nicoii
nicoii
Dec 3, 2016

dense, warm air and sticky grins were prominent during those sunny summer days
tripping over our friends and muffled laughter
grass stained shorts and muddy fingernails
wet, curly locks of dark hair and bare feet squishing against the grass
kids are known to be careless
a big bowl of fresh strawberries is placed onto the plaid blanket spread across the prickly grass blades
and we shoved our hands in quickly to see who could get the huge strawberry in the middle first
some blades of grass stuck right through the blanket and poked our legs hard enough to make it sting but it didnt phase us
neither did our grimy hands as we devoured the delicious fruit.
we were messy kids. the juice dripped down our arms, creating a translucent river of rosy red juice
you licked yours up but i stared at mine, intrigued as the river followed my veins and settled in the crooks of my bent elbow
i couldnt resist slurping it up eventually though
strawberries were always my favorite

several years later it isnt the same
the red river dripping down my arm, following my veins and settling in my bent elbow didnt taste the same as the sweet strawberries of summertime.
the gashes on my arm werent from an intense game of tag with a friend
or from rolling around in the grass too roughly
these gashes were more than just booboos
mommy couldnt kiss these and make them all better
mommy couldnt make them disappear
i couldnt make them disappear
i made them appear
they are here to stay, and not some sticky juices from a summertime delight
they were sticky juices from a wintertime despair.
a twisted mind
a long sleeved hoodie in 90 degree weather
a sad excuse as to why it was a hoodie instead of a t shirt or a tank top
a bit lip to hold back the tears
a friend who tried their hardest, but couldnt notice and brushed it off
a forever tainted mind

whenever someone offers me strawberries
i take them, even if i am filled to the brim or sick of strawberries altogether
because maybe if i overdose on strawberries
my mind will blur
and all the memories of the thick, dark red river of wintertime despair
will all become replaced with strawberry juice
and i will wake up
and it will have been nothing but a fever dream.

Arcassin B
Arcassin B
Aug 31, 2016

By Arcassin Burnham


How did it feel when you took her and made her
Understand that you were the one who cared and
Showed her more compassion?
How did it feel when you've noticed all her
Imperfections letting her go off into the sunset in
A paper town?
How did it feel?
Oh! How did it feel?
Watching over her like the hawk, making sure she'd text back,
Back......

How did it feel when you told her all of those things
Before she ran off and never came back?
How did it feel when you looked for clues and letter boxes
Going on a journey just to see if she'd turn up,
How did it feel?
Oh! How did it feel?
Watching over her like the hawk, making sure she'd text back....
One day, one day.

©ABPoetry2016

http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2016/08/when-quentin-kissed-margo.html

You might think that they have some Noble Ideal.
You might think that they are promoting
An Alternative Paradigm to the Culture that exists,
But all they really want to do is Get Stupid,
And Get Rich doin' it.

I was on my way
Somewhere,
But,
Then,
I forgot where I was going.
I developed amnesia.
So,
I just submitted this poem
To the Pilgrimage Poetry Group
Instead of going anywhere.

Most memories
Become hazy and indistinct.
The only memories I seem to hold on to
Are traumatic, bitter ones.
The rest
Go into the Recycling Bin
To make room
For new experiences

Hannah Gaines
Hannah Gaines
Apr 13, 2016

Who am I?
Where am I?
What happened?
Why is everything unfamiliar?

I don't understand,
Why cant I remember anything?
Everything is a blur,
The world is scaring me.

My mind is blank,
My heart is pounding,
My head is aching,
I can't remember.

My identity is now gone,
I've lost my memory,
I now live in lostness,
Forever wondering.

Kendra Mack
Kendra Mack
Mar 14, 2016

How was your weekend?
Great, I did quite a lot!
Well, what did you do?
...
I already forgot.

I will, someday, be the first in line to the opening of your estate sale.
I will buy all of your furniture to keep this part of you alive.
We keep remnants and pieces, as we scatter  memories like your charred remains across a place you once knew.

I want to love the carousel figurine
you forgot you once owned and sing the sweet melodies of the music box you once fell asleep too each night.
For the depth of something once loved and now lost, is impenetrable to pain.

As all things are made, and all things are to be loved and lost or forgotten.
I want to love all the things once loved by others.

Titled by my poetry professor.
Laine Cavanaugh
Laine Cavanaugh
Jul 7, 2015

The summer sweat of love's poet
left me in awe that one doesn't forget.
I felt inclined to reveal the vines of words
that grow around my private notebook
And I spewed out feelings that didn't belong to me.
How can you be so sure of chemicals
produced behind a ribcage and cardigan
And then promise that they will stay?
How does one forget?

Riley R
Riley R
Jun 7, 2015

My brain is a sieve.

Most of the words of this poem have dripped out
on the road
on my shirt
on the front step as I fumbled for my keys.

I think it was something about
starlight and loving you
but then that’s no surprise.
At this point the structure of my DNA
is sonnets I composed for you
and free verse you’ll read and think
is about someone else.
The kinds of words you’ll coo about
and caress in your mind
and shower me with praise over
like a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek
when I want and want and want you.

But I suppose we’ll never know, now
what this poem was going to be about.

It’s my brain, you see.

It’s a sieve.

 
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