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Literature Text
he smiled in parabolas;
and only when one could not chart his distance any longer did I stop and notice
how the constellations of freckles mapped across his cheeks
could be points on Orpheus’ plane—
how beautifully his face sang, how dainty was his
porcelain pout against the rough hewn glare of
his Neptunian gaze.
Fibonacci’s numbers charted his visage—a elegant landscape,
sym-met-ry, accordance—
[one plus the square root of five, divided by two]
He was music, he was melody, he was Apollo’s last song,
his last prophecy, his last poem—
he was a canvas, a graph, a parabola extending to two-dimensional infinit(ies)
held within the confines of sickly, seraphic perfection.
and only when one could not chart his distance any longer did I stop and notice
how the constellations of freckles mapped across his cheeks
could be points on Orpheus’ plane—
how beautifully his face sang, how dainty was his
porcelain pout against the rough hewn glare of
his Neptunian gaze.
Fibonacci’s numbers charted his visage—a elegant landscape,
sym-met-ry, accordance—
[one plus the square root of five, divided by two]
He was music, he was melody, he was Apollo’s last song,
his last prophecy, his last poem—
he was a canvas, a graph, a parabola extending to two-dimensional infinit(ies)
held within the confines of sickly, seraphic perfection.
Literature
you are what you love
this girl dreams
far too much;
her bed has turned into
a nightmare graveyard,
full of wilted roses
and broken spines.
wanderlust is a toxin.
one that fills her lungs with each
breath and with every poisoned
heartbeat, she yearns for a world
with moons of gold and a silver sun.
yet—
she would rather listen
to those sweet nothings than have
the philosophy of reality
shoved down her throat.
this girl does not want
to live in black and white;
no, she craves color
and the freedom it tastes like and if
the chains that that shackle her
starving soul refuse to unlock,
she will tear them apart
with her own two hands.
Literature
letters on leaving.
i wrote my first suicide letter in 10th grade.
they told me it didn't count if you felt like dying
unless you had it down on paper
like a vetoed birth certificate.
i've rewritten it enough times since
to realize i could never leave with a proper goodbye.
goodbye is too heavy a word for paper to hold
and i was never brave enough for the kind of courage it takes to tell them
why.
why they weren't enough to keep me here.
but i'm finally learning a different kind of bravery-
the kind it takes to
stay.
stay.
i learned to wear death
like rope burn my junior year
my senior year we became friends
but i finally stopped cutting the insides of wrist
Literature
How to love a poet:
Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
imperfections, sticky
metaphors
& an inability
to speak.
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
Your smile,
the sound of your voice,
the laugh lines—
bruises.
Know
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Dorian Gray held nothing to him.
Blame Oscar Wilde and my math teacher for this. I took what I had and ran with it.
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I hope you enjoyed my optimistic contribution to this meaningful holiday.
(c) moi
Blame Oscar Wilde and my math teacher for this. I took what I had and ran with it.
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I hope you enjoyed my optimistic contribution to this meaningful holiday.
(c) moi
© 2015 - 2024 sylveda
Comments8
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wow this is so cool!! 
Oscar Wilde + math =
the best equation I'VE read in a long time!!!
Oscar Wilde + math =
the best equation I'VE read in a long time!!!