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Literature Text
A dark aura emanates
From the decapitated crumbs
Of a muffin top.
In this malicious place
Resides a fruitful amount of led.
They almost appear to be shining silver
In the dapples of moonlight
Coursing through my green blinds.
Once somebody found
A flask filled with a dusky substance
Strangled of any frothing air.
The Coke bottle
Is spoiled and forgotten.
Even some chalky clay
Is buried in this mausoleum.
The graveyard of lost quality
Lost possessions
And lost memories.
The fabric and threads holding it together
Have long been broken.
Unfortunately more than a few paperclips
Haven't been enough to keep it bound
For too long.
Intricate scribbles
Align the strangely colored material.
Most of the words have no deep meaning.
And a whole legion of the unreadable letters
Have faded to never be deciphered
By the human eye again.
And even in all it's wonders
Children can never learn to appreciate it.
They take turns chucking and throwing out
These precious artifacts of the past.
I'm among these children.
Every passing year near summer's wake
All of the adolescents gather, ready to quit working
And to start playing in the sun rays.
This time is a sacred time.
It's when the objects nobody cares for
First gets tossed down the stairs.
Then they may throw it to the trash.
Sometimes the young ones,
Mostly me,
Threaten to set the place that hold these objects on fire.
To have the flame's lights
Dance and glow bright.
It's a dark cesspool
Where things are never found
Till you don't need them.
It's heavy to carry
And just an all around burden.
Because I hate my backpack.
And it hates me.
From the decapitated crumbs
Of a muffin top.
In this malicious place
Resides a fruitful amount of led.
They almost appear to be shining silver
In the dapples of moonlight
Coursing through my green blinds.
Once somebody found
A flask filled with a dusky substance
Strangled of any frothing air.
The Coke bottle
Is spoiled and forgotten.
Even some chalky clay
Is buried in this mausoleum.
The graveyard of lost quality
Lost possessions
And lost memories.
The fabric and threads holding it together
Have long been broken.
Unfortunately more than a few paperclips
Haven't been enough to keep it bound
For too long.
Intricate scribbles
Align the strangely colored material.
Most of the words have no deep meaning.
And a whole legion of the unreadable letters
Have faded to never be deciphered
By the human eye again.
And even in all it's wonders
Children can never learn to appreciate it.
They take turns chucking and throwing out
These precious artifacts of the past.
I'm among these children.
Every passing year near summer's wake
All of the adolescents gather, ready to quit working
And to start playing in the sun rays.
This time is a sacred time.
It's when the objects nobody cares for
First gets tossed down the stairs.
Then they may throw it to the trash.
Sometimes the young ones,
Mostly me,
Threaten to set the place that hold these objects on fire.
To have the flame's lights
Dance and glow bright.
It's a dark cesspool
Where things are never found
Till you don't need them.
It's heavy to carry
And just an all around burden.
Because I hate my backpack.
And it hates me.
Suggested Collections
Haha a poem from class about my backpack X3
Still grounded so can't say much. Bai! o/
Still grounded so can't say much. Bai! o/
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