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 Apr 2015 krystina
mike
chariot
 Apr 2015 krystina
mike
a chariot made from
the bones of the horse
who pulls it.
 Apr 2015 krystina
regina
sigharette
 Apr 2015 krystina
regina
he held a pack of cigarette.
took the last one of it.
held it securely,
like it's the only precious thing he got.

i took a glance at him,
wondering.
can i be his last cigarette to hush?
 Apr 2015 krystina
IvyB Xx
"My heart is a pre-owned game,
with you being the current controller.

Having being reset over and over,
I am hoping that you will be the one to pass the level and clock me,
body and soul"
Ivy Botticelli
 Apr 2015 krystina
Tolani Agoro
Not all poems are sad
Not all poets are depressed
Maybe poets are just a little too happy to think about writing
Until they are alone in a dark place and have no escape but writing*.
I don't quite know
what love is

but if it wasn't us
I don't believe it exists

for your taste still lingers
on my lips.
 Apr 2015 krystina
Miranda Renea
I'm writing this for you,
Flower thief. It's funny,
I told myself I'd never
Let it happen again, but I
Can only assume that I'm
The petal that falls once
You've clipped the stem.
Not to worry, my friend.
The breeze is quite beautiful
At such a day's quiet end.
 Apr 2015 krystina
Haley C B
The rotting walls,
The warped floors,
The cracked wood that makes up all of the doors.

Do you remember when this place used to be so bright?
When we still ate dinner at the table most nights?

Blanket forts and puzzle glue,
I always said my best friend was you.
I was your checker queen,
You were my everything.

We took rides to the liquor store,
The smell now will always remind me
Of my childhood.
These types of field trips never ended the way I wished they would,
With your nose pressed against a cut straw in your friends ***** apartment,
Maybe you hoped that I would never remember it.

I used to pray to a God I was too young to believe in that you wouldn't crash the car when you were high on oxy.

Whispering to myself
"Oh god, please."

You would get so close to the cars on the side of the road and I would just keep praying that we would make it home.

Then, after mom died i picked up your bad habits.
I would drink and drive in hopes that I would die.

Id get to close to the cars on the side of the road while praying to a God I still don't believe in that I wouldn't make it home.

But I did.
Every time.

To the rotting walls,
The warped floors,
The cracked wood that makes up all of the doors.

Why is it so hard to remember when this place used to be bright?
I cant even imagine a dinner at the table most nights.
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