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Post by Kitten on Nov 24, 2007 18:31:55 GMT -5
I love this. I didn't write it, but I did translate it!
"She lives in November with a window that looks out North, in the room of the city that rips the walls with rain, she dreams of watching the raging foam of the gulf, where the waves crush the worn-out coral reefs.
She is so lonely in this strange quarter of thoughts, where the empty corners receive others like her, where for breakfast, boiled scents of the dreams are served, where the vendors of painted grass and flowers live."
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Post by acronymph on Nov 29, 2007 21:53:21 GMT -5
I am not sure if you want me posting here. If not, read it and let me know and I will delete it. Kitten, these are intimate and honest. I almost blush reading it because I feel I am watching you dance naked. They are, for lack of a better word, so pretty. You remind me of a little girl with a stash of candy in her mind. Your age is on the inside. For some reason when I read these I feel you are whispering them. "I knew a boy who looked like he would taste of cinnamon" made me smile and actually sigh out loud. I genuinely enjoy reading your stuff, and it is NOT because of your message to me. Thank you for understanding. I can't wait to eat up the rest of your scrapbook this month
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Post by Kitten on Nov 30, 2007 12:03:44 GMT -5
Of course I don't mind comments here. In fact, I'm glad to know that someone is actually reading these tidbits and passing thoughts. So thank you.
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Post by Kitten on May 30, 2008 9:54:23 GMT -5
my head is a like walnut shell with a brain that has uncoiled fissures, unwrapping and losing all memories of feelings. I've trapped the wild dogs inside, I had them cornered and gunned down.
my words are dribbling like rabid foam from their torn mouths.
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Post by Kitten on Jun 23, 2008 9:02:14 GMT -5
Should I envy or be at awe with those who know their course, or at least direction towards which to navigate their vessel, (meaning, of course, all of their efforts) no smooth sailing but cunning sharks and rocks and rowdy waters will crash against their sides, as they take off into horizon. And as for me, lost in debris of possibilities and many routes, I float along the shoreline, tangled up in seaweed.
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Post by Kitten on Jun 23, 2008 9:05:47 GMT -5
In a cavity, in a cave of riches and bleached bones lives an old troll. All day he sulks, sits in the back on his flesh throne. Sometimes he cusses or yells about how much he hates dying alone.
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Post by Kitten on Jun 23, 2008 9:10:10 GMT -5
She drew frown marks between the brows, she grew sharp canines with which she teased the soft palate until it turned all raw and maybe splitting, lizard-like.
It was one of her many nervous habits.
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Post by Kitten on Jul 27, 2008 10:05:57 GMT -5
my shoulders droop, under the weight of pages after pages of dead words sprouting a wooden hump on my back.
am I to bend over roll over pant and holler about my unnecessary birth, my stunted growth and the future appraisal of my individual worth by the stuffed suits behind closed doors.
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