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 Sep 2015 L
hollowings
Dear Estranger,

the only boy who has called you father
is your buried best friends son;
Sorry but Secretly, sir I don’t think I would have wanted
you as my dad.
I was never the athletic athen or the sporty spartan
I was the kid who could create.
Create a world with words and word those worlds
into a willed waistband that held my reality up on the hips
of hypocrisy.
Although, I never could see
what you expected from me
because I tried to wrestle,
wrestle the writhing rapids
of emotion I now choose to hide.

Dear Estranger,

You choose to stay out late
Keeping the company of neatly lined papers
and that was a stab to our hearts, a ****** with a rapier.
I garishly grinned
grabbing at a grasp.
grasping your grip
a grip with a twist
or rather your twisted grip on reality.
I never could see
what you expected from me
because the lawn grew overnight
overtly obfuscating all the golf green
grass grinding I had completed
just to please you.

Dear Estranger

Your television shows are
brimming with bottles
sans ships, but full of ****
just like you I guess.
“We are what we eat”
but
“You are what you See”
and I hope that that mirrored mirage minimizes
revealing the rottenness
wrought on our innocence
I never could see
what you expected from me
because I tried to make a movie
filled full of wounded warriors, you collected my camera
and gave me **** sans soldier.

Dear Estranger,

When I was 7 years old you
chucked a block of cheese at my mother
when we should have been at chucky cheeses
enjoying the recess
of the life afforded to youth.
Where are the kids? 'Who cares” he carelessly
croaks
I never could see
what you expected from me
because i grew grumpy and grim
from despairing disapproval and
maybe just maybe thats why my sisters cite
superficial substantiation
on their lack of physical attraction

Dear Estranger,

the life of a rockstar
is the life of a shiny silver stone
set in a slimming silver ring.
Pretty to look at. Not much else.
Beauty is what you seek
but the shriek of your ugly soul
seeps through into our toxic home
Lullabied loathing lasts longer than you think
and is heard louder than they speak
I never could see
what you expected from me
because I spent time with celebrity
and celebrated there celibacy
of a live lived fully
and quite frankly
that life just doesn’t seem very fulfilling

Dear Estranger,

I can now understand
who’d stick around
when there is people to please
saying pleased to meet you
words filled with friendship
a necessary work trip
well let me tell you our ship has sailed
I am lost at sea and no one is out
looking for me and I wish I could just drown
but I still can’t see
what you expected from me
because the other boys built boats in boy scouts
with their dads,
While I stayed home building lego dreams
stuck in the fad of boys with a too busy dad

Dear Estranger,

Pictures this, framed photos floating
on the sides of white walls.
Full of a fake family that
feared their father
Strangers are dangers
and nothing is stranger
than an estranger
in this the mormon Mecca called mesa.
Yes I called you a danger
so would the slits on your daughters wrists
and the poems pouring out of your poor
sons lips.
I never could see
what you expected from me
because you never told me.
Christmas came and you left
my eyes were left bereft of tears and
my journal was stained red from the dead
I felt when my shoes wore out and your
feet dated dockers new from the box store
Mom sold her ring to a rock store
to pay the studios electric in may
may I suggest you man up
or get the hell out.

Sincerely, a ******* who found his father ******* around
 Jul 2015 L
s
Choose your poison
 Jul 2015 L
s
Here I am again
Sitting against the door
Shaking hands
Shaking chin
Water splashing on the floor
I try so hard to calm back down
Make the monsters run away
I never invited them over
They just barged in and demanded to play
I thought I locked them out for good
I was happy again
Until now
Now I hear them calling me out
No ignoring them anymore
So here is what I have to choose
My poison
Number one or two?
Both will **** you
But which kind do you want?
Neither? Well that's too bad cause you're picking one up.
Messed up tonight.
 Jun 2015 L
holyoak
no one believed in ghosts
until we realized everyones transparent
no one holds on tighter
than when they realize
they have to let go
but the terrifying part
is that im not sure
if ive ever been held
my hands are made of smoke
my heart is caged vapor
im reaching
for so many people
but im a phantom
made of lies & half truths
how can i be honest with you
when i could never admit to myself
that im a ghost
im a real boy
i chant to myself
as my strings get pulled
a marionette made of fog
the realest ill ever be
is when im spouting
the opinions of others
out of my incorporeal mouth
tying together borrowed words
with my ethereal tongue
as if i have a thought process of my own
whats it feel like to be a ghost?
id say like hell
but ghosts dont feel much anyway
were all living on borrowed feelings
donated sympathy
& hand-me-down ignorance
an army of ghosts
that cant even defend themselves
we bash each other
with words that are almost
as hollow as our chests
no one knows anything
about themselves
but everyone knows everything
about everyone else
we see through each other
but we cant see ourselves
we try to reflect one another
but the vapor is always shifting
its maddening
being so shapeless
yet so defined
i want a body of my own
i want a place i can call home
i want to not be shamed for my opinion
i want to respect others fully
ghosts are meant to terrify
& let me be honest when i say
ive never seen anything as ghostly
as this generation of opinionated plagiarists

[holyoak]
 May 2015 L
s
ten
 May 2015 L
s
ten
When I was five my mom taught me how to count to ten.
I liked the number ten
I thought that I could rule the world cause I knew how to count to ten.
I could play hide and seek now
I could make a hopscotch
I could be like my older sister
The number ten made me so happy.
When I was six I went to kindergarten
Counting to ten was baby stuff
But I still liked ten
My kindergarten teacher taught me that counting to ten ten times makes one hundred.
I cried to my mom when I got home
It seemed too complicated
So I kept counting to ten
Life was easier when only numbers one through ten existed.
When I was twelve there was a group of mean girls
Ten of them
I didn't like the number ten
that much anymore.
Cause according to them it was
How much weight I needed to lose (10lbs)
How many of my friends hate me (10)
How high I would score on a test (10%)
I could always hear them coming
all their ten steps in sync
Walking in a V
They were a flock of birds
Getting ready to attack a poor penguin who couldn't fly like them.
When I was sixteen all of the mean girls went to a different school.
I didn't have to be with the ten anymore.
I had to be with myself
I lost 10 lbs
Plus extra
I have no friends now, turns out the ten friends I had really didn't like me.
When I was sixteen boys would line up one through ten
One and two would make me cry
I told three and four that they were a waste of time, they would just hurt me
I gave five a chance
He broke me
The other five didn't get to know me
Even though they tried
They could never really know me
The me who liked only the numbers one through ten.
The me who cries at night remembering the monsters
The me who hates myself
I fake it so well
I put up a wall
Ten bricks up
Ten bricks across
My second grade teacher would have asked me how many bricks I used
But it doesn't really matter anymore
Cause behind that wall I'm self destructing
I wish I only had to count 1-10
This is sloppy but it was shoved in my head had to get it out.
 Apr 2015 L
s
trace
 Apr 2015 L
s
it sweeps across you with a loathsome eloquence,
Weaseling it's way into you,
Grasping for your hopes and dreams.
Soon you find yourself upside down
Choking on what you once were.
The feeling is inevitable.
You're desperately seeking for your effervescent personality.
Its been drained from you, seeping out into a puddle at your toes.
You're left standing there as an outline.
There is nothing inside of you anymore, just empty space.
No matter how hard you try to fill yourself in, you will never be how you were before.
Don't bother trying to retrace the lines
Wrote this with a friend
 Apr 2015 L
s
Untitled
 Apr 2015 L
s
It hurts to pretend all the time
It hurts to fake life
It hurts to find what's hidden under your skin
It hurts to look in the mirror
It hurts to stand on the wrong number
It hurts hating yourself.
It hurts when you don't live for yourself anymore
I don't know why I am alive
I ruin everything
I ruin people
I break things
I don't know what I'm saying
I don't know why I am typing
I don't know anything anymore
Including myself
Vent session
 Apr 2015 L
holyoak
sycophantic poetry
im only here to please you
im only here to ease
this starvation of attention
my words are only
hollow messengers
that mean only
that im devoted
but when
im gone
who will turn you
into the poetry
that you dont understand

[holyoak]
 Apr 2015 L
gabriel bates
smoking my last cigarette beneath freezing rain, it's midnight & this feels so deserving. i'm thinking of jokes like, "wow, the price of gas is almost as low as my self esteem!" it's not funny though, i just smile slightly.
 Apr 2015 L
gabriel bates
how many ghosts live in these walls? family photos harbor dust. boxes cover the floorspace. furniture moves, it's unsettling. the impermanence of it all makes this place seem dead. it's odd how many things one person can own & still have nothing. love used to flow through each room. all that's left is dust. you can't make a home out of an empty building. you're just moving furniture around now. & when you leave, each memory will stay. the word 'home' will not be said here again. it's finally silent, save for the echoes.
 Apr 2015 L
gabriel bates
the dirt on my hands resembles blood. i've gotten too good at this. my shovel kisses the earth. one more returns to where we all began. the blood is dirt, the dirt is blood. these hands are rough & the shovel knows more than it should.
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