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EEVEE Jun 15
If I Am Detective
I Musts Also Beez
And together become
Emma Ottinger Apr 2018
When it seems all the world wants to sell me on painkillers, you face the troubled of all sorts with a scalpel and a wink. Even when those stitches holding your own spitshined heart together are looking a little iffy.

Since childhood, we’ve floundered like fish out of water both longing for the sea, but with age, I think that you and I have come to view the ocean in very different ways.

What I see as an adventure, you’ve always seen as home.

The sea could never quite mystify someone who’s strived to be more siren than human. No, unlike the flower from which you were named, your real garden patch is present with the planets.

You make me want to be as stalwart as Stonewall, and save my wishing well quarters for the pigs who tried to suss out every non-straight playing broad through her suit clothes, so that on the days where the face of my best friend's assaulter bears down like the man in the moon, she’ll preserve her beautiful, blessed hands by halting her fist before it can hit any wall.

Apparently, you’ve been learning Russian on a whim since age eleven. You love tattoos and art in it's sometimes most tantric forms. The firm and sometimes too-firm handshake between aesthetic and soul, and what, дорогая сестра, is more human than that?

And you called yourself cynical.
Yet when the life of a honeybee means so much in your hands, I can’t understand how you tried to scorn the weight of the world. You found beauty in banana slugs, and I have to believe you do not know your own self.

Seeing you make sense of other people, I now believe that mermaids are incredibly self-conscious, so when we asail our Somali plundered doubloons, blood diamonds, pearls of tortured oysters, and other ill-gotten goods back into the sea, may we feel we’ve done our duty when they see their own reflections for the first time and become narcissists.

Because of you, I tried for the first time to love myself, because like it or not, this is what I’ve got. What we’ve got. The most detached tag team duo the world’s never seen.

But on the day that I finally throw the dragon’s den fortune of our mother back into the mariana trench from which she and the sessions family came, I’ll think back to the time where she said that, as siblings, we’d grow up to be best friends. But let’s face it, we have both lost a lot of best friends, though you are the only one of all those come and gone who’s yet to steer me wrong. Okay, that’s a fat lie, because for a second of my life you convinced me to believe that you are cynical.

Comparing your stride to the rest of the world’s, I will never again judge somebody for the way they walk. Even if they have to drag themselves, kicking and screaming from point A to point B, the last thing a person needs is another stranger stepping on their lifeline.

I hear of everything you're doing, day in and day out, think of all the times this world’s nearly lost you, and I remember the statue in our neighbor’s front lawn. A little girl-an angel- with butterflies landing atop her precious hands. Then I realized that to be an angel statue means you can never reach out for more, and suddenly, I know why you always preferred cyborgs.
With a long overdue dedication to my sister, Lily.
Abigail Shaw Oct 2015
Some micro poems about antiheroes.

I give my best friends black eyes,
I wont lye,
Some of it's their blood,
Some of it's mine,
But I cant talk about the first rule.

Tick tok,
Whirring cogs and grinding gears,
Going after low hanging fruit,
While we're,
Singing in the rain.

Returning video tapes,
Often leads to Huey Lewis and the news,
Raincoat, reservation, rat, rage,
I escape through blood lust and *******,
But this is not an exit.
See if you can guess all three
brixton bell Jul 2015
you are all that matters.
i dream of dark roads, leaving here- this place.
though i've grown accustomed.
another world
we are
the heroes.

Eleanor K Mar 2015
by Wendell Berry

You will be walking some night
in the comfortable dark of your yard
and suddenly a great light will shine
round about you, and behind you
will be a wall you never saw before.
It will be clear to you suddenly
that you were about to escape,
and that you are guilty: you misread
the complex instructions, you are not
a member, you lost your card
or never had one. And you will know
that they have been there all along,
their eyes on your letters and books,
their hands in your pockets,
their ears wired to your bed.
Though you have done nothing shameful,
they will want you to be ashamed.
They will want you to kneel and weep
and say you should have been like them.
And once you say you are ashamed,
reading the page they hold out to you,
then such light as you have made
in your history will leave you.
They will no longer need to pursue you.
You will pursue them, begging forgiveness.
They will not forgive you.
There is no power against them.
It is only candor that is aloof from them,
only an inward clarity, unashamed,
that they cannot reach. Be ready.
When their light has picked you out
and their questions are asked, say to them:
"I am not ashamed." A sure horizon
will come around you. The heron will begin
his evening flight from the hilltop.
One of my favorite poems, but I did not see it on here!
ryn Nov 2014
Forget chivalry
Forget familiar nicety
Best tread carefully
I'm not my usual me

I'll not be the hero... Doing good
Simply because I'm in no mood
I'll go about my business
Steer clear, don't be careless

No sweet chirping of birds
Only sarcasm laden words
I'll wear no smile... Only smirks
Behind which may hold sharpened dirks

Don't waltz into my space
Like you know your place
Don't think I won't lash
Don't think I won't be brash

No 'Mister Niceguy'
Just let this day go by
With no alarms, no surprises
No incidents, no clashes

I might be back tomorrow
But today you must know
As I lace my steeltoed boot
Today I don my antihero suit
Matthew Rodarte Jul 2014
Step by step ,
my sword feels heavier,
the rain a billowing distraction,
your face in my thoughts,
a crime I always tend to commit,
instrumental skill is needed,
my wits stay sharp,
a forest full of noise,
my presence is known,
seven pairs of eyes watch,
my steps and actions,
the silent face,
before death,
I kneel to slow my motion,
eyes closed,
the rain falls,
eyes open,
they appear,
seven deadly distractions,
I move fast with intensity,
ten slashes,
bodies fall,
I stand breathing alone,
my motion ceases,
the rain washes the blood,
each **** an expression of you,
your eyes my true weakness,
you may never know this,
my sword is drawn back,
the stroll resumes,
you sleep silently,
the rain falls harder,
my heart follows in parallel….
Frank Ruland Apr 2014
Well, the streets are cold and the going is tough
But it’s the people that really make it rough
A gun to my temple, a knife in my ribs and teeth at my throat
God Almighty, what is wrong with these folks
It seems like I must… assimilate, if there’s to be any hope
It seems like I’m ****** if I do, and dead if I don’t!

I’m an outcast? Outlaw? I’m just out of time
There’s not much I haven’t seen in this life of mine:
Good men turned godless heathens,
Innocent children now guilty and seething
It seems as if I must… cooperate, if there’s to be any hope
It seems like I’m ****** if I do, and dead if I don’t!

Minds long since abandoned, lost to drugs and violence
Voices long since silenced, surrendered to blissful ignorance
In this neighborhood, there are no heroes to save the day
In this neighborhood, life comes with a hefty price to pay
It seems as if I must… acclimate, if there’s to be any hope
It seems like I’m ****** if I do, and dead if I don’t!

These wicked, wild winds that seed the streets with sin,
They howl as they carve into weaker wills, bone and skin
To people here, scars are just the same as collars
They do the math and are outnumbered by the horrors
It seems as if I must… calculate, if there’s to be any hope
It seems like they’re ****** if I do, and dead if I don’t.

Well, I never wanted to again brandish gun and knife
I never again wanted to go and relive the life
But it seems as if they want to test my nerves
That’s fine, because pigs get what pigs deserve
It seem as if I must… decimate, if there’s to be any hope
It seems as if these swine have reached the end of the road.

A smoking gun and pools of red
A quiet stead with rows of dead
No more demons to stalk this place
Only ghosts who’ve been disgraced
It seems as if I must… abdicate, if there’s to be any hope
For those who remain to rebuild their home.

— The End —