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Filomena Feb 27
There's an addict in the attic,
and a trans girl in the tub;
There's an immigrant, Hispanic,
and a criminal in love.

There's a shaman burning incense,
and a gamer taking shots;
There's our upperclass equivalent,
and a noisy group of thots.

And the lady takes our livelihood
and somehow still stays poor,
so please make sure the lights are out,
and always lock the door.
Sat. Feb. 26, 2022
One word has been censored.
Sungmoo Bae Sep 2020
The two ol' pals are facing each other.

He passes a glass of poison
to his dear guest, leaning
near the front door, slightly opened;
and he's learning the reason—

why he's standing there,
about to storm out of the stone-cold apartment—
'bout to burst in tears
shedding the vivid droplets

that shouldn't be belonging to a mere ghost.
Yet he's fleeting, escaping the scene still,
while the owner of the kitchenette
is putting back the bottle

    to where it belonged;
    and he's gone, present no longer.

The drink on the rock—left on the shelf—
is evaporating, following the vaporized guest,
leaving the scent of faint alcohol
that lulls the other friend to regretful sleep.
(C) Copyright: Saul Bae (Sungmoo Bae)

Last Revised: 21th of December, 2020.
Francesca Rose May 2020
imagine if we had a small flat
buried in the middle of the city
like i know you want
away from the sky.

living together and dancing
drinking mocktails and laughing
i want to see you happy
just once. just once.

we could have a dog or a cat, because
we'd be in a penthouse suite looking
over the rainy cityscape
up high in the thin air.

there would be dreams experienced
side by side in the night
and when you say my name
i won't miss a beat.

it's just a fantasy, a novelty
afforded by imagination
so that when i hear your voice
i see our flat in the city
and not what you wish
had said
to me.
Emmanuella Dec 2019
I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
He pecks
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!

I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
I’ve mountains
Of heaps
Over which he bounces and skips.

“Shoo! Shoo!”
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!

I haven’t been outside
In forever.
He hasn’t been outside
Since he flew in.
He must, like I do, like it here.

I read him a book.
He likes the tale;
The one of the windborne bird.
He seems not to like the one, though.
The one about the caged singing bird.

I read a book.
About sunlight
And moonlight
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.

And I’m curious.
Curious enough.
And so I set about
with him flitting here to there,
picking, unpiling, unstacking.

Most books I shove into a trunk.
Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf.
I use it mostly for things.
Many things.
And a book or two.

The window.
This solitary window.
I open.
And there’s a flutter.
He’s gone.

But when I leave the apartment,
I always come back.
I always come back because I’m tired of walking.
So, I imagine that he will come back.
Yes, he will be back,
When he’s tired of flying.
Inspired by The character Lillian in Morris Panchy’s play: 7 Stories.
Laokos Jun 2019
every summer,
dead baby birds
on the
walkway leading
to the
entrance of
my apartment

last summer there
were three, all
pinked skin, just
a few inches
from each other.

the ants
found them
first, scurried all
over them,
they could before
the cat(s) got
to them
at night.

this summer i've
only seen one,
nice and
plump with
plumage. this
it was gone
too though,
nothing but
the pile
of tree seeds
it was on

they nest there,
in the dryer
vents on
each floor.
-drawn there, I
guess, by the
and lofty protection
from predators.

thing is, they
clog the exhaust
with their nests
and people
complain about
wet clothes.


and safe from

but not safe
from one
phone call
to management.
Sean Achilleos Jan 2019
He found himself living in apartment 3
Then he moved to apartment 33
From there he travelled abroad
Only to return
Now he lives in room 7
He thought it would've been a house
Though the smallest of all
From this room 7 ... Magic flows
Up into the heavens
It reaches so far
Beyond the stars
The real stars
Not mortal beings who claim to be so
At night if you look closely
You shall observe an electric blue streak
Reaching upwards towards the sky
See to whence it leads
This line requires no phone
And shall remain uninterrupted
Until one day
He shall go to where this blue streak leadeth
Written by Sean Achilleos 19 January 2019©
Sean Achilleos' Music is available on the following platforms:
Amazon, Apple Music, iTunes, Deezer, Google Play, Pandora, Saavn, SoundCloud, Spotify, Tidal, YouTube, Jango Radio, Nicovideo (Japan), IQIYI (China) and YOUKU (China)

Sean Achilleos' Book 'An Affair with Life' is obtainable from the following platforms:
Smashwords, Amazon, Wordery, Kobo, Exclusive Books, Takealot, HelloPoetry, Loot, Overdrive, Bokus, Barnes and Noble
Kewayne Wadley Oct 2018
Her heart is an apartment.
A building I know well.
Well lit, comfortably nestled in the center of her chest.
Free from rent.
The trouble of pink slips.
Delinquent notices of insecurity.
Broken promises.
Each of our memories kept safe, behind each & every door.
A winding case of stairs.
With us the occupants of every  floor.
Tiny peep holes with welcome mats beneath the door.
It's times like this when I think how big the world really is.
The countless number of steps taken.
Helping each other unpack our bags.
On the outside of each sliding door is a patio.
The stars never seemed so close.
Long uninterrupted stares.
Peering back and forth.
Our belongings all lined up.
A dresser that holds every piece of clothing.
My arms, legs.
All slid into the thought of you.
Her heart is a apartment.
A building I know well.
She loved old things.
Her heart sterdy, each piece of mail addressed with a kiss.
The only knock heard, goes without embarrassment.
The tenants.
spend most of our time visiting ourselves.
Running up and down the stairs.
Moving in was the best decision I ever made
Bexis Sep 2018
No matter how hard you work...
No matter how much you make...
No matter how much it takes...
It is never enough.

Let me say that again!
It it never enough.
You live your whole life to make as much as possible.
No matter the cost.

Work 3 jobs, work over 60 hours a week.
Only to get a 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom apartment.
Because you have to have your own bathroom.
You have to have the best of everything.

You talk about your dream house.
Yet you can't even afford to fix up the house you live in.
Talk about how many people are going to leave you money when they die.
To talk about how rich you'll be.

Here I am.
Scraping by.
In a cheap apartment.
Barely afford to get groceries.

But you know it's no skin off my back.
I have something way better than being rich.
At least I have a place to live and a job.
I have a girlfriend who I would die for.

Some things are better than money.
I am glad I know this.
I am glad I don't run in circles for it.
Life is what you make it.

If that's what you make it about, that's okay.
I choose to believe there is more to life than that.
mismatched furniture
a few dishes in the cupboards
a couple random blankets and lamps
a pan and a mug or two in the sink
a broken clock above the fake fireplace
a fake jackalope head on the fireplace

a couple college kids' apartment
my brother and his roommate
it isn't much but it feels like home
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