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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
December 6, 2016
Oh, Pine by Zanoliks is a poem filled with nature-inspired descriptions which, upon closer inspection, relates to humanity as well as nature.
Featured by brennennn
Suggested by JustACapharnaum
Literature Text
Dropping colors in the autumnal weep,
trees fast for fall.
Ambers and canary-camouflage
peel from twig scars
descending silently atop browning blades.
I rake,
fascinated in the layering dead,
in front
of a pontificating pine wondering why
all its neighbors are naked.
trees fast for fall.
Ambers and canary-camouflage
peel from twig scars
descending silently atop browning blades.
I rake,
fascinated in the layering dead,
in front
of a pontificating pine wondering why
all its neighbors are naked.
Literature
some things to know about me:
1. i am going to say the wrong thing.
i will stumble over my words,
awkward and too loud or too soft
but never just right,
because i can't really do anything right.
in my defense, i'm human.
2. i will worry you.
i do my best to be okay
but sometimes my best isn't enough,
mostly when i feel like
i'm not enough,
and there's not much
i can do about that.
i can't promise you
that i'll always be okay,
but i can promise you
that i will always
find my way back to it
eventually.
3. i'm not always pretty.
sometimes, people are ugly,
like when they're crying
or mad at you
for all the wrong reasons.
sometimes, you will look at me
and wonder why
you th
Literature
Torn Photograph
it's creased
and water-stain wrinkled
from that pitch-black night
when Jenny left the window open and a wild north-easterner
clawed its way in
screaming all the way
and snapping the curtain like a sodden whip
its fraying blunted corners
are yellowed by age
and sticky little fingers
who left apple-juice residue
in fossilized fingerprints
on the fading colors
but the jagged edge
where you ripped him out
has only just begun to soften
to rewrite a memory
you must do much more
than destroy the evidence
preserved in laminated cardstock
Literature
Grace
The hands that cast the mould that made the plough
that dug the dirt for crops to make the dough
that makes our bread - they let us grow.
The souls who drive the trucks each waking hour
from farm to store to shop give us our power -
it makes them dead - and we devour.
Each morsel grows from dirt to plant to food
we tear a piece and sell so it's construed
we do our bit - we don't - we just collude.
And while each toiler keeps us from our graves
so we keep them trapped in their enclaves,
to tell ourselves each night - we don't own slaves.
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© 2016 - 2024 Zanoliks
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