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The intent is always there
But putting the pen to paper is like hands.
Hands closing in around your throat.
Suffocating.
You push. And fight
Thinking “I’m just trying to write”
You put the pen down.
The hands that were never there disappear
But you’re still suffocating.
 Dec 2019 Marco Buschini
Chelsea
Someone asked me to draw
Draw what heartbreak looks like
I finally got tired of drawing a broken heart
And I started drawing you
<3
i want to rewrite the stars
to you and me
forever and only
love the song rewrite the stars
 Nov 2019 Marco Buschini
Lily
The scene was almost perfect, and
With the sun’s evening glow permeated the
Entire backyard, the flowerbeds at the back
Near the oak fence were extremely vibrant,
The bright oranges and purples and pinks
Leaping out at you like a lion.
The swingset created unnatural shadows on the lawn,
And the children playing created laughter that
Could be heard down the street.
The scent of neighbors burning leaves was strong,
And as the man sat on the back porch,
A beer in his hand and a Bible in the other,
He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would stay like this.
Perfect.
How much longer would he have like this, before the
Sun set,
The flowers wilted,
The swingset rusted,
The children grew up and moved out,
The lovely autumn weather turned to a blustering winter,
The Bible being more powerful than his beer.
One of his children squealed in delight as he
Swung higher and higher on the swing,
Trying to reach the clouds with the tips of his fragile fingers.
The man tries to put himself in the mindset of a kid,
Who believes the present is all that there is,
And whose mind doesn’t comprehend
Worrying about the past and future.
The man sighs contentedly, opening his
Bible and beer simultaneously as he thinks,
“I wish I could actually keep the present that was given to me.”
I got inspiration today from Kurt Vonnegut's "Slaughter-house Five"; he writes, "And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep." It was a very interesting line, which sparked my idea for this poem.
 Sep 2019 Marco Buschini
Sarah K
I write to spill love, loss, and hate onto blank pages instead of my conscience.
 Sep 2019 Marco Buschini
Sarah K
I write because my head is full of things I cannot say out loud.
I write for the way my heart bleeds when people cut into it.
I write as my heart swells with joy until I feel like the Grinch on Christmas day.
I write when I cannot think of anything but hate;
The words angrily scrawled out on paper like hot flames burning up my emotions.
I write to let everything out.
I write because writing cannot talk back;
It can't tell me I'm wrong or to change something
It is purely just me.
I write because it is the one thing that will not judge me no matter what I say.
I write because writing is all I have.
Some of the very many reasons why I write.
 Sep 2019 Marco Buschini
Lily
My words stick to the
Roof of my mouth like peanut butter,
Like white bread,
And no matter how hard they try,
They can’t escape.
Lucky to make it past my brain’s thick fortress,
Now they sit useless at the tip of my tongue,
Wishing to come forth but my mouth
Not forming the words.
My vowels languish in my throat and
My consonants sit listless,
All my verb phrases and direct objects
Lie in a jumbled mess,
Too disheartened to make a move.
They know that if they leave my lips,
Others will take them and cut them up,
Mince them like onions,
But the only person who will cry over them is
Me.
Eventually, too many letters will clamor at my
Lips for attention, and my throat will
Close entirely,
Never fessing,
Admitting,
Confessing,
The things I feel.
"I don't want to admit to something, if all it's gonna cause is pain" ~ Eminem, 'River'

I was inspired while listening to music today :)
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