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 Nov 2013 Dev A
Jo Beller
The smell of cut grass, cigarettes, and vanilla malts will always bring you back

The other night sitting by the fire, alone, the smell of smoke and musty flannels, I could not resist remembering that bitter fall night

But that's just the thing.
I can't touch you, hear you, or love you anymore. And I'm not sure I'd want to anymore.

You've changed to much.

I have created a new you in my head. One who thinks about me and everyday, listens to the song coming home from work, and tears up, and searches my name on Google.

I know that's not true though, you've became like a different person. You don't think about me, you forgot about the songs. The hot, sticky, and humid summer nights yelling at each other through the teared screen door. you forgot about us at the counter in the no smoking area, smoking, drinking vanilla malts. I hated that I loved you and loved how much I would so often,
end up hating you.
I loved this love roller coaster. It was exceptionally thrilling.
 Nov 2013 Dev A
Nat Lipstadt
Created June 1st, 2011

I am not gay.
I am not straight.
I am not curved,
or warped or woofed
I am bent, cylindrical,
a burnt human.

but not weak, nah!

tempered stronger than
furnaced scarred,
hard-stained steel,
a fire shaped child of El.

The sum of,
the product of,
the multiple divisions of:

my hard-on
experiential, existential
hand to hand
combat learning,
life's red copper burnishing,
and my very own
genetic, tantric
commanded tablets,
my natural earnings,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


obedient factotum to the
twists and turns of the
curve ***** and spitters
life pitches at my head,
that end up as
body blows.

multiple contusions outside
worn with pride inside,
I award myself a
medal of honor,
and elect myself,
Most Valuable Person,
an All Star of David,
for having survived
one more battle scarred
game day,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


when I awake,
in the raceway courses
of my veins,
the speedways to my
heart and brain,
runs the bitter herbs taste
of fear of how
I shall yet again,
earn this day,
my body's keep and shelter,
earn some table scraps of
peace of mind,
that I may lay
myself down to sleep
if ever so briefly,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


When I prowl the mid of night,
the fever of combat fear,
my skin sears,
and there is no narcotic
that anesthetizes
even surficial  
the anxiety,
the ailment of
melancholia
that hallmarks my soul,
the overflow of which
spills over the ****
of my vocabulary

So every new day
is a new year,
and I start the diet
of my soul
yet again

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


Once I was a soldier
who wore the
black and white stripes
of the uniform that stretches
to the four corners
of the world.

I used to sway to the R&B;
of someone else's tunes,
prostrate fell to my knees
speaking someone
else's words,
touched my forehead
to the ground.

but the melancholia that
sterling hallmarks my soul
never disappeared and
renewal was a gift
denied and refuted,
by the lack of clarity
to which I was not
part and parcel

and l guess I am just like
{you, man}


Took a new oath,
swore allegiance
to the alliance of
I don't give a ****
and acceptance of
the infection of
flawed humanity
inside of me
lies buried in the
permafrost of my mind,

So every new day
is a new year,
and I start the diet
of my soul,
yet again

The first new words
daily uttered,
chanted with vehemence
of an out loud prayer
to no one but we two,
me and you, man,
unashamedly clear and enunciated
not mumbled,
not muttered,
seven parts blessing,
three parts curse,
are these words.

l guess,
I am just like
{you, man}


Found and founded a brotherhood of me and
{you, man},
one mantra,
you and I are just alike,
now we have a new
holy romantic empire,
we are human
{you, man}
slaves to
nothing,
no one
but each other.
How I used to write...when I was....
 Oct 2013 Dev A
SGD
I was never a sinking ship, just the remains
of an ocean liner, settling on the sea’s lips.
At least, that’s what I think.
I am not a tragedy, no,
but so many of my pages are empty and, my god, I need
you to know that if I am a book,
I am half-complete (not half-unfinished––I'm learning, you see?),
but it’s the back half,
and a few scattered paragraphs before that.
Now and then I write in my own history,
just for others to read and believe
there’s something more to me
than a leather bound cover over cheap poetry.
That’s all I am, really.

I’m just trying to keep my head above the water.
I keep my secrets close, and my happiness bottled
––for the nights when I need something stronger
than spirits that burn on the way down,
something that can keep these ghosts
from crawling back out my mouth
to tumble from my lips at last.

Listen, I'm really not hard to figure out.

It’s broken glass,
it’s the smash of a car crash,
it’s the smell of smoke and ash,
it’s a statue of a girl learning to laugh,
and to know, and how to venture
into you. I count the number of times I've been sure,
on my knuckles instead of my fingertips,
because it wasn't the touch, it was the fist
that first said: I am better than this
(fires will die but they fight harder than all else).
Besides, my fingers are not for counting out.
I think they're for you,
to weave yours through,
and to feel on your skin
when I spell out I love you,
because my fingers do not flinch
as easily as my mouth does cringe
and strangle truths in anger.

If you feel I am pulling into myself,
remember I'm likely collapsing inwards,
and know this:
broken homes beget broken bones,
but more often they spit
broken boys and girls from their lips.
My body is new,
no longer mould and mildew,
but steel, mortar, and brick,
and stone
and stick.

I am almost always cold.
My wrists look too thin for the weight of my world.

I carry on, but I am not strong.
**** knows how long those days have been gone.

To the person who will somehow fall for me:
I am not a tragedy,
but a mess of a story.
I write dumb rhymes to feel like I'm growing.
I speak as a cynic, but at heart I'm all dreams.
Sometimes I take a minute to listen and, slowly,
I think I'm becoming someone worth being.

I seem bare as a clinic and empty as glossy magazines,
but it's all a set and some props, one day I'll end scene.
I'm not ready yet, but on One Day, I'll be.

I swear, I'm almost there.
My world is readying,
like winter prepared
to yield to spring.
 Oct 2013 Dev A
Ashlyn Kriegel
Everyone leaves a footprint on you
Whether you like it or not,
As if you were a beach
Filled with many footprints
Of many people, of many strangers;
But the tide incessantly beats ashore
And washes away some footprints,
Regardless how deep,
Whether you like it or not.
 Sep 2013 Dev A
Destiny Copeland
I've been rid of darkness
For only a month
And after today
I just might relapse
Well my teenage heart has been broken, at least I'm writing again
 Sep 2013 Dev A
Mona Schweikle
I wish I could dance.
I wish I could dance like the girls in the opera house. I wish I could express my feelings for you in every move I make, and every time I inhale, I wish you could see my heart pounding during the steps I take colliding with the rhythm.
I wish I could paint.
I wish I could paint like all great artist combined, because that is what you deserve. I wish I could paint out the love with every brush stroke, and every time I dip into new paint, I wish you could see it's like loving you all over again.
I wish I could sing.
I wish I could sing like the prettiest birds in the sky. I wish I could sing so loud, that it reaches you on the other side of the world. I wish my voice is as beautiful as the look in your eye, and every time I do, I wish you would look at me like I look at you, with endless love.

I wish I could do all that to make you love me. But I can't. I can't do any of it. But I still hope, someday you will take me as I am. Someday, I will be enough for you. I wish one day, all the things I wished I could do for you wouldn't matter anymore.
 Sep 2013 Dev A
Mike Hauser
She graciously rolls up her sleeve
For another mainline of hype
America's a ******
You can see it in her eyes

She must really crave it
She keeps coming back for more
America's a ******
Her dealer is media the *****

They feed off each other
No way to pass the blame
On the streets of long lost innocence
On a night of goodbye shame

America's in the ally
The needle dangling from her arm
While media hits the corner
Waving down the passing cars

Are we to late for intervention
Are we to late to find a cure
For America the ******
And her dealer media the *****
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