Probably not as funny as I think I am
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Water spring, holding echoes of times long since past, binds through the ages.
By Chloë J.2 years ago in Poets
Baby blue shutters white picket fence, suburb home feels like slow death march .
Soft, faded blue shirt you let me “borrow,” knowing I’d not give it back.
Sapphires fall like tears dripping from Swarovski stairs; your wealth bought you pain.
Ephemeral hue, moon blinks, and takes you with her, to hide from Sun’s wrath.
The Greek gods were capricious Of this all can agree, Servants to their many whims Bored of eternity. Though worshipped by their people
Blue door, always closed, “Daddy’s busy, go away,” Wished for just a crack.
Ghosts rise from the past to haunt under moonlit skies; with blue dawn, recede.
heart-strings, frozen stiff once pulsing with love and life; blue ice in your wake.
Powder blue dusting your face like star-borne freckles. My lips find each one.
Chlorinated blue, unbroken in morning light; ready for urine.
The location: an unnamed middle school. The time: an undisclosed year somewhere between 2000 and 2016. The setting: English class, Friday afternoon.
By Chloë J.2 years ago in Journal
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