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 Nov 2011 claire
Samuel
Hello!

      I mean

He
            Did you see the way she looked at him? That, that
            is either the craziest stare in the stars of our eyes or
            an indication of infatuation!
                      
                           I say, infatuation? Thought we'd done away with that long ago
                          
             It comes back in a different way however, with years of experience elsewhere
             when you end up realizing who your true friends are and how you've strayed
             from constructive friendships to chafing ones


llo!


I mean

           Hello!
           How are you?
Her hand was cold
It was winter and snowy
He was standing on the beach
His hand was warm
She wanted him to warm her hand
But in time it would freeze and get frost-bitten
So she put a glove on it
And another held onto it
If he comes into the snow
she'll take off the glove
and her skin will be untouched
for him to touch.
 Nov 2011 claire
Madeline
hello, poetry.
no, no, keep your seat.
i just wanted to talk to you about
how i can't stop writing you.
if you could stop pushing into my head
and making my fingers itch
and my eyes wander,
and if you would stop showing up in the margins
of my geometry homework,
well,
i guess i just wouldn't be me anymore
(probably be doing better in geometry though).
so, i was going to ask you to stop.
but, on the other hand -
it would get pretty lonely.
just me and the margins.
 Nov 2011 claire
Sea
Guess
 Nov 2011 claire
Sea
what did I ever do to you?

Guess you’re just a past,

from high school and the boys,

forget me and the rest.

Every new one says

“How could he do that to you?

You’re amazing, you’re great, you’re the best”

but they do the same as the last.

Someone out there who will handle my neuroses?

My jealousy, my protective, my

distrust and inability of sleeping?

For now I’ll slip into a sun-soaked summer coma

I’ll forget you and remember alcoholic nights

puffing sweet-scented smoke into clear air;

Fine with me if you don’t want to see

pink cheeks and light brown hair.
 Nov 2011 claire
Amy O
There’s a sadness in her eyes.

Not the kind that cries out

but lies quiet.

Burning with passion unfulfilled,

and sorrow unspoken.

Alone she cries softly.

Her tears, no longer able

to withstand the pressure behind walls

so carefully constructed

to keep them inside.

She breaks.

Softly though.

No one notices behind her laughter.

Behind her ****** statements

and flamboyant nature

No one sees.

She hides the destitution she fights not to feel.

But alone…

The quiet atrophy of her soul,

the silent declarations of her loneliness,

the unlived joys that may never be realized,

all become too much, and she weeps.

But all that’s revealed, is a distant sadness behind smiling eyes,

that still twinkle amidst her laughter.
 Oct 2011 claire
Victor Thorn
last time we spoke in person
you kissed a fogged up bus window
because you were sad.

the day was cold and gray and wet.
we were cold and gray and wet.
the bus had a blowout, there was smoke everywhere,
we pulled over.
everyone freaked out,
but we just sat there.
you were in front of me,
i was behind you,
texting each other, because we couldn't talk in person,
ever.
i had decided i was mad at you.
why was i mad, and not sad?
you had decided to make my mistake
of wanting something you just can't have.
why were you sad, and not mad?

the bus pressed onward on three wheels and a doughnut-
a wheel you want to think is there, but isn't.
and when we made it to the restaurant,
i sat alone,
and you sat alone
with friends you kept from inviting me over,
and you left
and they left
and i left.

the bus doughnutted it's way to some ****** play,
i sat on the far left,
you sat on the far right,
and they left,
and you left,
and i left.

we were waiting on something,
so you typed "hey"
and i typed "what"
and you asked me what i thought
and i said there was only one way it could have been worse.
and you asked what
but i didn't answer.

the bus doughtnutted it's way down the twisting, turning, hateful road that leads to my hometown where i can hardly pass a crack in the pavement without a painful memory, like a ****, sprouting up.

it was cold and gray and wet that day;
the bus window was foggy.
you drew a heart and scribbled initials inside.

T.M.
+
A.F.

you kissed a fogged up bus window
because you were sad.

i drew a heart and scribbled initials inside,
of course you couldn't see me
(i was behind you)

V.T.
+
A.F.

i kissed a fogged up bus window
because i was sad
and wished you would turn around.
Copyright February 2011 by Victor Thorn
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