lost Sunday
i travelled light
on Cemetery Rd.
at every sound
in the whistling oaks
coming after me
i was sick
but i didn't know
hushed by the fire
on the horizon
and the footsteps
at my back
on crystal snow
believe me
i was sick
i was a drunken punk
in the soy fields
sleeping giant
in a ring of salt

There's something quite poetic
In the way in which a bee dies.
Once it's stung its victim,
It's almost as though it can't take
That it has caused somebody else pain.
So it dies.
Just like that.

Sarah 6h

I never had them until now
I’m an amateur at how to interact
An experiment stuck behind transparent glass
People gawked from afar
I let them in
And they were there
I needed them
People don’t stick around for hurricanes
No matter how stunning the view
Destruction takes its toll on everyone
My friends
And me

Of course it hurts, you idiot. It was always going to hurt. It’s supposed to. That’s what the process of becoming is.  It's a painful, messy birth into something else, something better. Growing, changing, experiencing, learning, living…you can’t have it without the hurt. So hold onto that pain, kid, it means you’re still alive... and there's still a chance.

max 1d

when i have abandoned school, i will dye my hair a wild color
and pluck daisies from the ground to wear in my hair.
i will wear whatever makes me happy,
and cry over the sight of a puppy on a bad day.
i will feel a warm breeze on my cheeks,
and leave work at around six o´ clock
to make a short trek to my home, where i would be greeted
with lo-fi music and the smell of dinner cooking filling the apartment.
i will have plants all around my room, because i thought they were beautiful,
and stay up late watching the stars with my roommate,
and eating junk food that does not even taste very good and hurts my stomach,
but it was all we could afford because college has put us so far in debt.
but we will be happy anyway.

you can feel the burn on your hands from your coffee in the morning
and wear things your parents would never let you wear
or impulsively stop by a pet store and buy a new companion
and stay up until early in the morning and sleep until the afternoon
or even turn your living room into a fort and dance in the rain

but for now, i am confined to a small box of standards
and told what to say and what to do, even if i am uncomfortable.
pick up a mess i did not make, be kind to people i do not like,
pay attention to a lesson, even if i am exhausted.
for now, i must keep my weeps silent,
and my opinions more quiet than silence can hold.

but perhaps it could be useful
to start wearing daisies in my hair now
so people will not be shocked
when my cheeks are lifted high with a smile

inspired by jenny joseph's poem, 'warning.'

Found a place to rest- a rotten log within me
Brought downstream during Spring’s flood,
Now all that is is a shallow river
Rapid only when snow melts and forests momentarily forgotten
Are able to flow and feel alive,

Oh visions of self-actualization
How violent you are,
How passive I’ve become,

A beach of sand and debris beckons these bare feet
To stand and sink,
Aspirations stutter
Beget a life without success
Unmoved by opportunity
Trapped by chance
Only by sheer force of violent circumstance
Is progress met,

A rotten log within me I rest,
Watching red roll over rock struggling
So desperately to turn white it’s summer,
There is no energy to be dignified
There is no energy left to roar,
There is no true desire
To be anything more than what today has offered,
There is only wish and fallacy
False nostalgia for what was or never will be,
There is no energy to turn white with triumph,
There is no energy to be acknowledged,
There is no energy to roar,

Gently into the night the river flows

my nails keep peeling back
from fruitless attempts
at pulling myself
out of the well
i've been drowning in.
slip—six feet under
for every inch gained.

i took the plunge,
forgot my iron lungs
are wrecked with cancer.
drowning, enraptured
by rotten memories.

one moment is bliss,
next thing i know
the floor drops
like a trapdoor
beneath a gallows

and i feel the rope
bite into my throat,
tearing at my vocal cords—
a rabid wolf,
incensed by the scent
of blood and gore.

if only the highs
didn't come
with all the lows.
a rag doll
tossed about
amidst the gale,
a train that's jumped
right off the rails.

we've lost.
now there's no
going back.
we're doomed.

I'm underneath an amber twilight
(and tasteful landscaping)
flirting with nostalgic anticipation
in room 1034
yet alone and content
I should photograph my life events
or the morning dew, still wet
with evaporating trepidation
which breaks into a cold sweat
when soothed by the resolution
of the seventh, to the third, to the root of the polyphony, harmonizing to the tune
of a Scantron being scribbled on,
or my choice
to ignore
(at least until finals are over)

age of 15 combusted first greens
age of 16 stoned, no dreams
age of 17 started slangin' QP's
age of 18 got busted by police
age of 19  benzos got the best of me
age of 20 an empty shell is the rest of me.

biographical, stupid, maybe a rap verso someday

For so long I have been so strong.
I can feel my armour starting to
I miss you and yes, it does hurt.
These late nights have been getting so long.
I've waiting for the wrong people
to answer my texts
wishing it was you.
The thought of you being gone
forever has finally started setting in
and there is a fire in my lungs
because of it.
It's almost like I was sure you were
going to come back,
and you never did.

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