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Literature Text
Dear Boy,
I used to write letters to you. They were pointless and I'd never send them, but I wrote anyway. I used to have stacks and stacks, some just as long as this, others eight or nine pages, until I burned them.
I never signed any of them
Love,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
I think I hate you.
Love,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
When can I see you again? I miss you so much. I almost wish I'd sent those letters, now that it's too late, though you'd never get any of them. Come back.
Love,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
I sometimes wish I were a boy, because maybe then you'd love me back, or at least see me. I thought about you today, I think maybe I'll start writing you silly letters again.
Love,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
You had a name, once. It was pretty, if I remember right. Then again, memories say I loved you, and I'm not sure if I believe that. So maybe you didn't have a name, or maybe it wasn't pretty. I think I'll just go with the idea that you've never had a name, before we met or after, whether it was pretty or not. "Boy."
That's all I've ever heard you called. Boy. So impersonal. But it also shows how different we really are, I guess.
Just one out of millions,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
We walked along the river, one night, in the white sand beaches. We left our shoes with our bikes, which were locked to the fence behind the bushes by the walking path. I went there the other day, and thought I saw your shoes.
Turns out they were attached to the feet of a girl walking by, but for a few seconds I was almost hopeful. Almost.
Wearing shoes yet again,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
You always loved Shakespeare. Reciting to each other one night, you suddenly had to go. Promising you'd meet me "the same time and place tomorrow." I called after you if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise and the most hollow lover and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful: therefore beware my censure and keep your promise. to which, of course, you yelled back, while biking away, with no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind! So adieu!
Still thinking you the most pathetical break-promise,
Rosalind.
Dear Boy,
My purse, my person, my extremest means lie all unlocked to your occassions.
Hopelessly still reciting,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
I should have told you I'd never forget. I know you have, but that doesn't seem to make any difference to you. Writing half-forgotten memories (are they still memories when they are no longer remembered?) doesn't do any good, so I'm going to stop.
Thanks for nothing,
Forgotten Girl.
I used to write letters to you. They were pointless and I'd never send them, but I wrote anyway. I used to have stacks and stacks, some just as long as this, others eight or nine pages, until I burned them.
I never signed any of them
Love,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
I think I hate you.
Love,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
When can I see you again? I miss you so much. I almost wish I'd sent those letters, now that it's too late, though you'd never get any of them. Come back.
Love,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
I sometimes wish I were a boy, because maybe then you'd love me back, or at least see me. I thought about you today, I think maybe I'll start writing you silly letters again.
Love,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
You had a name, once. It was pretty, if I remember right. Then again, memories say I loved you, and I'm not sure if I believe that. So maybe you didn't have a name, or maybe it wasn't pretty. I think I'll just go with the idea that you've never had a name, before we met or after, whether it was pretty or not. "Boy."
That's all I've ever heard you called. Boy. So impersonal. But it also shows how different we really are, I guess.
Just one out of millions,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
We walked along the river, one night, in the white sand beaches. We left our shoes with our bikes, which were locked to the fence behind the bushes by the walking path. I went there the other day, and thought I saw your shoes.
Turns out they were attached to the feet of a girl walking by, but for a few seconds I was almost hopeful. Almost.
Wearing shoes yet again,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
You always loved Shakespeare. Reciting to each other one night, you suddenly had to go. Promising you'd meet me "the same time and place tomorrow." I called after you if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise and the most hollow lover and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful: therefore beware my censure and keep your promise. to which, of course, you yelled back, while biking away, with no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind! So adieu!
Still thinking you the most pathetical break-promise,
Rosalind.
Dear Boy,
My purse, my person, my extremest means lie all unlocked to your occassions.
Hopelessly still reciting,
Girl.
Dear Boy,
I should have told you I'd never forget. I know you have, but that doesn't seem to make any difference to you. Writing half-forgotten memories (are they still memories when they are no longer remembered?) doesn't do any good, so I'm going to stop.
Thanks for nothing,
Forgotten Girl.
Literature
Your Love
Addiction
Temporary high
A craving
Something I must always have
Poison
Quick-flowing
Fast-acting
Something that moves on its own
Antidote
What can cure all of me
I must have to survive
Something I will die without
What else could do all of this to me?
Your affection
Touch
Desire
Heart
Your love
Literature
we are the moment.
i don't
mean to
be a
bother, but
i'm scared i
suppose.
-
everyone has to be somewhere.
-
and i guess
i'll go home now,
because
we smell, of smoke
from our favorite brand of
cigarrettes, and
we're not even smokers.
-
everyone needs a place to stay.
-
and i still plan to
color my scars someday,
but for now
i'll have to do
with
red.
-
everyone wants to be in love.
-
but,
don't you
break
my
heart, because i
just
want to go home.
-
don't you believe me. i'm a liar.
-
and if i
swore that
tomorrow
never came,
even though we still believed
in yesterday
then we,
are only meant to
be liars, and i
think
Literature
Love
You wake one day to find me gone,
And at once you start to search,
Looking through the house for me,
And running down to church.
Call off the dogs, They'll find no trace,
I leave behind mere dust.
Don't fret yourself at where I am,
Just because you think you must.
Don't drive the streets of where we loved,
Or question all our friends,
Don't shed a tear for me my dear,
Where I am, Our life ends.
So don't make a noise, Or shout my name,
You no longer shall despair.
Stay in the warm and search your heart,
For you shall find me there.
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Comments17
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Overall
Vision
Originality Technique ImpactAs I don't write a critique that easy I must say that in this case I didn't even had a single doubt about writing it.
I've read many poems here on DeviantART and write them myself I must say that this is by far one amazing piece of poetry submitted to the community.
The words that the letters create have really had a great impact on me and maybe this is because,its the kind of poem that everybody can relate too once in a while.
Even it makes you a bit sad by reading it but after I could only come up to the conclusion:
This was just lovely to read you really brought it good it sounds honest, true and also sad.
You said in the comments that you maybe want to separate it because they were written on two different days, please don't, together they make this lovely piece.
The part of "As you like it" by W. Shakespeare is just something that fits good in this work.
As I must say:
Thou has written one truly amazing piece of poetry, I thank you for sharing it with us I enjoyed reading it <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/s/s…" width="15" height="15" alt="
" title=" (Smile) - "/>.Greetings,
Nielso
(my first critique hopefully its a bit good)