Henry Koskoff Jul 10
Crimson curtains opening and closing and draping over a cliff say:
          it’s showtime
          (or lights going on and off).

Let’s go through the alphabet and use alliteration:
          Daffy Duck, Porky Pig,
          (or other creatures getting hurt tonight).

I hope and dream that their hopes and dreams have plummeted like their bodies:
          by the wayside
          (or waist-side, or waste-side, or cliffside)—

low tide that surges shores like the seamstress from New Zealand:
          those Kiwis,
          (or feijoas, or passionfruit).

But passion don’t matter to us folks, and neither do kangaroos! We have our own hops:
          Pabst Blue Ribbon draining in sad funnels
          (or Bud Light, a treasure).

Second is the best, but Third is the one with that treasure chest in his stupid palm:
          not even knowing what to do
          (or how to act).

Are you serious, bro? It’s called a shotgun! Shoot it with my key:
          pop the cap to release pent-up pressure
          (or you can just chug normally).

Choo-choo trains chug, Thomas and me, little plastic wheels in hot pursuit:
          I know you can do it
          (or my name’s not Percy),

as I violently consume swizzle sticks before the sepia glow of:
          That’s all, folks!
          (Or is it?)
Eamon Morris Jul 6
I told him a bedtime story tonight
stood over him as he thrashed
mad in the throes of far away passion
                  wild in the warm embrace of jack and coke
he needed a happy story
so I told him one
about two beautiful princes
who fell in love
and saved the world
                                 what were their names?  
I told him their names
and he fell asleep, lost in dreams of a world
where two princes in love
would be a completely normal thing
AJ Jul 1
We were indefinite

We were habits
built and snapped
promises made and snuffed

We were village idiots
nocturnal cretins running
stop signs and red lights
and bounding a hundred miles an hour
down empty highways
at three o’clock in the morning

chattering and chortling
and secretly feeling
at each other’s hearts

trying to hoodwink the universe
into believing
even for a moment

that we were more
than just a flock of sleepless kids
searching for unattainable
Hailey Piper Jun 19
Nostalgic for a life I never lived.
These False memories keep me sane.
A rapturous child with so much potential.
I want to be small again.
Hailey Piper Jun 17
The smell of stale smoke lingers through our hair,
A staunch like presence,
but never fully there.
Yellow stained fingers,
and blood soaked knuckles..

hammy-downs that don’t fit quite right,   awake critiquing ourselves late at night.
Hoping and preying not to become what we’re destined to be.

Drifting through the slums,
Seeking some kind of pleasure.
Friends and family succumbing to ice,
Melbourne’s national treasure.

Young souls corrupted,
so much potential forsaken.
One hit,
And it’s total annihilation.

i skip classes until 12 PM to lay in my bed, watch gossip girl, and eat chocolate chip cookies. i like to go to punk rock shows in basements and headbang until my neck starts to ache. i like taking occasional breaks from contemplating my life to dip out to my neighbor's backyard to smoke cigs and talk politics. i really wish that people gave a shit about the seattle mariners. i wanna be a play-by-play radio announcer for the seattle mariners. my counselor tells me that i'm unbelievably driven for someone who's failing 3 out of 4 classes. black is my favorite color.

i like conspiracy theories and pretending that i'm in an alternate universe where the most remote islands on earth are easily accessible for whenever i wanna get the fuck out of this place. i wish i was a visual artist because words emotionally drain me. i'm not what anybody wants. i wear hawaiian shirts that are 4 sizes too big for me with cutoff levi's and red lipstick. i still want to drop out of high school. i have a crush on someone new every week. i cry a lot but i'm the happiest girl on the west coast. i need to get my shit together.
16 y/o me. feels like a lifetime ago.
Paula Jun 3
Atypical that’s what I think of myself  but no one cares, their lives go on indefinitely
Because who knows what life has to offer, what is life, my teenage eyes are blinded and can't comprehend or understand such complex questions.
Caring for none than thyself. Those words are mentioned to me, every time I attempt to say or do anything for my family.
Despite all the people and a family that accompany us, we still feel unheard and unloved.
Existentialism is a cruel thing. I’m not ready, not ready for my comptent of existence.
Fear and terror are instilled in my heart, a fear of what the future has to bring.
Growth. I see my own growth and germination and I feel lost
Have I learned enough? Will I survive in this enhanced world? Has my heart grown enough?
I miss my innocence. Innocence was bliss. A wonderful and unexpected bliss. It was protection, protection from the world that I now have to face.
Joy is not something as easy to feel as it had been, joy was underestimated by me. Joy is not underrated
Keen to survive and lay my roots down. Keen to believe in goodness and love.
Lost, that's what I am, lost in a sea of people
Maltreatment is not something that is inflicted by others, it's something that one can inflict on thyself. Maltreatment is disdain that runs deeper than any blade
Nostalgia is overwhelming but it's something that I feel most of the days
Oppression clouds my thoughts and feeling, as I try to find the light that is my voice.
People pass by and can't hear or see me. I am being ignored by people who know who they are.
Quivering, my hands are still quivering from all the pain and memories.
Realizing that hope is for fools.
Shoving my feeling inside
Trying to grasp on reality
Understanding that my existence is not known.
Victory will be one of those words unheard for me.
Wilting and withering. I am slowly wilting and withering into the ground.
X-rays won’t fix me as I go down this path of disdain
Years will pass and I still can't comprehend why I am here.
Zippering up and hunkering down.
Mari May 8
as you came crumpling down the stairs with your shopping bag and
a dog bed and your t-shirt tucked into your tracksuit bottoms,
pulled halfway up one of your legs, looking homeless
having drank too much again. Oh yesterday

hurts everywhere but it's too soon
to say exactly what
the full extent of the damage is. Until
the music stops: it was you.

I spilled the gin on the laptop.

               dancing again,

my head on your knee.    Would the laptop still have


if it had have been Coke? Or just the tonic? Or
if she hadn’t have been filming.  

Soporific. Not exactly. I awake from the anaesthetic
feeling fixed in a way like I never needed it.

          The graze was always there. Since I was 13 years old, my friends

my friends laughed to a different track 2 me, chatted
on MSN * insert emoji *, watched Father Ted, German classes. Holly

watched Father Ted.

I watched the L Word. Alone, moth-like. My life
is nothing like Vancouver, LA, whatever,
and all I aspire to is finding a lover
who can swear
                           like Bette Porter.

I'm a little bit Tina: passive. Take me-

if I'm ever a mother I'll teach
my babe how
to ask for                                   the moon.

Tangerine tobacco smog sounds beautiful- I
exhale and the sky clears:

beneath, I lie, tobacco tongue tangy dragging the taste of him along
the roof of my mouth; last night,
I sang.

The reality drips down the windows, sour as a dairy. Turning I

scrape the scent                    nose down
                 I follow
                                       hundreds of ants,
I kneel before

all my gold
lined up against the wall.           Bright
graffit-ed relief.

        sweat is exactly like what it sounds and
I smell grey like chewing gum hiding under the table.
My phone flashes AND AND AND because it's
always silent. Not even tea -
or the tangerine yoghurt
sweating on the desk - can save me. You kissed no one
you love last night.
Recently written about sometime 10 years ago and before that. But it's all the same if I'm thinking about it now. Who says time is linear huh.
It starts small.
It always the first step you take up the stairs.
And the kid sitting on the guide rail, the little girl says it-
¨What am I doing wrong?¨
The winding staircase stares you down saying,
¨C'mon just a little farther¨
And you're young and you're stupid, so you do.
Then it isn't just one kid, it's 20, 30, 50-
And theyŕe all saying different things.
And they're all begging you to turn back.
But you're young and stupid so you keep going
This time she's in middle school
And she’s talking to the air, and every word hurts
She lies like a rug
She self pities, and walks towards highways, and writes goodbyes on notebook paper
And you keep walking
You don't even know what's at the top of the tower- but you keep going anyways.
Suddenly she's older. Smarter. Quieter.
Every word still hurts, but she´ll trust anyone with a smile.
And then she's crying, and venting her frustrations
And the kid is pulling her sleeve and screaming and she is too
The girl is alone again.
She looks in door after door. Some just lead to brick walls.
She opens one and smiles, and disappears inside it.
You keep going.
Now she walks up with a shadow.
Another shadow comes to her side, and holds her hand.
The first shadow turns and says something to the girl.
The girl starts breaking.
Now she’s reaching, crying, desperate, drowning.
The shadow disappears.
You step up to her. Shes holding a bottle, and she’s had enough.
The highway becomes the bottle, and shes a blindfolded pedestrian.
¨We have to keep going.¨
The shadow isn´t just one but several.
¨You have to keep going.¨
Levi Bradford Apr 20
Once, in seventh grade,
I took a class in a portable
that had a bathroom built in.

I sat behind a girl
with brown hair
that always smelled like dryer sheets.

When she would write,
her shoulder blades would
glide under her cardigan

as if the wind of grace
was making waves
on the skin of her back.

When she stood up
her eyes moves to mine--
the only mobile dots on a freckled complexion.

She walked behind me
into the bathroom
and I listened to her shit
while the teacher explained
that X isn't always greater than Y.
I forgot most of my childhood and my developing years. I have a pretty bad memory. This was an attempt at remembering the tipping point when I recognized the grey in a world that used to be black and white, the glorious impurity about things I originally thought were perfect, and the subjectivity of math.
Next page