Mine egne små tekster

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  • Publiceret: 15 aug. 2011
  • Opdateret: 12 mar. 2017
  • Status: Igang
Her vil jeg skrive mine små tekster. Digte, tanker eller små historier jeg alligevel aldrig for skrevet færdige. Det er underholdende, at se, hvordan min skrivestil har forandret sig gennem de seneste 4 år.

Underligt nok, er dette, dét, jeg er mest stolt af. Måske fordi, det er skrevet med føleleser og ikke hastværk?

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227. Monday Morning

She carries her shoes with only two fingers.

The night was filled with regret and she cringes.

 

His voice was like a song.

His kiss tasted of wrong.

 

Every morning yesterday's eyeliner becomes today's smokey eyes

and the boys that kiss her neck always promise to call her back.

 

Her phone is always on;

but it's never ringing.

 

She sometimes wishes to let go of all the mistakes

but they aren't kept secret by her only and it's terrifying.

 

“Remember when?” always leaves her shaking.

No one notices how her heart is aching.

 

 

When the night falls it is the only time she feels at home

and no one has ever greeted her like the embrace of a drunken boy.

The music is too loud and too common

and the quiet scares her because she can finally hear her thoughts.

 

Monday morning she has to act as if this life of hers has never existed.

Monday morning she has to fit in like everyone else

instead of acting out.

 

Sometimes she wants to pity herself but she refuses to succumb to the desire.

Sometimes she wants to rediscover her neck-rope but the next shot of vodka convinces her otherwise.

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