/lit/ - Literature

The pen shakes in my hand; to write these words
Sleep all day, sleep all night, doesn't matter
Haven't missed much, an empty conversation
Exchanged under this leaking roof in whispers
Slumping on the porch, watching it all drip down
Pinging off of empty brown bottles in the grass
Keeping time by your breathing, the rain pours down
As I hold your hand in mine, side by side
Puddles overflow, spilling their cloudy contents
Only to fill another puddle

In The Studio

We're sitting on logs in the studio.
The only women here are on paper.
Crumbs of hashish from Afghanistan
dot the sharp tips of a small pair of scissors.
A guy on the balcony in the house across
the way is pulling an arc welder apart in the dark.
We're sitting on logs in the studio
and everything is so peaceful.
All that will change
as soon as I get into my pajamas.
It's cold out.
We're surrounded by mountains
filled with the mournful howl of chain saws.

--Mehmedinovic


Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
- Gibran