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Delta Swingline Apr 2017
~April 6th, 2017~

Dear Yesterday,

Right now the panic is setting in to your body like the third wave of infection we didn't write poetry about. And let me tell you, the anxiety and stress with everything will subside throughout the flight.

Not a normal feeling of excitement or anything , but you feel the joy eventually. But for now, take my advice and relax a bit. Don't worry too much about what will happen once you get there.

Leave life in it's upside-down, unpredictable state. Give up some control.

I mean, I've forgotten what it's like to be above clouds. It seems so close to high haven and yet...

Still a long drop down.

And sure, I'm not really scared of falling from here. Just my thanatophobic tendencies. But in all honesty, I think I'm gonna be more scared of the people on this trip then the actual trip.

Only because of things like first impressions and my personal friend group staying together.

I can only hope that nothing goes wrong for us. And honestly, probably nothing will.

Optimism right?
I flew from one day to the next, and this wasn't even the 6 hour flight I would endure later...
Danika Apr 2017
this night isn’t over
grab my hand
and my heart
4/17/17
lonleyflowerx Apr 2017
you
i want to write about how your touch fit perfectly on parts of my body where others hands have never seem to fit before
i want to write about movie dates and sunsets and how i started wearing my old band tshirts again
i want to write about sober nights and sober mornings, and the feeling of waking up next to someone holding me again
i want to write about how I've spent so much time writing about him but i don't want to anymore
i want to write about happiness

i want to write about you
Breeze-Mist Mar 2017
So this, readers and friends
Is where it began
I don't know where it ends
But let's look back again

A fourteen year old is writing
In a hospital room
Far her right in bright lighting
Is great-grandma, who'll die soon

She has few memories of her
As she wonders about home
Nonni keeps asking mother
Not to leave the girls alone

Now we're back in the hospital
On some Pennsylvanian hill
Thirty five family members in total
Nonni's more than ill

Christmas day, and we're at a friend's house
When we hear that final call
A week later, I'm at a funeral, sounding like a mouse
For someone I nearly didn't know at all

Looking back, that was the start
Of most of my questions
On society, religion, art
What the rules really ment

I found a taste for the books
That mom didn't like
I expanded my looks
Gained interest in the night

I started growing apart
From those I once knew
With secrets in my heart
My friends were my closest few

I learned more about a family
That I once thought typical
And (mostly) solved my belifs
On the meaning of "it all"

I look back on the before
As though regarding a cat
It's cute innocence I adore
I find it hard to believe I was that

I still have that Christmas blanket
A snow leopard, her last gift
For a woman I saw maybe four or five times, it
Still has a nice warmth to it

So sometimes I dream of a mint hospital wall
And think back to the start of it all
Nonni died at the age of 93. She spent her retirement going down to the seinor center six days a week to play cards and chasing after my telatives, trying to get them to take home more food.
KB Mar 2017
-iced coffees and knife tattoos couldn't justify the broken glass glinting off your back, so water down the orange sadness in your grey eyes and start pulling apart the summer nights' convenient secrets
- the gas station 6 minutes from home can teach you a thing or two about energy and mileage but no matter how far you go, the moon will always being its stars along to remind you of brand new ideas and bright eyes; don't blink or you'll miss a gunning thought
- with the loose thread on your hat's embroidery, stitch together 24 dandelions and swallow the ink that runs from the moments that you put you on a golden high; speeding down the highway on the road to a fresh, green burst of adrenaline on the coast is one that turned into silver
- your walk to the white laundromat down the street required a soft cold slurpee that would quench more than just your summer vibe but you picked up a medium iced hazelnut coffee instead and called it 'starting over' so your best friend would be proud of the way you handle new beginnings and stale cookies
Buddy T Mar 2017
with a bang
you begin
faster and faster
growing faster than we can comprehend
how can that be
nothing into everything
a marble to infinity

let me stay
no let me leave
I want to know
but the dark will only grow
the more I can see

we can't leave
this small patch
it seems internal almost
almost is never always

long after he has past
she will fade
they will reign
nothing but darkness

he'll eat till he eats himself
and dark will reign
a cold world
at the end
always is never almost

can we live
till
the
end
Renae Feb 2017
I shiver with the thought of him,... rushing through my mind. It feels like a cool breeze on my skin, making my arm hairs stand on end, sending chills down my spine. Just the thought of kissing him, our arms wrapped around each other with fingers tracing outlines, his breath on my neck... I could stay this way forever, he knows what he's doing to me. This is only the beginning.... how I hope it stays this way. One day everyday, you might be thinking maybe after awhile it won't be as exciting as it is today....or maybe just maybe we'll make it stay this way.
Like a fine wine, love only gets better with time.
Lucas Kyle Feb 2017
THE DEAD LAND

Awaken, my child.

Walk with me down this path.
This muddy path.
See yonder the splendid colors which fill the evening sky.
On your right are open plains, where horses gallop and children play.
On your left, laughter and music echo from afar.
Behind that smile, you always realize the grim reality that lies down the road.
Everyday you have awakened, as you have now, and walked this same path.
But you carry on.

Dusk turns to night. All that was light is now consumed by the darkness.
Enveloped by the fear, you know turning back leads to that blissful illusion.
But that is not your path.
It is not your bliss to partake in.
You carry on.

Alone you walk, fearing not the darkness, but the trials which lurk within.
Time and time again you have faced the darkness.
Time and time again you have cursed its name, wishing for your trial to end
Regardless of victory
Regardless of death.

You know morning will come once again.
Light will destroy the darkness and comfort demolish your fear.
Until night can no longer sing his song.

You have become the terrors of the night.

But for now, You carry on.

Into the Dead Land.

Awaken, My child.
Ink Feb 2017
Within the lonely tunnels of the underground
lurk soft honeysuckle smiles.
These young hopefuls are surrounded by darkness
but in each one, there is a hidden light.

For some, this light is an idea.
For others, a burning passion waiting to be exploited.
But for a select few, this light is their whole self
- their being is a treasure yet to be released into the world.

He is the first light that shone so wildly,
I could see it even from within his mind.
He is dipped in talent and purity,
unseen in the higher, filthier realm.

One day, these hopefuls will surface from the underground.
And he will be the first spark of this fire
that illuminates our hopeless world
with the eternal flame of art.

As my Bright Hopeful shines above
I will remain in the dark underground
where my light has long since dimmed out.
And i will wonder if he remembers the match that lit him.
I know a boy who will be so big one day. He is not any more special than you and I, but the sum of his parts make him extraordinary. He is a gift that the world must open.

We are both underground artists waiting for our chance to shine.

I feel as if my chance will pass me by, and my light will die out. So before then, I'm using my light as a match to start his fire. If a lit candle touches the tip of an unlit candle, its legacy will live on. I am doing just that. I hope to touch to keep his fire burning long enough for him to see the day where his chance will come.

I just hope when he makes it big, he remembers how I started this fire within him instead of focusing on how to make that fire bigger.

Your roots are more important than your branches. If you forget your humble beginning, you'll get too caught up in the end of it all. I hope he doesn't make that mistake.
Cíara McNamara Feb 2017
Swipe left, swipe right
Swipe left again.
The familiar heart shape of a match pings a new life into the shimmering screen.

As I press letters into my keypad,
Forming words that my friends and I have constructed
As if the words on the buzzing screen
Were a fine art only we had mastered.

And that was how our story began
Swipes, typing, buzz.
Laughter and scrutiny from my friends and I to your reply.
Adds, follows, likes...

Then the little read icon
Had been left idle and blue for days,
No double text, or vaguely targeted picture could tempt him.

Then back again,
Swipe left, swipe right...
Followed by more typing and blue ticks.
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