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Literature Text
We all make mistakes.
It's simply a part of life.
But your mistakes do not define you.
because if everyone were defined by them,
everyone would look bad.
Your mistakes only define you
once you do something about them.
It all depends on
how you deal with your mistakes.
Dealing with them poorly —
as in repeating them
and never learning —
is more likely to give off a worse signal
than if you handle them well —
as in learning from them
and not making them again.
So don't worry about mistakes.
Worry about how you'll deal with them
and start learning.
It's simply a part of life.
But your mistakes do not define you.
because if everyone were defined by them,
everyone would look bad.
Your mistakes only define you
once you do something about them.
It all depends on
how you deal with your mistakes.
Dealing with them poorly —
as in repeating them
and never learning —
is more likely to give off a worse signal
than if you handle them well —
as in learning from them
and not making them again.
So don't worry about mistakes.
Worry about how you'll deal with them
and start learning.
Literature
twenty / something
growing up means :
bird metaphors are becoming trite / i must no longer write
about leaving the nest but decide where i can find a place to build.
like this we all pay our rents. i think about Franklin and his taxes
/ skull collector / his eventual place in the dirt / a nest of paper : currency
of misappropriated quotes.
i return home / find my poster of Che folded into tablecloth /
critical theory textbooks mothballed into the ivory of closet.
/ by home : i mean nest / or conjugal remembrance.
when i dream anymore, it’s about equity / fringe benefi
Literature
Enough
My skin is pale with blinding hopes; shotty wishes that strike my sins well.
Hollow, humming wells that've never been more dry and cold.
Feeble in the wake of a Goddess
And miserable in the light of day.
Superb at his timely drunken stupor,
From where Repetition leaves one in a glass half empty;
Mercury to the brim.
Grey and dense, I am.
My mind is black with tangled thoughts; painful ideas that threaten to choke.
Twisted, twined masses of thread that’ve never been more choatic and torrid.
Anemic in the aftermath of a divine Man
And melancholic in the light of day, feeling less than.
First-rate when she consumes poison.
From where str
Literature
no answer still means never
i’ve been up to my knees in river since you left
and honestly the cold’s numbed everything-
even the stars have winked to hush me
though the howls keep tearing through;
i wonder
how much sadness you can fit
into a paper throat
before it dissolves.
it’s been weeks since i’ve drawn enough breath
or reached out to touch a human hand:
i think i will rot here
sandwiched between grass and sky,
the weight of maybe
crushing this chest
until it bursts.
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speaking of mistakes...stanza 1, line 4, should "it" be "if"?
Thanks for sharing this!
Thanks for sharing this!