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Literature Text
It can fly.
It can crawl.
But it cannot walk.
Sometimes you can buy it.
Sometimes you make it.
But you can't stop it.
You can be upon it.
But that might be considered cliche.
You can wish for it.
But anything can wished for.
It's old.
It's new.
It can change.
It can stay the same.
No one knows were it came from,
But then again,
No one's ever cared.
We have lived,
We are living,
We will live,
With it.
The answer to all of the above is
Time.
But do we really know what it is?
Yes,
sixty seconds make a minute,
sixty minutes make an hour,
twenty-four hours make a day,
seven days make a week,
fifty-two weeks make a year,
ten years make a decade,
ten decades make a century,
and ten centuries make a millennium.
But what is time?
Can you figure out the life-long riddle?
It can crawl.
But it cannot walk.
Sometimes you can buy it.
Sometimes you make it.
But you can't stop it.
You can be upon it.
But that might be considered cliche.
You can wish for it.
But anything can wished for.
It's old.
It's new.
It can change.
It can stay the same.
No one knows were it came from,
But then again,
No one's ever cared.
We have lived,
We are living,
We will live,
With it.
The answer to all of the above is
Time.
But do we really know what it is?
Yes,
sixty seconds make a minute,
sixty minutes make an hour,
twenty-four hours make a day,
seven days make a week,
fifty-two weeks make a year,
ten years make a decade,
ten decades make a century,
and ten centuries make a millennium.
But what is time?
Can you figure out the life-long riddle?
Literature
love
Imagine this, she said, for this is what it is to be in love. It is as if you have been tumbling down toward an open sea for your entire life and have only just discovered that you can fly.
And with that she pointed up to the grand cumulonimbus clouds above her head, to a deep expanse of blue, and I saw what must have been thousands of people with their arms wide, drifting on the currents of the wind.
Literature
You and I,
we're a stunted little paragraph blowing in the wind,
full of maybes and we could have beens.
We're winter nights dancing through the sky,
dreaming of warmth and summer, burntskin sunscreen.
We're fruits hanging from a tree,
ripe with promise and fearing bitter seeds.
We're dripping photographs in darkrooms waiting to become something beautiful.
You and I, we're not fancy like fireworks. Sparks
are the little lights that dance between us when we smile.
Sparks are private things and they shine more prettily
when no one else can see them except you and me.
So when I write poetry about us,
it won't be about mountains and kisses
and
Literature
i'm trying to find myself.
if you wanted to know who i was, all you had to do is ask.
i'm the girl who's tired of waiting around, sitting on broken chairs in dusty corners, trying to get you to fall in love with me. i'm the one person who wasn't afraid to embaress herself in public and who knows what she wants out of life. i may be sleeping in far too late, but i have lots of time in the dark to figure out how i can make it through the next day without shutting my eyes to the world.
i'm the one you never seem to remember, yet whom you can never seem to forget. i'm the one in the background that isn't afraid to make a difference, and who isn't afraid to speak her mind
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