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Literature Text
My thoughts are caged
creativity contained
an imperfect box of
twenty-six letters
and nearly countless words
of a language that fails
to fill my vocabulary
meaning isn't enough
the context of a placement
a storm or a gentle susurration
a zephyr or a hurricane
this is no typhoon
just a natural waterfall
back and forth
like cutting wood
or a conversation
snipped short
I've lost my retort
it's died on my lips
along with my inspiration
I used to love
the limitless until
I realized
It's in the limitations
that a story can be made
creativity contained
an imperfect box of
twenty-six letters
and nearly countless words
of a language that fails
to fill my vocabulary
meaning isn't enough
the context of a placement
a storm or a gentle susurration
a zephyr or a hurricane
this is no typhoon
just a natural waterfall
back and forth
like cutting wood
or a conversation
snipped short
I've lost my retort
it's died on my lips
along with my inspiration
I used to love
the limitless until
I realized
It's in the limitations
that a story can be made
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Literature
Brief Considerations
I have briefly considered burning.
Though always smouldering,
there was never quite a flame,
so to speak.
I have always been more
like a dim light,
glaring from a distance.
After lengthy consideration,
it has been decided that the
acrid stench would do me
no favours.
I have grown to accept
that I am no star,
no source of light
for the malcontent.
I am just one small light,
flickering, wavering,
barely existing;
Yet I carry on
and that is good enough
for now.
Literature
Millions
How do you tell the story of how a million people felt?
It's like trying to put words on infinity. The telling never ends; once you've caught a thread, you find that it is inextricably bound to countless others, an incomprehensible chain of emotion, a tangled spider web, shuddering with our nympholepsy. Even pictures only tell a thousand words, and a thousand pictures could never hope to come close to the words we lacked. The media's well of words ran dry how could you say it? Activists grew docile and listless what was there to say?
Our misery was collective, but as a collective we were splintered irreconcilably, individ
Literature
Cherished
She persuades him to lie down and be still for her
Naked in body only,
her eyes peer past the whole to the pieces.
She squeezes his breasts
Sweet, ripe little things
How they ache for her.
Curious hands become gentle fingers
Sliding up his throat
knuckles rasping against stubble
Skating across his forehead smoothing furrows.
Press gently on the delicate skin at the edges of his eyes
Follow down between the eyebrows
The straight line of his nose
Stroking soft lips that part in hungry expectancy.
She stretches his arms above his head, palms up.
Traces with spider legs down his shivering skin
Tickles the hair of his armpits
Nuzzling her
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I've realized that writing a story isn't about being unlimited, it's about choosing the limitations. Making your own boundaries. Once you create a character, and they're placed in the context of a plot, a place, a storyline, once they have a personality and appearance, then those are the boundaries you've created. Creating is about taking the limitless and confining them into a space you'll then label as 'poetry', 'prose', 'art'... or such are my thoughts at this time, anyways.
© 2016 - 2024 Contradictory55
Comments4
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That's very perceptive. I mean your creative process. I wrote about mine. It was not too much different. I add meaning after it is created. Call it the "big bang" idea for creativity.