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 May 2014 abby
calion
space boy.
 May 2014 abby
calion
you held galaxies in your hands.
blades cut on your thigh and you bled stars.
the beating of your heart sounded a lot like the birth of planets.
and you kissed the world goodbye, giving me only the moon to remember you by.

you were the fabric of time and I swear when she left I could feel you ripple.
the tips of your fingers felt as hot as the sun.
the stares were as blinding as a solar eclipse.
and you kissed the world goodbye, giving me only the moon to remember you by.

I still remember the moon.
this is the first and only time I will ever write about him. he's still orbiting, he'll never come back down.
 May 2014 abby
Sam Temple
it’s been quite some time
absence creating a fondness
only the heart can understand
blank screen calling
screaming to be invited back
into the fold of daily life
so here I sit
placating the cyber paper –
it’s been too long since last time
and I strain to find reason
for this medium
substance within flowery language
and metaphor
pretending to grasp the vernacular –
it’s getting harder to care
why waste time expressing the same
memories and personal imagery
as everyone else
in a form older than English
eurocentric ethnocentrism –
it’s not even practical anymore as a stress relief
nonspecific pressure to create
seeking likes and hearts as opposed to seeking a release
and freedom
posting poems as a pothead –
it’s going to be alright
this is just another phase or passing fancy
the plight of an artist is to find himself isolated
in self-doubt and unrealized potential
all the while desperately attempting to create something
to make everyone love you
all the while knowing
there is no comfort –
 May 2014 abby
Maya Angelou
Men
 May 2014 abby
Maya Angelou
Men
When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
******* of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.
 May 2014 abby
Edward Coles
Homeless
 May 2014 abby
Edward Coles
I cannot recall the moment
that sanity became a working goal.

Drugs are expensive,
sobriety; even more so.
Somewhere between all of this
I will have to learn to live.

The homeless are pushed out of town,
asleep beneath the railway bridge
that sends rain through rivets
like bullets.

I keep punching the clock
as it throttles Eros with slow hands.

“Sometimes just a smile is enough”
reads a cardboard placard.
But I have not cracked a smile
since I started popping these pills.
c
 May 2014 abby
Jonas Gonçalves
I

We visited that abandoned house.
We shouted our names for nothing.
We ran through streets before nightfall.
We hoped not to become that being.

Yes, ephemeral was our childhood
therefore I tell it with such elegance.
No, it wasn't a wastage
neitheir became an addiction.

Many envied our joviality
as well as our age.
Many planned our future;
always good and bad, never pure.

II*

They disappeared with his yearnings.
They kidnapped her dreams.
They burned my memories with a candle.
They marked out our soft skin.

In all those years,
I never imagined which getting old
was a problem to solve.
And, looking back, I see us as insane.

Well, we are grown up now
and childhood must become forgettable.
However, it will never be possible...
Remembering all won't be a delay.
 May 2014 abby
Tom Leveille
i have racked my mind
trying to figure this whole thing out
the staying, the going
the threads we claim hold us here
& the people who've stopped to play a tune on them
i sometimes relate it
to waking up in waist deep snow
in our former selves
the us we wish we could give one another
the children we've sat on the shelves
trapped, like the looks
we leave behind in snow globes
i sometimes imagine ships
dragging the bottom to the sea of "me"
for sleep & pieces of my old self
to sell to the new one
like history doesn't repeat itself
it gets me wondering
if you too want an apology from the rain
or if you dream of burning family photo albums
and wearing the ashes like perfume
if you're anything like me
how i hope god chokes
on memories of me blowing out candles as a child
i know i shouldn't reference my reader  
but don't you know, the only difference
between alone & lonely is you?
that if my hands could talk
the only thing they'd be able to say
is "dear god we've missed you"
and how can you tell me it isn't love
when even the rain refuses to fall
in places where i've kissed you
i remember the day
you found my smile at a yard sale
it reminds me of how you'll leave
i wonder if when you go
you'll tell yourself
the person in the rear view mirror
is closer than they appear
 May 2014 abby
Hayleigh
Losing you proved harder than
I'd ever imagined.
So I took the memory
And pretended it never happened.

I buried you,
In the corners of my smile,
And hid you in the gaps between my teeth,
And every once in awhile,
I shone you,
In an attempt to conceal my grief.

I bottled your scent,
And put it in my pocket,
I captured those enchanting eyes
And placed them in my sockets.
I tuned your name into the beats
Of my heart,
I sewed you perfectly, into me,
So as not to tear myself apart.

I took that warm touch of yours,
And carried it in my hands,
I took that soothing voice,
And placed it into bands,
That I laced through my hair,
So when my levels of despair
Reached boiling point,
I'd never forget, that you were there,
That you had always cared.

I took your reassuring grasp,
So I'd never walk alone,
I kept your number,
Tucked neatly in my phone.
I took your kind and gentle ways,
And reinforced them to myself
As the days,
Passed by.

People told me I should start to let go
And I simply replied
With the answer of no.
Because letting go,
Means losing all of you,
And call me crazy,
But that I could never do.
 May 2014 abby
awegkjh
May 7, 2014
 May 2014 abby
awegkjh
Bleary eyes and Italian films
I live alone
Or, I may as well.

The man in the movie said
We've got to stop wasting time doing things we don't want to do.

Want, want
"Funny how suicide is do and die"
Is a line I think about a lot.

Railroad bridges don't have guardrails,
Which is dangerous for pedestrians
Or, convenient.
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/send-the-breaking-ground-poets-to-brave-new-voices-2014
 May 2014 abby
Sean Critchfield
Give them to me.
All the pieces of your broken heart.
Give them to me.

I'll take them.

All the rough-hewn misshapen bits of your shattered dreams.


Give them to me.
I will take them.

Give them to me.


They are wanted here.


All the parts of your misspent childhood. All the regrets of ticking seconds behind you.

Give them to me.

And we will build a cathedral. A stained glass window of who we are as tall and as beautiful as it should be.

Let me have them.

And we will make a mosaic that stretches as wide as the sky. Showing every color your heart gained from the bits and pieces left on the ground.

I will take them.

And forge a sculpture of how beautiful the ideas are that we cast out in our failings and we will cast it in our failings.

Let me have them.

And we will ***** a monument of all the small things in the shape that you remember them.
Towering. Looming. Striking. Beautiful.

Let me have them so we might bind the words said and regretted, (or worse) left unsaid in leather and call it scripture.

Our Psalms. Our Proverbs:

“The tip of my finger dangles like my tongue. Wanting to touch something beautiful.”

“If it were not for him, it would have been us.”

“You were all my brightest colors.”

“I wish I were more like you.”

“I wish I were less like me.”

“I am sped.”


And we will read them at dawn like litany.

Stretching our voices to the corners of the universe. Asking for the wishes you make when you are scared. Or alone. Or both.

That we may take them.

And make a blanket.

A blanket to cover our childhood and let it rest at last.

I will take them.

All the parts you no longer want.

Give them to me.

Because they are what make us beautiful.

Give them to me.

That I may forge them into pitch and feathers and craft mighty wings.

That I may take flight from your worry. And soar on the updraft of your misconception.

Give them to me.
I will take them.

Because I would rather burn like Icarus than to have never dared to fly.
This was a birthday gift to myself. I am giving it to you.
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