You sit at our kitchen table guitar in your hands playing beautiful melodies of love and tunes from foreign lands
Then at night you play with a rock band Hells Bells is their name
Music blaring heads are thrashing the whole room goes insane
At the end of the night you pack up your gear and head on out the door
Home to your sweet darling to play your beautiful melodies once more

A poem about my husband x

I prefer the chaos of the airport to the tranquility of my overpriced, air-conditioned hotel. I feel confined to relax. Dip my toes in the pool and exhale audibly. The pressure is at a boiling point. I can feel activity just outside the pool front and I itch to breathe the smog.

I leave the four white walls confiding me to comfort letting my t-shirt cling to my body as I exit. I arrive three hours early for my plane, just to watch the cacophony of it all.  My mind writes stories while they confirm my passport.

As a young girl she wanted to be a dancer…She worked at the corner store to pay for lessons….Her dad died when she was ten and the stress of the loss made her break out in pustule acne which she picked incessantly. Dropped out of school. Corner store, doorwoman, bus driver. The acne left scars. She now checks passports and eats ramen noodles alone for dinner over looking the city.

As I wait to board I observe the crying son and the yelling father; the dynamic duo. The elderly Chinese lady fast in sleep in front of me. The Korean child peering over my shoulder as I write this. The smell of duty free liquor and the loudness of foreign tongues fill the room with a possessiveness.

The family across from me stares at their iphones in a meditative state.

I sit here. Observing. Assuming. Telling. Like opening day at the museum— art in its most primal. The crying lovers. An empty bag of peanuts. The Japanese woman, robe, facemask and all-- preparing for the night.

Beau Scorgie Apr 3

Somewhere along the way
we became lost
within the colloquial and formalities
of the hearts native tongue.

A brooding distance
of miscommunication
birthed no mans land
where utopia once flourished.

With your silver tongue
I am beseeched of bravery
to sow our seeds
for a blooming harvest once more.

But I am a woman
at the mercy of a winters cry
and I cannot promise you
the fruitful sunshine.

I know not how to show you
the storms on the sea
when your roots in the earth
rely upon the rain.

Somewhere along the way
we became lost in translation
no longer privy to but foreigners
of a language of love.

With your silver tongue
I am beseeched of affirmation
that love may still conquer
while lost in translation.

But I am a woman
at the mercy of a man
and I cannot promise you
anything but my tempestuous love.

Today love is arcanely stool
this rhetoric still pain abet
though she descry a Chairman Mao
only an insight of her macaw
that  her perpetual harmony's bound
and Alfred Tennyson barely there
but in cardigan to dress again.

Chloe Chapman Mar 21

How can I understand others so easily, yet form no connection to them?
There are parts of me which are so foreign to others that they cannot comprehend me.
There are parts of me that are so similar to others that they form a connection with me.
I cannot [will not] reciprocate this.
I am entirely wrapped up in my own self, yet still I am Lost in the sea of everyone else.

APATHY: no connection to others
NARCISSISM: self obliterates others
CO-DEPENDENCE: others obliterate self
EMPATHY: connection and understanding
Afiqah Mar 9

I took an unfamiliar trip
way down under to bendemeer st. today
which later,
got me slowly stirred by
one of my old dreams
that strangely took place right there
the tellings of it all says,
they’re probably a small visual part of our future
likewise
it’s unusually kind of erratic at how
wicked my brain could keep such delusions
and I could bloody swore I wasn’t
wildly straying off in that foreign place alone since
it now seems to have you,
as well

-a.

Cierra Hope Feb 5

The word feels foreign on my tongue
Actions make me run and hide
As if no one could ever love someone
As hideous and dirty as me
That's what you want me to believe
That no one will ever love me for the way I am.

So you sit there and whisper in my ear
It's okay, he can touch you like that, this isn't wrong
But it is
He should treat me better.

For a while,
I told myself that I would figure you out
I would understand why you are the way that you are
I would fix you
But it was never that simple
Sometimes, people hurt people just to hurt them
As if they find pleasure in it
You loved to watch me squirm under your knife.

I always thought you loved me
But now the fog has cleared
And I see that it was lust.

Alex Stowe Dec 2016

Je t'aime.
Ma vie est plus belle avec toi.
Tu es la lumière de ma vie.
Tu as ma coeur.
Je t'aime.
J'ai ta coeur.
Nous sommes tombés en amour.
Tu es mienne,
Et je t’appartiens.
Je t'aime.

Pour ma petite amie.
madameber Nov 2016

you said i was exotic,
and i said ooo
what do you mean?, like
exotic like a fruit?, like
i don’t know what tropics
you think i came from, was
imported from, but you read
my skin like the label
on a flavour of coca-cola
you had never been
offered before and i
was refreshing, and
different. and you liked
the way my coke-bottle
curves felt beneath your
fingertips, said you’d never
tasted caramel
like me before,
you said i was exotic.
like i was a work
of west african art,
even though my mother’s
from the east, like
i was from a storybook like
1001 african nights, like,
you saw my cover and you were
hooked, never did think to
look beneath the jacket,
just wanted stories like the
ones scheherazade sold,
i was your sheba
and you my solomon.
we rode lions across
the sands, your kiss
was salt on my lips,
i needed to quench
my thirst and you offered
me the brand new flavour
of coca-cola.

you said i was exotic,
like a pretty foreign thing,
like just some thing,
some mail-order thing,
special delivery
just for you,
a flavour of coca-cola that you
had never tasted before.

it's not a compliment
Austin Woodruff Sep 2016

I am growing a flower

'Twas rooted in good soil

I nurtured and watered my flower

It grew strong and bold in color.

Then a day came when foreign seed found its place and tainted thy soil

As nutrients became scarce

I poured more water so the soil became soft as I fought the foreign seed

I wept. My flower has rejected the nutrients from my water.

I fought till every foreign plant had been removed and rebuked their roots

I nurtured and watered my flower

It grew stronger and more bold in color

I have a new flower in full bloom.

Isaiah 40:8
"The flower fades, the grass withers, but the Word of God shall stand forever."
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