Is there something specifically?
Is it tangible, emotional
Do you want me to tell you I’m sorry?
I can’t imagine why,
Even though I have been imagining
Why you want me to tell you I’m sorry
Maybe you don’t want anything from me
Which would be the worst
Maybe our volatile flames
Are only burning me, and not touching you
Maybe that’s why you want me to say I’m sorry
Because I wanted you to burn with me
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Tick Tock Tick Tock
The Mouse runs down the clock
It’s on our floor
It’s out the door
It scampers down the walk
It’s past the gate
It will escape
Robbie throws a rock
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Someone told me that inspiration comes in the form of an explosion
Another told me David came drifting through their ***** ceiling with a notecard in hand
Well I’m staring at my ceiling
In this library
And saying, the hell he does…
God doesn’t send me angels.
Inspiration is not hiding in a carbonated can that I just have to crack
Inspiration comes to me from a PlayDo machine
Something I grind and feed
Sometimes there’s something
Sometimes it’s all dried up
It comes in chunky nuggets, or smooth pasta
But it needs to be massaged
You need trained muscles, oiled gears
Writer’s block is negligence
Rusty cars never start
Wear Blue
Start Rituals
And write
Write
Write
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Imagine grey, a sky like arsenic
Clouds like insulated fiberglass
And it’s raining too
I’m standing outside, feeling soggy
Looking greasy
With a sad umbrella just
Waiting to crack its ribs and turn
Inside out
It’s a contest, the first to blow apart
And rot in a landfill wins
I have coffee, but it has skim milk
And looks opaque
And smells like…
Tea
Squelch down the avenue
and run into someone you don’t want to
Accept the murky blanket of the day
And trudge along
Because today belongs to the Drudge
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Hope is the invisible tie
That keeps our world together
It’s been there since the dawn of time
And continues on forever
It wakes the people with the sun
Hope of a new day
The day to change, the day’s begun
It whisks past doubts away
The hope to bring our soldiers home
To take away their pain
The Hope to employ the unemployed
So they can start again
And sometimes Hope will disappoint
Old dreams are put to bed
But from ashes ideas will grow
Hope is never, ever dead
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
It was something about your stubble
That I found so attractive
And mom found so repulsive
And she told me he’s nothing but,
Trouble
And you burst my safety bubble
We became so close, so quick
We burned so brightly it wrecked the wick
And I felt it in my gut,
Trouble
I was reduced to rubble
We drank the Kool-Aid of passion
Forgot love came in rations
And in the end we were double the
Trouble.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
I’m from black umbrellas, and two piece pant suits
From ***** snow, and cars, and trains
From lying on a Persian rug
That smells like Starbucks in the morning and leather at night
I’m from sparkly gum on sidewalks, buttercup taxis
Lion King on Broadway, ballets, beautiful
From the land of street vendors, with 2 for $5 and best you’ll ever see
From the noises at night that rocked me to sleep
I’m from summer waterskiing and jellyfish stings
From revenge battles with a barbeque skewer
From Tom’s grilled cheese cut diagonally like I like it
And floury cakes that turned the whole kitchen white
I’m from pesky deer ticks tucked behind my ear
Because I lied too long beside the lavender bushes
I’m from the old weeping willow that cried every day
That cried harder than me the day we left
I’m from those random memories that make me smile
The bunny I never got because I couldn’t water tomatoes
The duo stroller we had because I didn’t walk fast enough for my mom. The Bus Stop café every day because mom doesn’t cook in the morning
I’m from the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps
Born and raised in a heterogeneous blend of innovators
I’m from the fleeting recollections that make up my past
The metropolitan palace of memories that houses my childhood
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
I don’t know when the alarm goes off, but when I come after lunch to get my books it’s probing, pulsing, beckoning through the dorm. It does not fluctuate like mine, which crashes and recedes-waves on a wall. It chips away at my sanity with the reliability of the aorta. I lose a sliver each second I am not crushing the power button of the dorm clock. I cannot be the only person who frequents this hallway during the day, or can no one hear its grinding wails? What Lucifer enthusiast set this alarm when no girl should need waking? I cowered today when I heard it seeping under my door, this immovable constant in my life. I believe now that it only sounds for me. Maybe I have forgotten something and this is the sound of it struggling inside a mental prison. Maybe one day I should let it ring, and ring, and ring, until I wake up.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
This is the thing about girls who don’t believe they’re good enough for certain guys. A girl can spend her entire life being just average. Good grades, fine at sports, just pretty enough, but they’ve never been perfect. It’s a thing they come to accept about themselves. So when a man comes by who is always three steps ahead of the girl in everything they do and they declare their love for the girl, she’s lost. She’s hooked Adonis and she doesn’t know how. The man tells them they’re perfect and they can’t accept that about themselves because they’ve always been just enough. The man’s love for them buoys them up to a level they’ve never been at before but even then they know they’re on a pedestal, not standing on their own two feet. No matter how perfect the man tells them they are they can’t believe it about themselves, and it hurts. It hurts to be a star in someone’s eyes when you can’t see it in yourself. So they become bitter in their bliss. They let the knowledge that they’ll never see what he sees in them boil inside them. Fester. And they do petty childish things in their bitterness. It becomes a part of them, and then an opinion about them until petty bitterness consumes them. And people who said all along that she was never good enough for him start to sound like prophets instead of jealous liars. Then they are lost. And the man notices, he holds her at arms length and sees she is no longer the person he fell in love with. He sees her self-consciousness is now a consuming reality and he doesn’t know what to do. He shares with her what he feels and is clawed to pieces by accusations and resentment. The vows he made to always love her wring him dry. Do they still apply if the person has changed? If they’re no longer the person he fell in love with? He doesn’t believe it. He leaves not a wife, but a stranger. And the stranger who was once a star in someone’s eyes is average again and she breaks herself down. She tells herself she was right and she was never good enough for him. She doesn’t recognize how much she’s changed. She doesn’t see how she squashed her angelic qualities with self-deprecation. She couldn’t avoid it, and neither could he. To ride on someone’s coattails who is always larger than you makes you smaller than you ever were before.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
Behind the double oak doors at 71 Horatio Street, lower west side, there’s a pink striped hallway with a checkerboard floor. Up the stairs to the right there’s a corner bathroom with a drip in the whitewashed stucco ceiling that will start when you take a long shower upstairs. The window has rusty bars over it and looks out over a backyard made of brick, with potted plants. Past the corner bathroom there’s an apartment with long rooms and creamy walls. This was my house,, but across the apartment, past the corner bathroom, through the striped hallway, and down the stairs to the left was the entrance to my home.
**** and Liz Merryman to this day live in the bottom apartment at 71 Horatio Street, lower west side. Between each spindle on the carpeted staircase down is a wind up toy from ***** antique collection. They still work, but my sister and I may be the only kids that he’s ever let touch them. Beneath the staircase is a jar of butterscotch that magically refills whenever someone takes one, or five, or sometimes even ten.. The living room in their house is where all the living goes on. The kitchen is in the living room, recipe’s hanging from the ceiling on bit’s of faded cardstock or stationary. The dining area is tucked between the spice jar and the bookcase, a glass coffee table from which **** and Liz have eaten their way through thirty years of marriage. Out the sliding door is the brick backyard. If you sit on the faded stones and watch the unrestricted ivy wrapping around the potted fruit trees you can almost imagine you are in London, and that under the brick there is real soil not a subway station. I paddled my way through childhood in that backyard on 71 Horatio Street, lower west side, and if I cried when I left New York City, I cried for **** and Liz, and the apartment at the bottom of the stairs.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC