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Literature Text
She named the puppy Gingerbread, the toy
I bought when she was three. I'd kind of thought
his name was Biscuit, but she'd always had
a sweet tooth. Feeling extra happy, she
would toss him in the air, legs flailing free.
When she felt sad, she'd hold him by the ear,
and stroke it gently, and would breathe its scent
slowly and deeply, and be soothed. Seven
years later, and she still has Gingerbread.
He's not soft anymore, but she recalls
the softness of his early days so well
she feels it still; he no longer smells fresh
at all, but she remembers when he did;
his scent is sweet to her. He does still fly
exuberantly high, whenever she
remembers that she loves to fling him up.
I have a certain place within my heart
for sweetness that grows old and lives in dreams:
the little sticky fingers, muddy toes,
the clean ones -- naked toddler run amok --
I-love-you's, minty bedtime kisses, prayers,
the aching loss of turning out the light --
and there's a place within that place, in time,
for stinky, threadbare, precious Gingerbread.
I bought when she was three. I'd kind of thought
his name was Biscuit, but she'd always had
a sweet tooth. Feeling extra happy, she
would toss him in the air, legs flailing free.
When she felt sad, she'd hold him by the ear,
and stroke it gently, and would breathe its scent
slowly and deeply, and be soothed. Seven
years later, and she still has Gingerbread.
He's not soft anymore, but she recalls
the softness of his early days so well
she feels it still; he no longer smells fresh
at all, but she remembers when he did;
his scent is sweet to her. He does still fly
exuberantly high, whenever she
remembers that she loves to fling him up.
I have a certain place within my heart
for sweetness that grows old and lives in dreams:
the little sticky fingers, muddy toes,
the clean ones -- naked toddler run amok --
I-love-you's, minty bedtime kisses, prayers,
the aching loss of turning out the light --
and there's a place within that place, in time,
for stinky, threadbare, precious Gingerbread.
Literature
Coddled
don't step on the eggshells
don't look through the gaps
don't ask me what happened
just fill in the cracks
this happens like clockwork
don't worry
please wake me up gently
don't leave me alone
I'm cold and it's dark out
and you're not at home
like clockwork, I need you
please hurry
Literature
Who am I?
Who am I? just a thought.
A thought of infinite length about myself. An eternal idea that I can't express.
I'm a lonely wind that blows away every touch. With no other gift than being incorporeal, temporary.
Not a single rest, not a single smile for the lonely being.
Trapped on my desire begging for a hug, a kiss.
Who am I? a monster. A monster with one thousand faces, all of them scary, all of them "fucked up".
I am the nightmare, my nightmare. A dream of blood and sorrow, a dream of loneliness and spikes.
A dream in which I hurt the ones I love and everybody, seeking revenge, try to erase me.
Who am I? The sadness. The pain. The ra
Literature
Never Forgotten
You are pushing...
Trying to erase...
But you refuse to wipe away those words that rest gentle on the lines.
You can't do it.
They are written in pen.
You won't rip the well designed paper either.
You will have to paint over those honest words.
You will always know that underneath those vibrant colours lies a hidden script.
A secret code that whispers in your sleep.
You have become a spy.
Undercover, in your own world.
What are you searching for?
Is it your treasure which you have tucked away?
Hopefully you will find that which you have intentionally lost,
And at its appearance,
You will forget the tears you shed,
And once again remember
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Written for AllPoetryIsGolden 's 100 Themes Challenge, about my daughter's favorite lovey. Would love constructive criticism, particularly about the third stanza -- does it fit with the other two? What does it need?
© 2014 - 2024 fernknits
Comments6
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I personally would put the word "Seven" at the beginning of the second stanza instead of the end of the first one all by itself:
When she felt sad, she'd hold him by the ear,
and stroke it gently, and would breathe its scent
slowly and deeply, and be soothed. Seven
years later, and she still has Gingerbread.
When she felt sad, she'd hold him by the ear,
and stroke it gently, and would breathe its scent
slowly and deeply, and be soothed. Seven
years later, and she still has Gingerbread.