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Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
2am
I lay in my bed trying to sleep
It's so easy for everybody else.
Fifteen minutes and then their out.

But my mind wonders.
0 to 360.
What's for lunch tomorrow?
I wonder what your doing lying in bed.
I can't get this song out of my head!

My brain unravels
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
I must apologize for writing about something as
well traversed as life.
I could try to say
something new about how life is decades made of
milliseconds and how its the madness of individual seconds
infinitely similar and different from the last,
how even in this poem another baby was born
a person
selling their soul has had their soul stolen,
a family now cry’s in the sunlit  hospital room
, a final laugh.


And many have continued watching their show
and many more have scrolled farther down on Facebook.
I could get into how much of a waste Facebook is
but the internet has plenty of that, about how
Facebook is hiding its bodies
behind your likes. People getting curious
and now catacombs of
relationships for static pictures,
new friends.
How what makes madness is mundanity.
Seconds are indifferent to your pleas of
slowing them in glory, or
killing them in frequent fights.
All this has been said by far more fluent and affluent writers,
if I dare call myself a writer.

The most valuable currency, more than the purest
gold, endless mansions, yet discarded completely.

No
more believers of a flat world to chase in circles.
It is not the flat world getting rounded edges.
A mortal crowned immortal leaps
off a cliff,
. Over and over again.
The flies indifferent, to the valiant cries.
Forests cleared out for the
bodies. For leftovers.

Perhaps I’m being a pessimist.
Maybe I’m over thinking, maybe
this is a fools outburst.

A parade of innovation, each float welcomed
with happy smiles. If a wheel pauses
smiles soon give way
to confusion and disappointment, if the parade
stops without rockets (those dancers)
or a marching band playing, faces all to
quick to sour.  

The parade playing out
perminately.
And Happy citizens dance to
the same ******* song, over and over.
Now that ******* parade the most important
thing, the center piece of
the capital.

Meanwhile gensiusis and gods alike
tinker away at the rusty gears.
Yet with the new machines
new gears must rust over.
Excellent minds, ending witch hunts, apartheid,
inventing computers, creating tanks
ending slavery and supposedly racism.
Where do they go?
Would the lack of rusty gears cause
the whole dam thing to explode?
Do we need problems so we can
relish the moment of vanishing
them!?
What would it look like, if we had justice
and peace and fair non
racist police?
If we didn’t have scummy bankers?
Could we exist without Satin?
Would those gods and geniuses  be
put down? Should I be writing a letter,
Dear Satin thanks for keeping those gods in
business,
with love and respect
your faithful subjects.  


I do apologize if this has been said
by far fluent and affluent writers if I dare call myself
a writer, or if this was an outburst often
shouted by a believer in the flat world.
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
Let the stories you told yourself as a child,
the ones where you were the hero,
Deform
Like your pubescent body before the mirror
into stories where
you are the one who needs to be saved and
the only thing that really matters is
the color of your dress.
Based on the short story "Boys and Girls" by Alice Munro
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
Disoriented faces timelapse by as I trudge my way to school.
The old women over there carrying a Fairway bag
Her grandchildren are visiting her for the weekend.
The women  attempting to refrain a smile
Her boyfriend is going to propose tonight.
The young man carrying a briefcase and rapidly walking
He is on his way to his first day at work.
The little boy carrying a backpack that is larger than himself
His mom packed him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
A million faces timelapse by.
I wonder what my story looks like to the grandma, the women, the boy, the man.
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
Have you ever thought of chasing the sun?
Of leaving everything and just going?
Of following bright yellow rays and fading, flaming tails
And giving into the chase?
I have.
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
The wind blows and I can feel the breeze running through my spine,
I sit there in the shade of the giant oak tree that grandma Glenda planted here back when she was my age.
I was reading "Mocking Jay," by Suzanne Collins,
I feel like every time Katniss talked about bringing peace to all the districts this is what she pictured.
Quietness; happiness; tranquillity.
That's all I felt.
Like nothing in the world could hurt me, like my body and my mind had left me and all I had to do was sit back, relax, and enjoy my favorite book.
The wind blowing, the kids playing, the birds all in harmony as they sing,
With all this beauty in one moment, it's crazy that some people don't just enjoy the little things.
When everyone thinks of happiness they think of money, and nice cars, and a huge mansion. But for me, happiness is all the small things people take advantage of. Like sitting at the park enjoying a read on a beautiful summer day.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
Deep at night in my slumber, I often dream and wonder.
Of a girl so beautiful and sweet she can only exist in my dreams, so pretty and nice she's like your favorite bowl of ice cream.
No one really sees her or notices her like I do, but without her I feel useless, like laces with no shoe.
Her eyes; her hair; I just want to sweep her off her feet, but I must wait a whole day until I go to sleep.
Her beauty cuts through my heart like a silent room with a scream, she's the one for me, this girl of my dreams.
Her
Calhoun Poetry Apr 2015
Her
Long hair down to her waist,
Small hips beautiful face.
I love her smile and her smell,
Introduced to her family and I just knew,
That girls like her come far and few.
I need this girl like how in winter I need fur,
And I just know that this is the girl for me and I'm the girl for her.
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
There is fun no
more in chasing believers of a flat in world in
circles. A  dry preacher, evoking hell.  
This journey always started with others
and ends with others wise ghosts watching
hoping to be seen as a ghost to have made
a footprint on the most trodden path.
Life without fear of it.
A magician with the knowledge
of an ace always able to come up
next yet I still bust.

The white marble embraces me,
the old white marble tries to embrace me.
Only seaweed floats.
A City of canyons built for climbers.
The fish saw death yet death waited off the hook
Better odds on the hook.
Now she’s
given her coin and
crossed the river
and I sit at the shore
confused at why
I suddenly care.
So just some lines I like, put together without rhyme or reason.
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
The hourglass sits on my desk.
I glare into the fragile globe.  My 4-year-old self builds a giant sandcastle as the bright sun glimmers on the hot sand below my feet.  I blink.  I pause and see how much sand has fell.  As the sand falls it piles onto itself one grain at a time.  What is it building now? Is the sand building or letting go?
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
I'm not going to tell you something that you haven't heard a million times before,
It's not going to be anything new or inspirational, you won't jump out of your seat but I just want to ask you this one question: Where are you right now... And where do you wish you were?
Now a lot of people complain about where they are in life,
Oh I'm too fat, oh no body likes me, I'm too slow, I'm not strong enough, I'm not smart enough.
But when you ask them how they spend their time it's funny how they never spend time doing the things they say they want to be good at.
A person who hates to be fat spends most of their time eating food, and a person who hates being called dumb only watched tv.
So I say to you,
If you change the way you look at things,
The things you look at change.
Do what you want to do, stop making excuses
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
Johnny Cash was a regular old man who liked his porridge just right,
He woke in the morning and went to work and then he slept at night.
No one knew who he really was or how he made his wealth,
He knew he was rich and loved his money and made it all with no help.
When his son asked how he made his money he plain and simply just said,
If you want to live like Johnny Cash you have to know how to hide from the feds.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
Daylight
Can you save something intangible?
Can you collect hours of daylight and pack them away for another time?
Can you save a memory the way a few coins would settle in the bottom of a piggy bank?
Does it keep the way a loaf of bread would in a breadbox?
Can you open a wrapper and find it ready to enjoy like a sweet chocolate?
Maybe not but it's savor-able.
inspired by daylight savings
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
Many people quickly conclude,
After taking only one glance,
That you are up to no good.

Really, why must we be so shrewd,
If the truth can be defeated with one look of askance?
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
Darkness nervously approaches people and
is quiet and awkward.
Rumors begin to swirl about what a mean person darknesses is
what she hides. As if a light was thrown people
stop hanging out with Darkness.
The rumors swirl into facts.
She is untrustworthy and her name
is now a bad word.

Dangerous people start doing their business with Darkness.
She allows it her, figuring they will
go away soon.
They don’t and soon people who don’t care for her
enter her house, only interested in what she hides.
Light sends a message to Darkness: What a loser,
only professionals and the slickest trust me.
Darkness stares into distant Light and is in awe of her
variety and how she is not herself just the opposite of light.
Darkness looks at her spots and cries about the uneven
distance between her spots about how everyone sees her
differently.

Just one star, Light feels for Darkness.
Slowly Light’s feelings light up, and like a
series of candles random pockets of her pop on.


Light and Darkness grow used to seeing other’s silhouettes and
slowly start hanging out closer, sharing the sky, careful
not to negate each other
Light starts to defend Darkness.
Slowly, saying Darkness sure is a pain but
she adds another layer to everything,
she doesn’t like those who visit her any more
than you do. She just has to be everywhere that I’m not.

Darkness starts to grow fond of Light and has
a light-bulb moment when she realizes that Light needs her
the same way she needs Light, yet they can never grow
too close, always a barrier in-between them, weather
it be distance or a wall.
Long distance friends, they settle
knowing that they will negate each other,
almost seeing each other.
So I guess I've spent too much time on Harry Baker's the sunshine kid
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
This little mouse in this house that nobody cares about,
He eats his cheese and cleans his hole and never throws a pout.
This little mouse in this house that always makes a mess,
My mother screams, my brother runs, he's our family's least liked pet.
This little mouse in this house that can barley get a meal,
He has to run and hide from everything and can only eat if he steals.
This little mouse in this house that's just trying to get food for his kids,
I wonder if I traded places with him would I notice how hard his life is.
Calhoun Poetry Apr 2015
One day, I saw her with that man and I chose to look away.
She came home and asked me how was my day.
I said very nice thank you.
I asked her what she did today, nothing she said.
Lies.
I saw you with that guy I said,
I know you were in his bed.
I know you think of him when I'm in you,
I swear to god I wish you knew.
That I, I get hurt with these actions that you do.
Is it because I'm a man you thought that I wouldn't care that you cheat,
Did you think since I'm the man I wouldn't care if the kitchen wasn't neat.
But I do,
One day, one day I won't need you.
But I just nod my head and say nothing and walk to the room.
Just thinking about that one day, that one day I won't need you.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
What does it mean to be patriotic.
Love; Life; and Respect.
'Merica is the greatest.
Guns and beer and the open country road.
The sweet sound of the Nebraska river, and the amazing feeling of loving your country.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
Burnt out cigarette buds decorate the pavement with black blobs that were once white cubes of Dentyne Ice Spearmint, green and yellow slivers of Trident Layers , and blocks of pink Hubba Bubba
Some spots contrast to their lighter halves from the melted ice, creating dark slicks of black cement

It's wintertime in Manhattan.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
His brown eyes gaze into space
Freezing the world with one glance
Both orbs mirroring flecks of light
Capturing moments in time
I wonder... What does he see?
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
It's been one and a half hours
Slow service
Never have I been one to get frustrated with authoritative figures
But wow
One and a half hours
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
If someone asked you what snow was, what would you say?
Would you be scientific and say it's atmospheric water vapor frozen into ice crystals and falling in light white flakes?
Would you say that it's rain but just much more friendly?
Or would you just shake your head and say I don't know?
Whatever you say, I know what snow really is.
Snow is just a family. One snow flake doesn't mean anything, but ever look outside and see snow packed up to the trees along the street.
Snow just looks so peaceful: so full of life: so loving. I feel as if when they're in the air they can't wait to reach the ground to be reunited with their frosted brothers and sisters.
That's what snow is: family.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
All music is is just a composition of sounds
Sounds that resonate with the listeners enough to stick around
It's an outlet for those with a need to inspire and connect
It's a mesh of sounds that tells stories of lessons, tragedies, and loves.
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
Do you even know what you stand for?
Do we even know what we stand for?
As the latest inequalities between races, classes, and genders sweep by my generation, we stand one-by-one

I wonder how many rose because the person next to them did
Calhoun Poetry Apr 2015
Sunny beams bleach the coast with all varieties of yellow shades
Enveloping every plane and surface with their warm glow
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
Nice suit; bad shoes; never shows up on time,
Weird hat, but dashing socks; did he spend any time?
His buttons are yellow, and his glasses are green; nothing really seems to match,
No one knew why they kept staring but my god this guy was a catch.
Finally a lady, finest in the land, sat next to him right on the couch,
She asked him why he stood out so much and he said "It's cause I'm the Best Worst Dressed Man in the house."
I was inspired to write this story because I once saw this guy who came into a party totally miss matched. He was wearing a whole bunch of weird colors and everyone was just staring at him. Finally a really cute girl came up to him and said that his style was very intriguing. So they started talking and he ended up getting her number and they date now.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
The day my heart stops beating will be a mystery,
They'll see me laying there in my bed just smiling.
They'll wonder if I was smiling because of all the rules I've bended,
Or they'll be wondering if I'm smiling because my life had ended.
I'm curious for when I go to sleep - for my very last time,
Will people see me as a blessing or as a freak just like Frankenstein.
Will they rejoice and tell tales of how I lived and drink a big glass of wine,
Or will they dig me in a ditch so deep where no body can find.
I'll never know that's the truth, but that won't stop me from thinking,
What people would think of - of my life - the day my heart stops beating.

Once my time has come, and Marcus has left this Earth,
I'd travel back in time, to see my own birth.
How young so sweet, and innocent,
Before I learned how to talk and be so belligerent.
I learned quickly how to fail and even quicker how to succeed,
I had some cuts, some bruises, and everyone now and again I'd bleed,
But a tear would come to my eye to see how beautiful of a life I'd lead.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
She looks at me and smiles, walks over and strikes a conversation.
I stare at her nose. It's huge I say to myself.
Everything's so fine, her bodies defined but I just stopped and stared. She smiled and we laughed, we shared a drink everything was going so well.
Me and her were smiling and we both had a buzz, everything was a blur in some fuzz.
She was so nice and sweet as a bug, but I just couldn't get over how big her nose was.
I know some people who are very nice and everything about them is perfect besides one thing that ruins everything else. And it's sad that someone with such a nice personality has to be judged off her nose.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
Delicious fragrances from sugary honeysuckles dance across the yard,
Mingling with the rich savory scent of freshly cut grass
Mixing quite the cocktail of perfumes
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
I see
the endless universe
with the sky as my viewfinder to my still-life
yet not so still as
vibrant explosions of stars scatter small, small particles
marking an end and a new beginning.
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
6 Years Old
hair in braids
tied with pink bows
a toothless smile
am I beautiful yet?

10 Years Old
hair slicked into a ponytail
a skewed smile
chubby thighs sticking out of the bottom of my skirt
am I beautiful yet?

13 Years Old
hair badly straightened
a mangled smile
purple eyeshadow spread across my eyelids
my first pimple on my cheek
am I beautiful yet?

17 Years Old
messy ponytail
mascara running down my face
the distressed look I get when I wear clothing that exposes my body
am I beautiful yet?
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
Every day begins with a walk from the train to the doors of school.
With headphones in my ears, music playing, and a sweet melody comforting my morning blues
I am content.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
Time to write
No need to fright
"It's as easy as riding a bike."

But my brain crumbles
My words jumble
I feel as if I've taken a tumble.

This is taking an hour
I really need to shower
I'm giving school too much power.

I'm unable to write
Blank typing into the night.
It's time to say goodnight.
Calhoun Poetry Mar 2015
Your hair is the least substantial yet most outwardly striking
part of you
Like a pillow coming out of a dryer,
A perfect cliff before slowing descending back down
I can never get over your hair soft and with
allegedly no gel.
Either way Jesus ( who is not white) should be jealous.
It’s not just your granted stunning hair that makes
me fall for you.
Your ability to flip my reality on itself, then
twist me the other way before laughing and
confessing that you were facing another direction completely.
I will never know which direction you raced, nor
do I care all in good fun and to show off.
A laid back disposition calm, easy
a scholarly gentleman.


Don’t mistake me for some fool, finding music
then falling for the guy playing the harp.
Also for the readers if you have any problem
with this poem about how gay it is for a guy
to serenade another guy, I would
strongly advise you to make sure your calendar is set to
the correct decade.

— The End —