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Literature Text
He pitied the girl with the glass heart
for she was not made of stone like him.
He thought, “her poor, battered heart must be so broken
that its shards cut her from within.
She must wish she was not so fragile,
that she was unbreakable like me.”
Then one day she said to him,
“my love, how I wish you were free.
I pity you and your marble heart,
carved of the hardest stone,
So unmovable by anything—
you must be so alone.”
Shocked, he argued, “but you must feel such pain
in that frail, little heart,
and I know nothing of sorrow
for I have remained apart.”
Eyes and voice soft, she persisted,
Stubborn and silent, he listened:
“I know your black, granite heart is beating,
but I realize you just survive;
a statue standing still so long
can’t know what it means to be alive.
You pity me for my feelings ,
I pity you for your lack,
and I hope you know that one day
even the strongest stone can crack.”
“You think my heart is made of glass—
I believe it is wrought of gold.
Either way, it must be better
than a heart that is so cold.
Over time all breaks will mend,
So darling don’t you see?
Don’t you wish your heart was glass,
that you were breakable like me?”
Looking at the girl he loved
he understood at last,
and the boy who was made of stone envied
The Girl with the Heart of Glass.
for she was not made of stone like him.
He thought, “her poor, battered heart must be so broken
that its shards cut her from within.
She must wish she was not so fragile,
that she was unbreakable like me.”
Then one day she said to him,
“my love, how I wish you were free.
I pity you and your marble heart,
carved of the hardest stone,
So unmovable by anything—
you must be so alone.”
Shocked, he argued, “but you must feel such pain
in that frail, little heart,
and I know nothing of sorrow
for I have remained apart.”
Eyes and voice soft, she persisted,
Stubborn and silent, he listened:
“I know your black, granite heart is beating,
but I realize you just survive;
a statue standing still so long
can’t know what it means to be alive.
You pity me for my feelings ,
I pity you for your lack,
and I hope you know that one day
even the strongest stone can crack.”
“You think my heart is made of glass—
I believe it is wrought of gold.
Either way, it must be better
than a heart that is so cold.
Over time all breaks will mend,
So darling don’t you see?
Don’t you wish your heart was glass,
that you were breakable like me?”
Looking at the girl he loved
he understood at last,
and the boy who was made of stone envied
The Girl with the Heart of Glass.
Literature
Glass
At some point,
I stopped making eye contact.
I'm not sure how it happened
or why. I'm not sure if it's
some reflection of my
latent insecurities or
undeserved superiorities or
quiet anxieties.
But I am sure that
I miss the fleeting connection
on trains, buses, and sidewalks.
I miss the shape and color and
glint of golden gleam that used
to strike out across crowds at me.
My mother, my best friend, my lover -
what mysteries do I miss? What
is hidden in their second glances and
lingering stares?
I don't know because, at some point,
I stopped making eye contact,
even with the girl in the mirror.
Literature
Sea sonnet for the girl with ocean eyes
She was southern Californian storms
On a good day
When the skies nursed the shoreline like a wound
And the rain tasted like two scoops of mint chip ice cream
She held the nebula in her palms
And poured it out onto the sidewalk
So that the gutters would have something
To talk about at night
She swallowed the ocean
And held it in her eyes
deep pools
Of mountain rock blue straining against the sky
The bluest eyes I’d ever seen
Sparrow girl with the breathless wings
Embellished in vinyl’s and cassette tapes
Gramophone gilded lashes and half-moon wrists made up
Paper tapestries taped together with Shakespeare and Green
Sunday mor
Literature
my neighbour has a garden.
my neighbour has a garden
& not many flowers bloom,
but he tends to it with great care –
his garden is bereft of birds,
stripped of glee or sunlight,
& rain always seems to bathe the ground
his daughters don’t come by anymore;
it’s just me in his backyard,
listening to his war stories told to no one –
he tells them to the wind with tears in his eyes,
(begging someone to please
“listen to me”)
but little does he know that the wind
has a name
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I've got to give credit to the amazing Forgotten-Reaper! His poem of the same title completely inspired me to write this. Check him out, he's an excellent poet [link]
I hope you enjoyed my writing
I hope you enjoyed my writing
© 2013 - 2024 XxXWiltingVioletXxX
Comments24
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Ah I love this! The idea is amazing, the writing and rhyme is incredible..it's just perfect!