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Nov 2017 · 491
You Gotta Feel
Evan Ponter Nov 2017
Life is Hard, Weird and Beautiful
Smile Or Cry About It
But Whatever You Choose
*******, You Gotta Feel
Aug 2015 · 693
Givin' Up On Believin'
Evan Ponter Aug 2015
How ******* banal is this existence?
Traversing the canals of this persistence.
Never quite knowing
The way the wind is blowing
If things happen for a reason
I’m giving up on believin’

How ******* sane is this world?
As bony and frail as the frame of a little girl.
Never truly ripe
The holly gardens at midnight
If things only grow for a season
I’m giving up on believin’

How ******* real is reality?
Speaking in abstracts like a badge of morality.
Never really concise
A tickling on your brain like head lice
If things only happen for a inexplicable reason
I’m giving up on believin’
This contemplation
is treason.
Mar 2015 · 1.9k
Brand Name
Evan Ponter Mar 2015
Spare parts
Nothing more than spare parts
Nuts and bolts and hair traps
Metal pins and elastic bands
A2 screws and P7 washer nuts

Fasten finger tight
After assembled
Repeat steps 1 & 2
Fixed too firmly
Adhere some glue

A mechanical recipe
The instructions to destroy and rebuild

3D printed
Pasted together
Real feel wood and triple stitched elastic leather

Catalog quality at half the price
Made in China mattress springs
Pantone color coordinated just right

Knock off
Product placement

Everything must go
20% sale
Egyptian cotton stuffed with horsehair

Thank you
Come again
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Refer a friend

Jan 2015 · 1.3k
Candy Cane Hair
Evan Ponter Jan 2015
What are we as human beings.
To continue this charade.
Feelings don’t reflect emotion.
A constant broken reproduction.
Something alien.
Stuffing toilet paper in our ears to avoid the sound.

Like a radio wave you reach me.
Through brick walls and curtain calls.
Never believing our names weren’t meant to be blazon in neon.

Your voice echoes through canyons.
Street lights and passersbys.
From dandelion pistols.
From candy cane hair.
I found you like a fossil.
Buried deep in my past.
Gasping for air.
Breathing resentment.

“I think you should go.”

“I think you should stay.”

Evan Ponter Nov 2014
It’s ******* Veterans Day
He said as my teeth turned into shrapnel on the street
He had the right to remain violent
I had the right to remain silent

Men have died for your right to speak
How dare you question the military?
Dissent squashed with brute force
Drone strikes on a straight course

Bang Bang! Like the pixels on a Playstation
His hands return ****** to the deployment station
PTSD on the brain
IUD as cremation

It’s ******* Veterans Day
Pay your respects
I’ll collect your debts
And turn them into fighter jets

You say you support the troops
Or do you really support Fox News
What ever you choose
It’s information that you lose

There’s no glory in ******
No matter what flag you use
Who’s this foreign invader your protecting us from?
The way I see it, is you’re the invader, son

Let’s hold a concert
Where the **** is Bruce Springsteen?
Let’s have a parade
Do people on the streets remind you of anything?

Oh yeah, that thing called protest.
How we talk about the things we detest.
Unless it’s about the troops.
Tie yellow ribbons instead.
Aren’t you glad Osama’s dead?
Oct 2014 · 3.8k
Evan Ponter Oct 2014
From my experience,
women are irrational creatures.
Now before you write about this poem
in an angry Facebook status,
let me continue to put things in flowery prose
and you'll forget we even had this conversation.
Her eyes sparkle like diamonds that (I want to bone)

No ******* clue where I'm going with this.
Oct 2014 · 467
Should Have Known
Evan Ponter Oct 2014
The theater down the street
has the marque stuck in repeat
screen spitting images and
laugh tracks to distract the audience.

Find no pleasure in all of this
breeze feels oddly ominous
flash bulbs blinded out
can't find the time to focus on the vision.
Sep 2014 · 3.0k
The Senate Takes A Vote
Evan Ponter Sep 2014
Their lies are prompted
from teleprompters
and executed flaw-fully
from taxpayer's helicopters.

They say we're protecting
foreign daughters
while filtering profits
to desert clad marauders.

Blank faced public
fear conversing religion and politics
while passively electing
lunatics with trigger switches.

Arm the rebels
they bite the hand that feeds
the middle east burns
while America ******* bleeds.

The white, blue and red
camo helmets on their heads
farm fed frat boys
equipped with jackets of lead.

We watched Saddam crumble
his statue beaten with shoes
but the same war we already fought
the puppets now will choose.

Fight the good fight
support the troops.

Drone strikes by twilight
**** the troops.

An Army of one
Sempter Fi
Do or Die
I won't shed a single tear when you come back in a casket
covered in a flag you valued more than your life.

Our heroes are our welfare
stop blaming single mothers
plastic bags tied around throats
water boarding dissent, it smothers.

**** the Medal of Honor
I'm tearing up your portrait Obama.
How many can benefit from free tuition?
But we give it to those trained to slaughter.

Our priority is the police state
Nazis pretending to tote freedom.
We sip our Americanos
And retain nothing from the newspaper we are reading.

**By Evan Ponter
Today, the US government voted on arming rebels in Syria to fight the threat of ISIS. We made this mistake before. The Taliban was originally an American puppet that we used as a tool to fight in Afghanistan. Now we're going down the same dangerous route. The war on terror is never ending. **** the troops and stand up against the fascist foreign policy of this country.
Sep 2014 · 2.2k
Vestigial Appendage
Evan Ponter Sep 2014
you're a vestigial appendage
like my appendix

you are there
but you don't do anything for me
you just are, there

i wouldn't die without you
you're not necessary, necessarily

i can't live without you
you're a part of me, partially

you're so significantly insignificant and essentially unessential
we are potentially going to have to end it
we have potential — "no" — lets end it

i'm so happy i never get to see you
i'm so unhappy you called
you're like a fantom vibrate
i can't believe you actually called

we're a vestigial appendage
like an internal hemorrhage

holding onto what's healthy and alive
dig it out like a cancer
bury it deep inside
Some stupid ******* ******* once said "absence makes the heart grow fonder." A romantic way to articulate the effects of distance on love itself. What fails to be portrayed is that many times miles can make or break even the most durable of couples. Enough to where you can do nothing about the feeling of dead inside. Nothing besides dig it out like a cancer. This is my biopsy.
Aug 2014 · 822
Particle Deceleration
Evan Ponter Aug 2014

Moving through the city like photons.

She's never there like the stars...
muted gracelessly by carcinogenic light pollution.


Like a landfill where every day it's sunny.
Heart break is always tough. It's even tougher to go through in Hollyweird. The city scape is just as desperate and depressed as I feel. I bask in it. It's like salt in my wounds and I've always been one for pain.
Aug 2014 · 1.0k
Evan Ponter Aug 2014
Of course Michael
But we livin' a post racial society
Apr 2014 · 818
Evan Ponter Apr 2014
We were flying over the Rocky Mountains, but you couldn’t see **** out the windows. I only knew because of the captain’s voice groaning from the speakers. The oval portholes only told of hazy fog and jet stream winds. Winds that caused the cabin to bounce causing babies to cry causing mothers to panic causing the repeated “ding” of the fasten seatbelt sign.

My stomach growled, turning as violently as the plane from over-priced airport whiskey and complimentary black coffee from an artificially amiable flight attendant. I had to take a **** but the overweight ginger sitting next to me was as immobile as a boulder — drool in the corner of her lips, a trumpeting snore escaping her hairy nostrils. Before passing out, she had told me that people from New Zealand where called either New Zealanders or Kiwis. But like the bird. Not the fruit.

Abrasive turbulence had the plane’s inhabitants on edge. Humans always crack at the slightest indication of danger. Like death is so much worse than having to sit next to a stranger who farts in their sleep while breathing in recycled air for 5 hours. It’s like before a snow storm. Everyone rushes to stock up on bread and milk. Fearing for the worst. Except in this case, everyone was checking and rechecking their seatbelts and making sure that the tray in front of them was securely fastened.

I could give two ***** if the plane suddenly lost altitude. Just started plummeting through thick milky clouds, losing mechanical parts like a dandelion being turned to seedlings in the wind. It wasn’t that I wanted to die. I just had so much on my mind. A **** storm, if you will, of anxieties and worries and feelings of inadequacies. I wasn’t wishing for death. I just wanted something more real to worry about than paying rent, or falling in and out of love, or landing my dream job, or which ******* tie matches my shirt.

But as the aircraft sliced through the fog leaving behind a wily jet stream, my window became engulfed by a clear blue sky. Below, the Rockies stretched across the land like a lovely spinal cord. Only the purest white light spilled down from space. In that moment, life was too brilliant for paranoia. The past, as irrelevant as the souvenirs that tourists had stuffed in the overhead compartments. The future, as uncertain as your chances of being in a plane that actually does fall from the sky. The only thing that mattered was I was floating above the clouds and not even Mother Nature — the **** responsible for earthquakes, floods and menstrual cycles — could bring me down.
Apr 2014 · 3.6k
The Musician
Evan Ponter Apr 2014
His words stitched like rail road ties
through sentiment and simile.
His fingers like slaves to emotions in his brain.

The hum of his instrument,
so rich and so right.
Constructing soundtracks to stories
about what it means to be alive.

Tapping beats from the back of his thigh,
bop-bop, doo-woop.
Turning feeling into vibrations
that shake the walls of the bus station.

What change he got shaking like a tambourine
inside his cardigan pocket.
The gold trim on his six string
shines like a locket under bright orange lights.

I called him the Musician.
his mother called him Bentley.
his father never called,
the streets called him crazy.

His audience passing cars.
Cigarette butts and trashed plastics.
The Musician waxed and waned
as the world kept on passing.
My life is my story. I'd love if you continued reading by giving me a follow on Instagram/Twitter. (@evanponter)
Dec 2013 · 2.3k
Lost Angeles
Evan Ponter Dec 2013
Helicopter blades chop through arid air
sirens fill space off in the distance.
Somewhere, someone still believes
the promise of prosperity
the American dream
but not much really lives in Lost Angeles
**** roaches and coyotes.

Police spotlights eye-ing up dilapidated
housing developments like a ***** show.
Cops driving slow on streets
that form lines like dope trails
like they're looking for crack
on skid row
or *****
on Hollywood Boulevard
or someone to talk to
on the last train to Union Station.

Helicopter blades chop through arid air
sirens fill space off in the distance.
I wrote this during a hard time living in Los Angeles. The city can drive you crazy. It's full of spirits and vibes and authority. It's a dizzying experience and sometimes you feel lost.
Evan Ponter Dec 2013
Budweiser cans lay on the floor like empty mortar rounds,
the smell of Jack Daniels as potent as battlefield blood.

Weekend wars where we fight ourselves for pleasure.
Waging conquest on the banal.
Losing limbs and liver for a life less ordinary.

The air in my apartment is stale like cigarette butts,
buried in mass graves in an ashtray over full.

Weekend warriors where we battle for a new fix.
Waging conquest on the week day.
Losing steady vision for a life less ordinary.
Evan Ponter Feb 2013
Asking the timepiece on my wrist
to dial the seconds back
so I could be sleeping in a bed
with our bodies back to back.

No I can't breathe
when the thought comes to me
of brittle bones that break into the sea.
The maps stuck in my pockets
drawing inches in the sand
recounting miles in the window seat
my hand melts in your hand.

I just want you
to smile
not for me
but for all the things we've discovered from the wind shaking the tress.

I can't believe in something more
when I can't believe in you and me.
Splitting moments with a scalpel
stitched spontaneity on my sleeve.

If hope is an expression of distance
it's my turn to turn my back.
When distance is what you hope for
it's your turn to turn right back.

And I just smile, and I just smile.
And I can't believe, no I can't breathe.
Feb 2013 · 814
Evan Ponter Feb 2013
That familiar path,
It's like I never looked back.
Outside my head,
Everything is dead and cold
And out of my control.

And its safe to say,
That the lingering scent of your skin
Is not going away.
Every day,
I relive the pain
Of walking in and out of doors
And letting you fly away.

Clip your wings,
Write you a song to sing.
And scatter every little part of my creeping calm
into the wind.

Hold back a smile,
Just like old times.
And sink the rib that I ripped from the calendar
right into him.
Jan 2013 · 864
You Don't See It Like I Do
Evan Ponter Jan 2013
I'm sorry that when you think of the past
you don't see it like i do
instead of sharing skin inside blades of grass
you don't think of it like i do
where grey clouds are always out
you don't remember it like i do
where blue skies shined all the time
i just can't help but think
you don't see it like i do

— The End —