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Luna Jay 10h
Endless Highway,
Molded Hideaway.
Folded Golden Bay,
Baking in the Sun.
Friendless- my way.
Hold it; Warm Rays
Sold it- For a Rainy Day.
Faking all the Fun.
Outside Words Nov 17
Like a flame igniting an old engine
A frisk of energy sparked
Turning my rusty, frozen gears
And restoring my memories of you.
In a hidden corridor in time -
A dimension since locked away
We two share an instant -
An unobtainable, infinite moment.
Like a fog creeping in on my soul -
An ironic, melancholy nostalgia;
I dream of sunlight on canopy roads
In a place I once called home.
Trapped in a reality without you
We've since broken our promise,
Extinguishing the embers
We swore to smolder forever.
This life is a sort of purgatory -
A spiritual test and journey;
A short waiting period before
We again walk hidden corridors.
© Outside Words
David Abraham Nov 15
Flower face,
always so warmly bathed in the sun of the East Coast,
with such soft cheeks and swamp eyes,
stagnant and wet with little creatures inside.
They're talking to me,
saying things about why I love you,
or if I even do.

Little flower face,
it makes me ache
all over,
in my muscles and my bones,
when I think of your soft petals and long draping stalks.

I wanna pat the sandy earth into place around you on nights like these
when I can imagine the warm breeze
coming in through your open window despite the cold around me
delivering a freeze
to **** all the plants
and transform this world into something so different from your reality.
2237 November 14 2018
David Abraham Nov 13
You didn't really think of anyone else,
but who am I supposed to blame?
Yeah, you may not find fame,
you may not really smile,
and I know that with this
****'s only growing for us.

I can feel fire with the knot in my throat,
when he says I should not have my own thoughts and opinions,
especially not in these conditions,
cause I know you gotta escape.

Yeah, ****'s about to get so much worse,
and I am about to get so much more terse,
but it's for you so I hope this pays off.
2123 November 12 2018
David Abraham Nov 11
I can wipe away tears
and wrap my arms around a friend
to comfort him
when I am saying goodbye to someone I have known since the day I was born
but I cannot hide the turmoil so well
when I crouch on the bedroom floor
packing for him
getting ready to live without him.
2355 November 15 2018
I have an aversion to oranges after a bout of the stomach flu in 2015
and it feels like a betrayal to my Floridian roots
So I want to write a poem about my birthplace,
about the sunshine state that should more aptly be called
the often-sunshine, sometimes-thunderstorm state

It is the place where I first learned what it meant to live wildly
Where I’d stingray-shuffle into the blue-green waters,
seaweed playing tricks on my senses as it snaked around my ankles
Where I’d walk barefoot through the grass,
the sand,
across the pavement
Shoes always seemed like an unnecessary barrier between the ground and me
Where I learned to zig-zag run away from alligators,
screen my swimming pool from alligators,
call animal control on alligators

It is the place where concrete low-rises are plastered in muted pastels
and adorned by seashell yards and hurricane shutters
Where classrooms are modified trailer homes
and school hallways bare-***** metal roofs,
providing only a feeble illusion of protection from the elements
But what is rain to a swamp woman?—
She who dances with the manatees and mermaids in Weeki Wachee
She who runs away from home on a bicycle with handlebar tassels
She who cries the first time she catches a fish and does not release it
She who is unafraid of getting wet

There, everything is citrus and salt
and the thick, humid air holds my bones together with more ardor
than any northern wind could imagine
I fold my nostalgia into neat compartments
and wrap it in a bow that says, “I do not miss this”
But still, I cannot deny the spellbinding yellow cables of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge—
over which, as we would drive, I’d hold my breath until I turned bluer than the sky and sea around me,
wondering if we’d make it across in time
These fragments, all once mere mundanities of my childhood,
have since become ingrained in my individual
So, when people ask me where I’m from and my tongue forgets your name—
know that I am forever freckled with your memory
I lived in a town where Sunny D dreams rested lazily on Mondays.

Nothing is go go go - no - it’s lazy to rise. Lazy to bed. Lazy to meet up with friends at the beach. Lazily chewing on donuts while we listen to songs that lazily leak through the teeth of our radio free censorship both lazily digesting in our sour guts making us lazy in the way we think. Feeding off the television, white noise static permeating the folds of our lazy minds. We now regurgitate headlines at parties lazily arguing, debating, though not a single thought is our own.  We are lazy in the way that we say we’ll accomplish something. Making up little kid dreams for broken promises of “I’ll get to it tomorrow”. But we never do. Never did. Just lazily puff on ***** shards. Our crushed bits of ignorance. Every night. Lazy sods. Working, sleeping, working, smoking, sleeping, working.
The cycle goes on.

In this land where time takes a nap. Where magnolia groves now rest lazily in the space of an old man’s memories.  You see, even time is lazy among salty air humidity that clings to lungs in a wet rag sensation so that we are lazy even in the way that we breathe. That’s why our grandparents tell us all those stories. So that we are not caught up in the lazy way light filters through the leaves of citrine sunsets that mingle into dawn.
Still, we yawn a question “what was I supposed to be doing again?” Here in this land where we all seem to exist in a static myth. Start another lazy day. Lost to IT. The big IT. The ever growing IT. The IT that consumes our lazy days with lazy work and lazy sleep and too much lazy play.

It’s easy here to let go of what this land used to be. Back when gold ships carried Ponce de Leon upon ***’s wings to a place where Highway 19 was no pavement or brick or man made industry but rough and raw and hot
and undiscovered Timucuan territory. We effortlessly lose sight of our own history to lazy daydreaming  
That slow,
    drip
         drip
             drip
of time leaking into tomorrow leaking into tomorrow
leaking into tomorrow leaking into tomorrow
Until your future
   leaks into tomorrow
Until you wake up from this lazy ****.
Until you realize there is nothing left ahead on your lazy path
Until the future has become your present and you are out of
Days to dawdle and to say “I will deal with it tomorrow” before it all
None too slowly
Rather abruptly
Comes to a clashing end.
Sunny Oct 12
"I'll be fine," she said.
The last words she told me.
Before we were cut off
Over some imminent natural disaster.

It brought destruction
Destroyed numerous buildings and homes.
People are without power, or anything else.
And I'm just praying that she's alright.

She said she'd be fine.
But I can't help but panic.
My thoughts are scattered, I can't focus on anything else.
My heartbeat is quickening just imagining the worst.

I have to know if she's okay
But there's no way to reach her, not like this.
And only then I realize the pain
Of our long distance relationship.

Even if you can't hear me
I'm whispering those three words we exchange
And even if you can't read this now
I hope this reaches you somehow, someway.

I know you said you'd be fine.
But I'm still thinking the opposite.
Maybe I'm being ******, maybe I'm just paranoid.
But either way, I can't help but feel like this.
Be safe, all of you.
Arcassin B Oct 6
By Arcassin Burnham

Trouble loves to find its way back to your place,
All in your house,
All in your face,
Where the devil plots here and the reaper intervenes,
Where the devil plots here and the reaper intervenes.

Hailing all the way from Florida a black kid with some
Chill, with a lot of enemies he wishes he took the red pill,
Looking for some solidarity and maybe some clarity but I know
That I can't get it anymore, ain't no more heroes left flying with capes
To the heaven's that brings us together even when your sore,
Death tolls take the floor,
Let the Lord wash his hands,
Then Get Back to washing yours,
The laws are raging and it's war,
The prophecy is inescapable for,
Reasons we can't explain and ignore,
Look for the light as it gleams,
Not closer to death than what it seems,
Most of the things in this world would distract to come to
Extents by any means,
Better be swimming through these streams,
Better be knowing what is important,
Ain't a single life that is important than a cultures lifespan that's
Been shortened

Trouble loves to find its way back to your place,
All in your house,
All in your face,
Where the devil plots here and the reaper intervenes,
Where the devil plots here and the reaper intervenes.
©abpoetry2018

https://arcassin.blogspot.com/2018/10/see-lte-2-official.html
Em Sep 27
Blistering,
wet
heat
That I
Oh, so enjoy.

Beaches
and clubs
Drinks
and drugs
That I
Oh, so love.

Florida Fever
has struck me
Baby, I'm in love.
Baby, let me stay.

The smell of the humidity
The blinding lights of the city
Dreams of *******
and ******

All over again

An endless cycle

Struck by Florida Fever

And I don't wanna change.
guys i never tried ******* so i wouldn't know what it feels like  ah  ha hhaha a :))))))
dont do drugs kids
florida is great
school shootings
woo
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