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 Feb 2013 dj
Alexis Martin
I thought about you today
I think about you a lot
and about how you promised me a garden
you promised me a lot
I thought about your sheets
on top of us a lot
and how I told you my secrets
I told you a lot
I thought about your t-shirts
I wore them a lot
and how you kissed my forehead
your lips are chapped a lot
And I thought about how we were never in love
but we said those words a lot
and I am so sorry that I hurt you
*I hurt people a lot
 Feb 2013 dj
DieingEmbers
Talk To Me
 Feb 2013 dj
DieingEmbers
Feeling alone
my sickness made worse

by your
silent treatment.
Silent treatment is when you ignore someone
 Feb 2013 dj
Daniel Magner
I woke up one morning
as you left the harbor
without even speaking a word
I'd thought that you'd tell me
if you were leaving,
you have no idea who that hurt

Now you've got a lover
and I've got a chopper
that lets me live like
a bird

It's the closest to heaven
I'll ever get without
prayer or going to church

Sometimes when I'm flying
I don't want to land again
unless I land next to
her...
© Daniel Magner 2013
 Feb 2013 dj
Madelin
Guys with long hair have agendas. And if they don't, they're stoners and 'agenda' a really long word, man.

Guys with long hair are the poetic types with acoustic guitars and incense in their dorm room and they hold their hair back with a pen behind their ear and they use it to write in a leather-bound journal about girls who smoke too much and have soft ***** so they can pick up more girls who smoke too much and have soft *****.

Guys with long hair are the metalheads who sit in the back of class and use their hair to distract from the fact that they're wearing poor-quality ironic headphones that project Alice in Chains to everyone within a four-desk radius but no one's going to say anything because hey, that guy's a creep.

Guys with long hair are the classical types that play expensive instruments and have beautiful eyes that you can't see very often and have to keep ponytail elastics on their wrists, their wrists that never stop moving, conducting, tapping, curling, because Chopin slows for no man, no matter how long his locks.

And if you poured all these guys with long hair in a test tube and melted them until the agendas broke and forged and changed colors, you'd have him.

I found him in a smoky sweet basement in a house where everyone belongs but no one should actually live. I braided his shoulder-brushing hair without asking and saw his smile like a chunk of snow the size of your high school falling off a mountain, fast and white, huge and more important than anything else around.

I found him again in a different basement where only musicians belong. He invited me into the closet with the piano and it's like he asked me to crawl inside his head and hang out for a while. He casually mentioned his favorite angry bands while his fingers brushed keys in an order they seemed to know on their own, tendons and strings.

He says things that deserve to be handwritten in leather-bound journals. He holds your wrist with one hand when you shake the other because people have become desensitized to handshakes and don't feel the human contact of it anymore. He hugs to the right because you're supposed to hug heart-to-heart.

*"People are going to judge based on what they see anyway. Might as well make sure they're right, sort of."
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