove to spot 611 every day before school,
Never called 911 - maybe everything just flipped
when the dragons hissed softly secrets
he really could hear. In Spanish class,
I heard him mumble in a language that was not ours -
not humans'. The dragons.
December 9th he drank gasoline. Drove school slowly
and swallowed a lit match. His lungs winged conflagrations.
I barely knew.
cornstraw-blond hair and a jaw shaped
like a Lego stepped on one too many times.
He listened to bad music during lunch time,
crap electronic that always managed
to clear a six-foot perimeter around his
five-and-seven inches frame, his
rickety legs and broken wire-hanger shoulders and
gray Vans that wrapped around his feet like ghosts and
his green green eyes like grass underneath glass,
thin wire frames that always hung crooked.
He always hung crooked.
Just a little bit.
Jared Williams was a boy I barely knew. He had
six different illnesses by the time he was seven
and even when he was five he could tell you which cancer
had come back by the colors had to swallow every day,
to keep the dragons from burning his weak lungs away.
Four surgeries by nine and he could map you
incisions - even the ones that left no scars,
welled no red, from no scalpels.
The dragon monsters came back
in the back of his head. Oh the things that they whispered.
Oh how their love cut too deep.
Jared Williams was a boy I barely knew.
He drove to spot 611 every day before school,
Never called 911 - maybe everything just flipped
when the dragons hissed softly secrets
he really could hear. In Spanish class,
I heard him mumble in a language that was not ours -
not humans'. The dragons.
December 9th he drank gasoline. Drove school slowly
and swallowed a lit match. His lungs winged conflagrations.
I barely knew.
Literature
William,
If I am nothing but an actor
on a stage in this dust town
of rose torn bones and washed up
stars, why is it that the galaxy sculpted
crescent moons in my palms
ache?
Literature
Leonard.
his graveyard skin reflects the darkness as he
sighs his winter breath into my hair. I found him
in a forest of lonely one day, where we would
both hide between conversations. I tried to be
summer, with a pattern of sunray on my skin
and ice cream eyes and warm evening bonfires on
my lips. he was winter, with limbs like frozen
branches and melancholy breath.
we would entangle our bones and together hide alone in
our forest of lonely. I'd seek his cool when passers-by
threw their cigarettes at me and my dry summer skin
caught fire, and he'd seek my warmth when the frost got
the best of him and his branches st
Literature
Surreal Reality
Surreal Reality:
The tides that bind a fallen city,
Swirls of vision, animosity...
Lost beneath a silvered glass,
Watch and wait as hours pass.
You find yourself, now surreal,
Surrounded by clocks with a ticking squeal.
You walk to the kitchen, a hand you find,
A platter in which to place your mind.
The microwave dings, the toaster rings,
From the oven you pull, intestinal strings.
You stab with the knife, it ends in your head,
Place your mind into a toasted bread...
You walk to the car, you breathe in deep,
You look into your pocket; the bottle you keep.
You take a long swig, it's a magical drive,
Your soul falls asleep while
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You know what? Goddamn this whole watchers and comments thing. I'm going to write and if you want to read, fine.
© 2012 - 2024 winterkate
Comments66
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Right in the gut. You wielded your words fearlessly in telling this story; this is truly incredible and moving and I'm sorry you had to go through something like this and that you never really knew him and that the dragons got him at all. My cousin almost committed suicide about a month ago but thank god we were able to prevent it. She's on the mend and I think things are only going to keep getting better from here.
"he could show you
a timeline of his life from the places
the dragon monsters came back
in the back of his head
the things that they whispered
and all the places their love cut too deep."
"he could show you
a timeline of his life from the places
the dragon monsters came back
in the back of his head
the things that they whispered
and all the places their love cut too deep."