Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apple juice Feb 2020
It’s time to let go
So why can’t I do so?
You’re bad for me
So why do I want you so badly..
Time and time again
You’re in my head
Why can’t I accept the fact that you’re dead
Long gone wasted time
What I would do to go back and rewind
All the times I ******* up your life.
Written what seems like so long ago in last April written towards someone I used to call my home accepting the fact that you were never coming back.
Heavy Hearted Feb 2020
Look like the flower but be the serpent beneath
Teach for the hour but speak only for minuets
Love for the passion but **** for the pride
Climb for the high, screaming never enough
Remember the happiness
And weep, when you feel its echo.

A unique love owns
Both me and my Father (and brother)
As it's special home's
Found within one another.
So be what you are. Dare and think and move free
But humor always
the lover
your dad raised you to be.
Sorry
Cynthia Jean Feb 2020
Character
is developed
in the tough times
when you're
not
getting your way
but
you keep on doing
the right thing.

Cynthia Jean

copyright 2.8.2020
Sam Tate Feb 2020
Jack wakes up in a panic, he’s manic.

He convulses on the bed,

His arms swinging in defensive manoeuvres,

Struggling against violent illusions in the night.



He’s tired, exhausted.

The nightmares had come again

And laid their cold grip on his skin

And now he has to begin again to forget.

His bed’s soaked in sweat,

His head’s pounding and drowning in the sounds he feels surrounding him.  

But there’s only silence.



He shakes his head

And tries to dispel the blaring sirens

And the flashing in the back of his eyes  

But the light and sound won’t quit.

He reaches for the tabletop to his side

And grabs a bottle empty of a bottle top  

And downs it.

The sharp taste of cheap whisky

Burns his throat and helps to dull the conflict in his head. If only for a moment.



Taking a look around  

He notices

He’s naked.  

The clothes he slept in

Were swept off in the night

And thrown to the side.

His white skin is bruised and ******

Marked by the copper claws  

Of the nightmare spawn  

Trying to break through his form

And escape.

But the dead skin and red rings around his fingers tell a different story  

Of blood and gore  

But not from the paranormal  

But more of an internal war.



See, Jack’s not sure what’s real.

He can’t quite distinguish the line between fiction and fact.  

He sees it every morning like a crack running down his mirror separating his heart from his head.  

But when he reaches out and tries to touch it  

The green slithers of reflection withhold any consolation.  

The jagged glass pierces his skin  

And he bleeds.



He bleeds the way his mum used to sing whilst she rocked him to sleep.



He bleeds the ink from the love letters he wrote to the girl who he gave his first kiss.



He bleeds the tears that gushed from his eyes when she gave his first kiss away with a laugh.



You can see it, dripping down his palms

And painting the floor  

In a mosaic of blood.

Each panel a Scarlett red petal  

Coming together to form  

A twisting flower

Sprouting out from the ground and wrapping its vines around his legs,

Trapping him in this  

Labyrinth.



His head’s not right.

There’s something twisted in the cables

That’s left him unable to think.

He can’t see the world like everyone else;

In his head, it’s a game

But the pieces don’t match up

And the board is aflame

And it doesn’t ******* matter

Cause everyone’s cheating anyway.



So, there he stands,

In front of the mirror,

With the ground creeping up his legs

And slowly dragging him down.

His weight teetering  

On the line of intrusive light  

Refracting off the silver glass

And turning the cuts and scars into gold.

Around him,

Flowers are bursting out of the floor

And cradling every inch of his skin

In a massacre of colours.

For a second, his body tenses,

And then relaxes into the aroma of Spring.

He glances back towards the mirror

And can no longer see himself.

He has been encompassed in a coffin of life.
Elisabeth Meyer Feb 2020
I have the feeling
Of not knowing how to express
Any of what’s going on

But do I even know what I feel?

I have the feeling
Of letting go some big chunks
all of them belonging to the past

But can I even be sure they are gone for good?

I have the feeling
Of complete numbness at times
Completely overwhelmed by all and nothing

But isn’t numbness a feeling too?

I have the feeling
Of new things approaching me
In the sense of change in character

But does that mean this is who I want to be?
Two eyes and yet unable to see.
Two ears and  yet unable to listen.
Admitting mistakes is never easy.
Contrition is not the human condition.
To see the world as it is takes great thought,
determination,  patience and passion.
Learning through defeat in our battles fought,
etches deep knowledge in our life’s mission.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Jan 2020
MEMORIES OF MATTHEW MONREAL
AND GEORGE W. BUSH

It was election day. For some reason,
I had to leave class. I walked alone down
the hallway, then up the large staircase,
and as I was about halfway up, around
the bend came Matthew Monreal, him-
self alone. We paused on the stairway.
I said, “Matthew, how are you? Have you
voted today?” I was running to be president
of the sophomore class. I knew Matthew
from Roosevelt Jr. High. He was, I think,
the only Hispanic in school there. My
recollection was that he had few friends
at Roosevelt;  he was essentially ostra-
cized by his fellow classmates, especial-
ly the ones in the know, the ones who were
white, the ones who were upper-middle
class. But Matthew was my friend;  he
had always been my friend. It was not
lost on me how others treated him.
Throughout all my schooling--from grade
school through college--I had always
felt that way. I was ashamed of my fellow
classmates who treated anybody that way.
Matthew and I chatted for a few more
minutes, then bid each other a good after-
noon. I had other friends like Matthew,
essentially social outcasts because they
happened to be Black, or poor, or not
very bright, or different looking in some
peculiar way. But these, too, were my friends.
It was early fall, 1959. The next year, my father
would send me to Andover. But that evening
at an all-school function held in the cafeteria, I
found out I had been elected president of the
sophomore class at Topeka High School by
more than 800 fellow classmates. I think
Matthew had voted, and I think he probably
had voted for me.

George W. Bush and I were schoolmates at
Andover. George was two years behind me. I
never met him, I never knew him. George
should never have been at Andover because
he wasn’t very smart. He was a poor student
at Andover. But legacy raised its ugly head.
Papa Bush, who had also attended Andover,
and who became head of the CIA with
Noriega secretly on his payroll, then VP
under Reagan, then president of our country,
was George’s dad. And George’s granddad,
Prescott, was serving on Yale’s Board of Trustees
when George applied to Yale, so George got
in. George was a C student at Yale. But that
did not keep him from being accepted by Har-
vard Business School, where George continued
to be a C student. It’s common knowledge how
George and his henchman, Cheney, lied to the
American people about Iraq having weapons of
mass destruction, which meant we had a brutal
war with Iraq, not to mention Afghanistan, for years
and years and years, instead of never.

Of the two, I prefer Matthew.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet and human-rights advocate for his entire adult life. He recently
finished his first novel, A CHILD FOR AMARANTH.
Carlo C Gomez Jan 2020
Why so inquisitive little guy?
You threw your own feces at Miley Cyrus.
Ate a whole bar of soap.
Even carried Ebola virus.

While nosing around you got
zapped by a high voltage fence.
Stole a bunch of bananas from the dollar store.
But got probation cause it was your first offense.

You once smoked a pack of cigarettes
with Salvador Dali.
Then twice stated he spoke English
like a dumb tamale.

You ran your rental car off a cliff
in Malibu just for kicks.
Bought a case of Gorilla glue just to sniff.

Hanging out with Maury Povich
you copped a feel on Connie Chung.
Spent a complete summer strung out
in North Korea with Kim Jong-un.

You got caught peeking through the hole
in the wall of the girls' locker room.
Pleaded no contest when
the monkey business hit the courtroom.
Then told all in your sorted
memoirs, nom de plume.

You're a lazy obstinate chimp
who's too curious for his own good.
I'd say a future trip to the vet to get neutered
is a sure likelihood.
Next page