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The first time I missed a bus
I ran down the street
Behind the bus that was fading away
I cried shamelessly
While still chasing the bus down

I still miss buses
I still run down the street
I don't cry anymore about it though
Guess I have grown up
I can't tell if you have any idea how
much of my heart and soul you're
packing with your things.

If you don't, I wish you'd let me tell you.
But you won't. You'll say, "Save your
breath, I know what you're going to say."

Your right that I do need to save my
breath. Because it feels like you're
packing that too.

I'm trying not to cry, and to put on my
happy mask that you like, But I can't
find my happy mask right now. I think
you may have accidentally packed it
with your things. Or was it an accident?

Either way, it's gone. If you come across
it, please bring it back and help me
cover this gaping hole.
There is a boy walking, maybe ten or eleven,
a skateboard under one arm,
his shirt branded with
And I wonder, what did she say?
Did she say she liked his tricks
or his ratty sweatshirt?
Did he blush,
swishing his hair in response,
exuding confidence and cockiness, in the mean time remembering his mother,
calling out to him before he left the house.
Did she say “Son,
don’t forget your helmet!”
Even though he was already gone—
Or was she really a he,
who sat him down a few months ago and said
he’d be gone for awhile
that he’d see him soon—
it’s been six months—
and maybe, when the boy heard this, he ran out.
And maybe when he gets older maybe he will run out more often,
to hang out with those who are deemed to be
“the wrong crowd”
and he will be drunk and high,
stumbling under the streets,
above the lights,
hearing-but-not-hearing everything that she is telling him.
She is telling him the secrets of the universe.
Written in imitation of Matthew Dickman's style, mostly by way of hinge points. Feedback is great :)
Of us wants to
Of us.
 Dec 2013 Laurel Elizabeth
Can't write poetry well,
haven't ever given it much thought,
really haven't been able to figure out my voice in it,
i guess it doesn't have to be for me,
still it irks me,

I'll still give it a shot,
Like I do with many hobbies in my life,
obviously I should settle on one,
very certain that I'm stretching myself too thin,
everyone has their strong points,

You are definitely mine,
often I find myself laughing to myself,
utterly aware of how lucky I am,
To have someone like you,
one who I can be myself with,
one that is truly a dingus (which is a-okay).
little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
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