She liked to watch the city
from her small bedroom window.
She kept it closed to keep out the draft and the rain,
keeping her from experiencing the elements.
The city was dark, though her bedroom was light.
She had no reason to venture out into the cold.
So she kept to herself, with her small window closed,
only peeking out occasionally to satiate her curiosity.
In her bedroom, nothing made her smile
but nothing made her cry.
It was always warm enough,
though exceedingly empty.
On a night like any other,
a figure appeared outside her window.
He called out to her and even threw pebbles.
She withdrew in terror, closing the curtains against the world.
With curtains drawn and window closed,
the girl knew she was safe.
But she always wondered what could have been,
if she had let that boy come in.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
The yellow pools of light from the street lamps
are more beautiful than the moon,
the trickle of water in the gutter,
more beautiful than the ocean.
Cigarette butts blanket the sidewalk like moss
and the sound of police sirens call to the night like wolves.
Neon signs flash above me like stars,
forming constellations of consumerism.
Skyscrapers loom above me like trees in a forest,
protecting me with their shadows.
I roam the sidewalk, a lone hiker,
observing the animals of the streets,
envying their freedom.
At the end of the night, I hike home to my warm bedroom,
reluctant to return to civilization.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
I paint myself with yellow paint.
Very bright,
very nice.
I run around in the daylight sun,
all bright and happy and cheerful,
all covered in yellow paint.
I see people looking.
I smile,
I wave.
The paint begins to chip.
The dark navy blue paint that is underneath begins to show.
People are looking.
I apply another coat of yellow paint,
along with a smile.
Bright, happy, cheerful.
I keep painting on the yellow paint,
coat upon coat.
The only thing I have to hide is the blue underneath.
At night the people stop looking.
I wash off the yellow.
Dark, sad, forlorn.
I am covered,
head to toe,
in the dark blue paint.
I am always covered by a shield of blue paint.
The yellow paint is washable,
but the blue is permanent.
The sun rises,
the people are looking.
Once again, I cover myself with yellow paint.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
There's no difference between the meter of a cab
and the meter of a poem;
both show you the rate at which you're going,
but only you know where.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
I smile when my profile picture gets 50 likes
but would it mean more
if I liked my face without the assurance of others?
Maybe not,
I'm a millennial, after all.
1994, born and raised
a "90's kid."
I tweeted that...it got 12 favorites.
Too bad I can't favorite my internal thoughts
in order to validate them without sharing them.
I sent that as an iMessage
to my friend who responded
"#deep."
I'm posting this poem on the internet
so that people I don't know can read it.
Maybe they'll even leave a comment.
I say what I feel,
via text message,
followed by an emoji and a hashtag
as a sort of millennial footnote,
minus the APA style.
I'll use LOL style
or FML style
or the style of ironically using texting lingo
to prove that I'm not #basic.
I, Lex the Millennial,
wrote this poem on my iPhone 6.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
She visited a psychiatrist once a week,
and drank wine three times a week,
on Saturday, Sunday, and usually Wednesday.
Once a month, or so, she would cry herself to sleep.
The other 30 days she would stay awake
for most of the night.
Some days she would drink whiskey,
some she would smoke cigarettes.
Everyday she would write poetry.
One time every year,
she would show her poetry to me.
I would read her poetry, every night, for a year.
Twice a week, or three times maybe,
I would coax her out of her apartment
so she could see the world.
Twice a week, or three times maybe,
she would quietly watch the world
as I watched her quiet contemplation.
Once in a lifetime she swallowed a whole bottle of pills.
I will think about her, every day, for the rest of my life,
and wonder what it would be like
to spend a day in her life.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
You were giving your things to me
and I didn't say “thank you.”
You told me you were leaving for good,
I didn't say a word.
It was dark outside,
you could see my head nodding,
letting you know that I understood
even though my voice stayed silent.
Clouds were covering the moon
casting a shadow on my face.
My emotions were concealed
as were the tears that never left my eyes.
You dropped the subject,
probably thinking I didn't care
while I tried to drop the subject
from my sinking mind.
I couldn't stop thinking about you.
I cried myself to sleep
and I cried in other people's arms,
but I wouldn't let you see my tears.
I couldn't be sad
because I wanted you to be happy.
My anger boiled, but I kept it hidden
because I knew it was selfish.
I always hope you'll move back
but I try not to think too much
because it doesn't matter if I'm sad
as long as you're happy.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
I could give you my words,
but I know you wouldn't understand them.
So I keep them inside
until
my internal organs
have been digested
by the carnivorous words
written
in Times New Roman
because when you have something to say
the font doesn't matter.
As a shell of pale skin,
I had no choice
but to end everything with you
and write about it
in Times New Roman.
I knew you wouldn't
understand
which is precisely why
I wrote this poem.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
It was a rainy November night-
it always seemed to be.
There was nothing to do
but drink through our cheap red wine
until our words sloshed together.
Sure, it was slowly killing us,
slowly drowning our livers.
But there was something about the drinking
that made us feel more alive than
anything.
We worked until we had a few bucks,
the few bucks turned into a bottle.
There was never more money,
but there was never not enough.
It wasn't paycheck to paycheck
but bottle to bottle.
Eventually we'd sing Billy Joel
or the Beatles,
happy to have each other,
but even happier to have the wine.
The rain continued on,
the wine continued on,
and our lives-
well, they continued on, too.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
She said “hello”
as brightly as the first rays of sun
in the early morning,
a small smile peeking out
from under her sun hat
like the sun peeking over the horizon.
I felt my body begin to warm
as her words reached out and touched me,
just before her hand brushed my own.
She was intense like the heat of the sun at noon,
her beauty causing me to shield my eyes
yet seducing me
to take another quick look.
She said “goodbye”
as crisply as the cool night air,
the two syllables sobering me up
just the same.
She held her sun hat in her delicate hand,
fading away
like midnight fades into the gray morning.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC