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Mitzi Ambrad Apr 19
I was walking down the street of rainbows and sunshines. The very street where everything seems possible and life is a fairytale.

Well, there are little rains and sometimes downpour but every chapter ends with a happy ending.

The time came that I had to step into a new world--- full of strangers, of darkness and cruelty. However, I saw it almost like a utopia. I hid the royalty in me and choose to start from scratch.

One day, I came across a stranger along a dark alley. Aloft, alone, and bringing dark clouds with him. I smiled at him but got no reply. I only saw ice and sorrow in his eyes.

I remember that time,  I was glowing with light while you were stuck in the dark pits of brokenness. I heard your cries and stories of hell and how you attempted to end it. You asked why such a fresh, innocent soul glows with much optimism.

I told you that life is the very reason to continue living. I told you there are more reasons to live: that there's beauty, there's happiness. There's love.
Written on 12 September 2016 when I was reminiscing when we first met, my old friend.
Autmn T Sep 2019
And the boys see your tears as nectar. Flocking, not seeing the cyanide flowing from your eyes, wanting to be the savior. They’ll never be the anecdote, but, after all, a savior isn’t needed, just wanted.
You won’t save me but I won’t ask you to stop trying either.
Ivana Rodriguez Mar 2019
Her face was like an auto
While being struck by an auto.
And the driver?
Well, the driver just laughed.
“Thanks god my car isn’t damaged;
I stole it yesterday night.”
I made myself laugh so much, but basically my dad always says “you look like an auto” when someone’s face is like 0_o.... yeah, it’s not that funny but **** it.

I might post another ACTUAL poem before I go to sleep.
Homunculus Feb 2019
01/31/2019

Today, I learned the true extent to which I loathe the IRS. To be fair, I've always known that I hated them. I've had plenty of legitimate reasons for this in the past. For instance, every year, they casually extort our wage and salary, pretending to allocate it for the building of bridges, roads, and schools. While in reality, the infrastructure and educational system crumble, and defense spending grows without limit.
But then again, I do suppose that in a certain sense, roads, bridges, and schools are built indirectly with these funds; but only after the funds are used to blow these institutions to smithereens in third world countries, and private corporations like Halliburton are contracted to rebuild them for egregious profits. Profits, mind you, which are shuffled to dozens of offshore shell corporations, ensuring that they are taxed at a rate exponentially lower than the profits of the average working citizen.
But today, I experienced a type of hatred entirely novel to my conceptions of what is even possible in the realm of consciousness. A loathing so intense that it paralyzed my rationality, sending me into fits of rage and bewildered astonishment that I would wish on NO ONE . . . except Cheney or Kissinger, the ******* *******. For today, for the first time in all my 28 years of life, I filed my federal income taxes. I knew that one day the chore would inevitably arise, but I still consider it an accomplishment to have made it through an entire third or more of my life without ever actually dirtying my hands with the wretched muck. All that aside, the story goes like this:
I work as an “independent contractor” for a friend who runs a small business. I perform various services around the office, and he cuts me a check at the end of the week. I've been working there “on paper” for about a year, really a bit longer, but “what they don't know...” so goes the old adage. We had, the both of us, anticipated with tempered irritation, the arrival of this bureaucratic beast of burden. However, neither of us knew that the deadline mailing date for “independent contractors” comes nary two months sooner than for payroll employees. This information was sprung on us at the very last minute by his tax attorney who, from this point on, will be referred only to as 'G.S.' (grease stain).
As I was fulfilling my duties, my friend urgently beckoned to me “STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING. TAXES ARE DUE TODAY, AND WE HAVE TO FILE THEM NOW!” Naturally, I panicked. I had seen an income tax form . . . perhaps once or twice? . . .  much less filled one out . . .  maybe once at 17 during the employment process at a fast food joint? . . . Initially, we had thought it would be a simple matter of the W-2, the likes of which had been filled out automatically for me by employers in the past as a part of the hiring phase. Nonetheless, since my status of “independent contractor” placed me into a different tax category, I had to fill out what is known as a 1099-MISC. “Simple enough!” thought I, “I'll just fill in the relevant details and get back to work.” . . . “NOT SO FAST, CASEY JONES!” screamed the form, with all its talk of “fishing boat expenses” and “crop insurance” . . . “O...K?” “and what precisely has this to do with me?” thought I.
My employer, courteous as he can sometimes be, called up (t)rusty old G.S., who referred us to a site where the form could be understood more intelligibly. After a bit of head scratching and chin stroking, we figured it out. No matter, though! Because once we figured the form out, we couldn't figure out what to DO with the ******* thing. 'G.S.' was once again consulted, and he told us that we could simply print the form, and take it to an H&R Block office for submission. “Okay, simple enough!” thought I . . . but alas! It was not to be so. When we arrived at said office, the agent . . . who looked like a burned out caricature of William H. Macy . . .  reviewed the forms, and said that to apply the deductions I had calculated, he would require a $300 fee for his services, and that I would need to fill out a “Section-C.” This lanky, rasp-voiced, twig of a man then withdrew from his cubicle, at which point, my employer whispered to me “**** that, I've done Section-C forms hundreds of times, we're ditching these crooks”
At this point, we retreated back to the office, found what we thought to be the relevant forms, but were soon swept up in a vicious monsoon of bureaucratic legalese which, although it resembled English, bore few similarities other than word spelling and grammatical form. It is sometimes alleged that Kafka was haunted by ghosts which had an insatiable appetite for stories. The legend further has it that he would write for them to quell their unyielding wrath. Those of us who have read Kafka know intimately of his satirical preoccupation with the absurdity of bureaucracy. Perhaps these stories pleased the ominous specters which loomed over him like the fluorescent light beaming down upon me as I type these words. Some things can never be known for certain. If, however, this were truly the case, then it would seem that Kafka's ghost had now taken the role of writing MY story for his own amusement. Every cliché of the DMV and social services building was present in this ghastly affair. “Fill out this form; stand in this line; oh, I'm sorry, sir. You've got the wrong form. You'll need to file a (…) and take it to (…), their hours are MwAhMwAhMwAhMwAhMwAh” This futile circumlocution went on for SIX HOURS. All the while, thoughts of a perfectly wound noose, crafted of thick hemp rope, with thirteen pristine wraps forming a slipknot to be fitted as though tailor made around my neck filled my mind, as the acute stages of benzodiazepene withdrawal began to set it. Luckily enough, or so we suspect. We figured it out, and now I have only to wait for my return to come in the mail to see what I owe.
But once I got home, I got to thinking. There is a copy of 'Infinite Jest' on my coffee table. A literary epic whose magnitude cannot possibly be overstated. I began to think deeply reverential thoughts of the author of this book, and then something clicked in my mind: on that fateful day when Wallace took his own life  by the noose, he was in the middle of writing a novel about nothing less than the 1985 Tax Code in Illinois, and a group of IRS agents. Being the adamant researcher of all topics that he was, we can hardly imagine that he did not give this terrible ******* of language what he felt to be its due diligence. Of course, any responsible thinker understands that correlation does not equal causation; but as the admittedly ironic thoughts of suicide filled my mind over the course of this afternoon and evening, I can't help but be left to wonder if a mind so vastly superior to mine as his did not experience these ideas with markedly less irony as he reveled in the vile idiosyncrasies of bureaucratic jargon. Again. Some things can never be known.
I have begun keeping a journal. Not so much for the sake of documenting my daily experience, but more so to experiment with different writing styles and, perhaps to help clarify my own thoughts. I will also continue to write poems, of course.
Homunculus Jan 2019
The temperature has been in the low single digits since the early morning hours. As I venture outside, everything is gray and lifeless. The brightest and most vibrant objects in this glum portrait of a day are the snowflakes. They dance; they flicker; they undulate, glistening midair in balletic flourishes, descending hesitantly to the ground, and then scattering back into the winds as they land. One of nature's cryptic metaphors? Perhaps, but who's to say? As my eyes take stock of the world around me, I find that I am surrounded on all sides by death and decay. Time has stripped the deciduous trees of their once vibrant autumn leaves, which have long since abandoned the branches to be raked up and wither into mulch. Juxtaposed against these, every block or so, are the evergreens, which seem at once to mock proudly their barren counterparts, and also to weep quietly in sullen isolation. The sod has become a hazy yellow which resembles straw, brittle in texture, and browning toward the roots. Within this morbid scenery, I understand that in only a few hours, I could just as easily succumb to the forces of nature which brought it about and become but another mere instance of it. A true illustration of the philosophical doctrine of sublimity. As soon as the sting of the cold makes contact with the skin, the brain kicks into survival mode. “I must escape this.” Nothing could possibly be more important. The leisure with which the homeward journey is usually pursued is completely abandoned. Only urgency remains:

        GET IN CAR
MAKE ROUNDS
STOP AT SIGN
“YOU'RE STOPPING, TOO?
        “TOO BAD; TOO SLOW;
        “TOO. *******. COLD.
        “I. GO. FIRST.

“HEATER'S NOT WORKING??!?!?!”
BANG ON DASHBOARD LIKE CHILD MID-TANTRUM
“HEATER IS WORKING?!?!?!?!”
HANDS IN FRONT OF WARM VENTS
“WINTER'S FORBIDDEN FRUIT!!!!!!!!”
“****, NOW IT'S COLD AGAIN?!?!?!
        “TURN. THE VENTS. OFF.”
“WHY EVEN HAVE A HEATER
        “IF IT ONLY WORKS FOR 30 SEC-”
WHY ARE YOU STOPPING?!?!?!
             THE ******* LIGHT IS
             GREEEEEENNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

LOOK OVER LEFT SHOULDER
“NOPE, I'LL DIE:
“NOPE, I'LL DIE:
“NOPE, I'LL DIE:
“NOPE... WAIT, THERE'S MY IN!!!!!!
“FINALLY, A STRAIGHTAWAY!!!!!!”

“THE SNOW'S NOT STICKING,
I CAN GO FASTER THAN THIS. NO COP WOULD DARE PULL ME OVER IN THIS ****...

Well, maybe a sadomasochist on some “sir, please step out of the car” type ****, but I don't see one, anyhow.”

Okay, getting closer now. Can almost feel the loving protection of the stately brick walls, the roaring furnace, the tenacious water heater. Just another mile...
Up the hill- left turn- right turn- pull up- park. “Oh boy, here we go again”
*Rigorously examine pockets and center console to be sure nothing is accidentally left behind

Car door opens
“RUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

­       I reach the door, shivering like a frightened Chihuahua, hands palsied with cold as I fumble desperately for my key and struggle in the darkness to find the lock. “Click” GOT IT!!!!!!! I turn the key and push the door, but experience resistance due to the towel placed underneath to prevent the draft from coming in. I heave with all my weight and the door budges as I violently stagger into my humble domicile. I make my way into my room to find my cats sleeping intently on my bed. One of them looks up at me like “What's your deal?” Oh, Dante, if only you knew.
I've been reading a lot of Pynchon lately. I like the sort of stream of consciousness prose he launches into sometimes, and decided to tinker with it in my daily writing practice.
Also...
I imported this from my word processor, and the HP algo ****** the entire original formatting up; so I hope you'll forgive some of the aesthetic deficiencies.
Tint Aug 2018
The dream I dreamed tonight
Was me with a cabin light
A cliff by the seaside, I watched the falling stars
The sky turned purple and I heard the singing grass
You flew to my side and together we laughed
on how silly is the night owl, to be drinking tea at night
I had a pet white tiger and a carriage made of clouds
And a set of picnic materials, I had you by myside
Was it a paradise?

The joy I felt was everlasting, I did not wish to say goodbye
We listened to invented melodies and slept to  mythical charms
of how happiness will  always stay,  how undefeated we will be
I heard you plead,  "Don't leave me",  I responded with a smile
There, I promised to fight, for you I will thrive
I am brave in a dream, I am strong in a dream
Was it paradise?

I dreamed a dream tonight
And never will I wake up
I dreamed of you tonight
I missed your little laughs

Goodbye to you my love.
Tommy Randell Mar 2017
Read again that letter from my father -

You can hear the music in it I'll bet,
Its old style singing from his lonely centre.
He asks for money, brandy on his breath,
He offers time and talks of Ireland’s history and pride,
He offers me the right to share his name.
He asks for comfort in the few years left
And thinks I might care - because he is afraid.

Read again that letter from my father -

Now he wants to have all the things he has not.
It would take some doing, he would need to make account
Of his long abandoned wife and her sons,
Her later death and us being orphaned at nine and twelve,
The school bus bullies from other father-less homes,
And being pounded and being pounded into stone
To be remade in his image, to be an absent father's sons.

Go on, read that letter from my Father -

You tell me what it says about his life,
Of living well-down the glass of his pride.
Can you see one moment of any abstract thought
Or is it the old story of the King with no clothes
Caught naked with no place to hide?
An ugly truth, no matter dressed in gold.

Should it make me sad, that letter from my Father?

It reminds me of an old tree no light can shine through,
With no birds in the branches and no rainfall can penetrate.
If you threw a stone into its branches you would hear it
Clatter like a bucket of hope down a dry well.
It reminds me of the story of The Foolish Oak
Whose roots withered as its leaves cast off the rain
And who became a dead log just standing there.
He is dead now. In reality we let him back into our lives, my brother & I though we never grew to love him. He inhabited the fringes of our family. He was harmless and every man deserves the right to prove he has changed. BUT, that cruel part of me still hurts and feels anger for a lifetime without a father and for a deserted mother who turned to drink.
Breeze-Mist May 2016
"You know, I don't think you have
The right
To be angry with me right now."

Maybe I am being irrational
Maybe I am stubborn and a little begrudging
Maybe I am silly
Hormonal
And stupid
but I have the right
*to feel whatever emotion I want to
Alex Hoffman Mar 2016
I think it’s important to make peace with your long line of perpetually confused and self-indulgent ancestry once grasping at and fumbling through a life at which they, preceding you, assumed they occupied the centre of and sought to prove this to mostly anyone, with rapacious might and puerile visions of their own success story, which no matter how successful would always only occupy the dark corners of their blood-successors’ historical records of themselves, which is to say you, adding them up with other people who were once important to them and stuffing them into some numerical equation on which they occupy the left, and you the right side of the equal-sign, but all of which exists in the vast and endless vicissitude of spinning void, of which you both (and us all) occupy some cosmic equivalence (and importance) of the universes stray skin-cell, somewhere on the foot perhaps, unconsidered and left alone until we all disappear into the casket of an unrecorded history.
Rhianecdote Nov 2015
"Loads of guys talk to Rhi"
On a day such statements and possible insinuations don't **** me off
they actually entertain me.

What do people think of me?
What do they really see?
Used to be a source of teenage paranoia
Now I'm more intrigued

It's 6 am,
After party at Mag's house!
Everyone's sleepy
Sun's coming up
Smokers coming in and out from the balcony
Sliding doors
Dawn chorus
Sat in the darkest corner
On a wicker chair
Tryin to go unseen
Feelin I look a state
Makeup has started to fade
No longer hiding me
No one in this room
Would know though
About that insecurity
Had me Avoidin mirrors
When out since the age of 15
That's a long time to not be
able to face yourself

But now this young guys facing me
I've sparked an interest you see
Half cut Johny who I shared the car journey
Back with has been spreading the word
That I do carpentry
And he's intrigued
So he's crouched down beside me
Eyes wide open,
Probing me, testing my knowledge
Rollin off his story of going off the rails
And joining the army
But how carpentry gives him some peace
I smile, I listen, I speak
Shake his hand
As he introduces himself as Steve
Asks if he's steppin on anyone's toes
Cause he believes the Dj
That's followed us back
For the after party
Is my boyfriend
Cause we were talkin
And he was stood next to me
I laugh at how fast
Assumptions are made
In the dark
It's kinda funny
He feels awkward now
Says it's nice to meet me
Leaves
Sigh of relief

Why do loads of guys talk to Rhi?
The banter most probably

Hear Dj taking the Micky
(Turns out to be his name ironically)
As he walks back in
Tryin to set up his sound system
Steve says get some Scart leads
We're cracking up
I say something off the cuff, witty
He Spuds me
I'm a "bro" after all right

What do you do?
I dance
But you was stood behind me all night!
Ha! No, just for a bit,
I was watching what you was doin

He starts telling me about beats per minute
I ask him bout the Djing
How I'm interested in doin it
We Banter about how he'd teach me
How I'd be his prodigy
I think he means it

Says we got him in trouble with the club
For changing up his set
Cause we were goin in
We were feelin it
Asks me to guess where he's from
I say You look mixed race
But I bet your Cypriot

Says he's Half Turk, half Greek
That's why things didn't work out
between Mummy and Daddy

Chuckles softly

He's a Barber during the week
Cut Rita Oras hair the other day
Shows me the tweet
He's likable, pretty sweet
Says he's glad I'm there
Cause he doesn't know anyone here
And he'd have no one to talk to
A shy dj
Looks like Drake
Kind of a giveaway
His Nose is running
I say
what have you been sniffing
Grinning teeth
Smiles and shakes his head
How can you say that
To Someone you've just met?!
You're cheeky!

Asks if I smoke or do drugs
When I reply no
He jokingly asks to marry me
I say where's the ring?
He gets out his keys
Puts it on my finger we laugh
Who knew getting a wife
would be that easy?

Calm down sunshine!
my games more stealthy


But I reiterate
"loads of guys talk to Rhi"

What do they mean?
I'm a guys girl
Always have always will be
If this night has confirmed anything
It's that
Certain females just don't warm to me
Give them a compliment
They're ******* me
Make a joke
They're ******* me
Dance by one
Accidentally knock her phone
Out her hand she sits down immediately
Face of thunder
I Say sorry,
Skulk off awkwardly
Beat myself up about it momentarily
Then get annoyed and think **** it
Head back to where I'm meant to be
Just the dance floor and me
Where I get smiles and laughs and looks
I can't quite decipher
"White gyal skanker!"
Mutter out apologies as I stand on
Some guys toes
Tells me no worries I'm a dancer

Hell I'm a flirt too!
I speak to guys cause
it's what I know how to do
It's easy conversation
It's fun
But I know that when this nights over
it's all said and done
No need to mention
I have no true intention
Of speaking to or seeing these people again
Maybe I should
Maybe that's how I'll make connections
But for now I'm tired but it's a good tired
I feel at peace
There's something wonderfully dreamy
About the after party
People slowly waking up from the make believe of the night
As they're fighting off sleep
DJ Micky making his way out the door
Shoutin back
Make sure you message me!

I won't

For now It's time to head home
I take my leave
As I exit
Wave bye to Steve

Thinkin Why is it guys talk to me?

For the same reasons anyone would really
I listen
I guess maybe I put them at ease
5/08/15

Just a little something I finished off from man shaped musings on my last night out. It was sparked off by a comment,possibly even a compliment that kept being thrown around by the older bunch of old skool ravers I had been hangin out with who didn't know me very well. The first people I've ever partied with during a time where I was probably learning a few things about myself
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