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10w
I'm scared of losing everything that comes along with you
 Jan 2015 Summer Lee
fdg
You are so ******* predictable
And I have cracked my skull open too many times slamming my head off of desks trying to figure it out
But I knew it all along
EVERYTHING IS PREDICTABLE
AND TONIGHT I RHINK IM SICK IN THE HEAD
DONT ******* my godddddd
Get me out of here
 Jan 2015 Summer Lee
kiera
i get obsessed with things
until they make me sick
i love too hard
worry too well

i do this with everything
music, people, ideas, school

you need to
calm down
let go
honey

don't take hold of things
and let them in
with such a serious grip

you're ok
nothing is ever as bad as it seems
just let the anxiety fade
forget the sour aftertaste
and realize there's good
in everything

(you can love and want things to pieces
without falling to them yourself)
this was slightly inspired by blue boy by mac demarco
 Jan 2015 Summer Lee
Julia Hunter
What I am, I don’t know.
What I do know, however, is what you are.
My eyes have traveled over your person for hours, and I have studied your intellect.
I observe, I don’t make conclusions –
for that would be a sabotaged investigation of the potentiality of your existence.
The ‘you’ I speak of is nobody at all really,
it is the world around me in all of its embodiment.
I soak in the culture as I live amidst the chaos,
and my mind becomes oversaturated with sensation.
In San Francisco, yes, San Francisco, the sweet smell of diversity,
the push of movement walking up Powell Street and the creak
of the old elevator in Rasputin Music.
On top of a hill in Indian valley, a moment of freedom –
the air and I, we hold hands.
The wind and I, we run along picking daisies off their stems
until only the unwanted ones are left standing.
In the middle of a crowd in Golden Gate Park, waiting for the band to appear onstage;
I don’t know his name or hers, but they are very close to me.
Sitting here, on my bed,
flipping pages and pages as books progress;
if only my own storyline were half as intriguing.  
Way up here in the air, this plane’s motion makes me tremble.
Occasionally I am distracted by the beauty of what’s outside the tiny window,
and the feeling of omnipresence I attain pushes past my anxiety;
the world is below me and I am defying its weight.
In precalculus class, I reach a strange state of tranquility;
I can finally revert to the robotic motion of pencil and calculator,
a momentary lapse from the stress of the day, and the world.
All in all and end in end,
poems are poems but it mostly depends,
everything is contingent,
and it’s all ambiguous of course.
That may be description of the world – or rather, one of myself.
 Jan 2015 Summer Lee
JL
"I wouldn't say I'm happy," she breathes,
cigarette smoke drifting from her fingertips
and diffusing into her tousled, coffee-brown hair.
"But I'm not sad either, no--not exactly.
I feel very...empty. Yes, very much indeed."

We sit together at a small table
at a corner cafe
separated, but somehow a part of
the busyness of the city street.

As we sip our teas,
we watch the cars, people, pets
materialize, flicker, and disappear--
she, with a heavy, languid weariness
that peeks out underneath
her black eyeliner and dark eye circles;
and me, as if
I am looking behind a glass screen.

She laughs softly, bitterly.
Blows out more smoke.
Sips more tea.

I stare at the condensation forming
on the inside of my cup,
see the droplets accumulate only to fall
down again into my sea of tea.

"You see, life moves in circles."
With her cigarette, she outlines a rough circle in midair,
producing swirling trails of smoke that solidify,
then diffuse into nothingness.
"Infinite, never-ending cycles that take you
right back to the starting point.
It's happened always,
now, in the past, and
will continue to happen.
And it's an unstoppable force
that of which we have little influence upon.

"But no, cycles are necessary.
They are there in nature, and naturally
also exist in society."

She pauses.

"But there is an unspoken pointlessness
to this cycle of life."

She stops talking and so we drink our teas
together,
silently.
 Jan 2015 Summer Lee
Mara W Kayh
But When I said I needed
an ******* on my side
It was in the city of Angels
Where pit bulls are sported like
handbags
And ******* make you money
'cause they rip to shreds
Whatever stands in your way.
I didn't mean
Here
In  Paradise
Where my dream
Lays dead at my feet.
And there's nothing left to fight for.
Please
Don't fight me here.
Because with your ******* ways
On more than one beautiful day,
All you've done
is fought your way
Right out of
my heart.
 Jan 2015 Summer Lee
young poet
Swiping black lipstick across pale lips
Like ink across parchment
A black beacon
In a milky white sea

A subtle act of defiance
On an obedient child
 Jan 2015 Summer Lee
Chase Gagnon
After your death
I'm rummaging through the drawers
for your bottle of Vicodin
hoping your ghost
isn't watching.

Why can I never stay clean?
Is it because I'm weak?
I see myself like your husband
in 20 years
a tired young drunk
sick of feeling old,
who died before his grandchildren
were even born.

I hear footsteps in the kitchen
and wonder if it's you
hiding them from me —
but I hear lots of things
when the floor beneath me
crumbles
and I'm left dangling
from my barbed sanity
with ****** hands.

I swore I'd keep it locked away,
this heirloom of addiction,
but right now I need to hold it
and feel it
because I miss you
and I'm not strong enough to accept the fact
that you're gone
just yet.

So far this is the only moment
I've told myself you're not here,
when I find and swallow the last
three pills
that couldn't stop your pain,
then wash them down with gin
that wasn't enough
to stop mine.
 Jan 2015 Summer Lee
Yasmin H
I wish I wrote you
the way I felt
you, skin bruised and
unforgiving,
teeth stained with
old lipstick and cigarette smoke, your
eyes barely closing when you try to
sleep. I wish I wrote you the
way I felt you, all sharp
breaths and whimpers, nails dug deep
under my skin.
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