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Literature Text
A cut, a tear, a fold,
slice of color and a cut or two,
and another paper butterfly is born.
IV drips in the hand
keeping everything in place
while the cuts and tears and folds
keeps going on.
One thousand, six hundred and sixty six.
That's the number
she was told to make.
One thousand, six hundred and sixty six.
Until she can get a wish.
A nice nurse had told her so,
and shown her how to make them
but she had only made thirty out of the
one thousand, six hundred and sixty six
paper butterflies.
It seemed like such an impossible number
that one thousand six hundred and sixty six
but our patient needed that wish
just like everyone else,
in that hospital that our patient was at.
Her wish though
was not what someone expects
from our patient who will not last much longer.
Her wish,
is for her family to be happy when she's gone
and that they won't miss her to much
and that they will find someone else
after she has gone.
Her wish
isn't to stay
and to get better
because she knows
that it won't happen.
So instead
she wishes
for everything
to be happy
when she is finally gone.
And for that
our patient needs
one thousand
six hundred
and sixty six
paper butterflies.
slice of color and a cut or two,
and another paper butterfly is born.
IV drips in the hand
keeping everything in place
while the cuts and tears and folds
keeps going on.
One thousand, six hundred and sixty six.
That's the number
she was told to make.
One thousand, six hundred and sixty six.
Until she can get a wish.
A nice nurse had told her so,
and shown her how to make them
but she had only made thirty out of the
one thousand, six hundred and sixty six
paper butterflies.
It seemed like such an impossible number
that one thousand six hundred and sixty six
but our patient needed that wish
just like everyone else,
in that hospital that our patient was at.
Her wish though
was not what someone expects
from our patient who will not last much longer.
Her wish,
is for her family to be happy when she's gone
and that they won't miss her to much
and that they will find someone else
after she has gone.
Her wish
isn't to stay
and to get better
because she knows
that it won't happen.
So instead
she wishes
for everything
to be happy
when she is finally gone.
And for that
our patient needs
one thousand
six hundred
and sixty six
paper butterflies.
Literature
Cloud
Life is a cloud
Shapeless unless captured,
Quite unpredictable,
And temporary.
Fly while you can.
Literature
she knows her paper cuts by name.
Rose blood
on her tongue
reminds her of yesterday's.
Lonely bones.
A heart's hoarded secrets,
love me pretties, &
scarlet letter dreams.
But
do these boys know
of the bitter winter
churning,
like a blizzard
in her veins?
The sharp edges
of half-empty
kisses,
or the crisscross
folding
of origami limbs?
Her eyes,
as deep &
unfeeling
as the ocean;
Literature
Her Muse
these words are not poetry
swimming liquid fire through ashes
of dead phoenix veins.
no, they are rough and callused
with over use, their own faithless artists
spewing black tar from their lungs
in the hopes to one day breathe again.
nothing moves her.
she would rather scribble her heart out
on physical manifestations of her own reality-
on skin and bones she worships like a temple.
"Write of me," he says, "right here."-
planting sun-stricken kisses
along the hollow of her burning throat.
"I want to be where your heart sleeps."
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Incredible, genius! ( :