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Leftovers Oct 2014
Don't look at me and say you see
good,
They don't like that. The way
my hands are caked in colour. The way
the wall behind me is now
desecrated, they say, how can you
question those who wear
well with grain on their
lips?

The grain is their gun and
it's always on their
lips.
statictitanic Oct 2014
In this city the bright lights can blind you
let you forget the rustic coins littered around the floor
caught by grimy hands belonging to a woman
she holds her life on a thin piece of cardboard
written in faded Sharpie

If you ever lose your way with the crowd
and stumble upon the empty alleyways
they possess cracked glass from beer bottles,
old shopping advertisements, broken toys
and the stench of trash mixed with lost hope realizing
the pavement isn't always perfect but littered with cracks

Walk further down and you will pass the rejected streets,
houses gone foreclosed and no remorse
all that matters is the country's history,
pressed on notorious green paper belonging to greedy hands
forgetting about the family that lost their house

Wait at the train station,
for the rumble and two yellow lights
The snake of a train claims passengers
trapping them between closed doors,
only allowing them to face their own misery
some escape with headphones
others just stare into the darkness with sunken eyes and drunken sighs

Walking home see the gum wrappers and dead leaves skid around
the soles of your worn shoes
Graffiti garage doors only display discarded art
And when the night is still
you can feel the empty consonants and vowels crawl up your legs
forming the unspoken words from unwanted voices that lay

Hidden under our feet.
In my creative expression class we read Italo Calvino's *Invisible Cities* and then we had to describe NYC, so this is just my piece. Hope you enjoyed it.
my dorm walls are so white white white
that i cover them in my paintings
so i can make eye contact
with something that can care
and i am reminded
of spraying quotes on the walls at school
getting busted
thrown in the detention room for a week
and scribbling still more
on those white white walls
Kimberly Seibert Aug 2014
The hoods go up, the bandanas come out.
Their day really starts, when the sun goes down.
Geared up with paint, backpacks are full.
Armed not only with colors, but triggers to pull.

No stops in the stairwell, it's straight to the top.
Hope you grabbed your inhaler, in case of the cops.
The last couple steps are slathered in ice.
Their will to go higher it really entices.

Reaching the rooftop, the flashlights go off.
But the rooftop itself just isn't enough.
Steel rails to trail, the water tower is their peak.
Their names and their tags, voices to speak.

So when the city looks up, from I-75.
Their beacon of art, is kissing the sky.
TrAceY Aug 2014
you vandalized my body
with consent I offered
skin as canvas
my damaged heart
your muse

will I be remembered
as your worst creation
the strokes of bold colors
hiding the statement
you needed to convey

a truth so heavy

will the critics see me
as your worst creation
without knowing
how carefully you painted
every scar
Esz-Pe-Bea Jul 2014
Sweat sweet with mid-day summer sun.
Skin burns red to blister.
It permits no resistance.
Insistent on shining.
Eyes squint for shadow.
All to rare in this lonely atmosphere.
Rarer breezes blow to tease relief,
But all this provides for view beyond belief.
The city erupts in the Sun's Rays.
Reflecting infinite daily cloud-play off Glassy faced behemoths.
Every ripple sparks diamond waves.
And sometimes
this place doesn't seem so bleak.
In the Summer of 2012, I embarked on a mission to cover a bridge going over the Ohio Rive with poems.  This is just one of those, selected from now more than 60.
Chance Jul 2014
The feeling
Of connecting with the city on such a deep level
Sticking my hands through structures and pulling colored lines out
The rush that i get get is what it's all about
***** finger nails and stained clothes come with the territory
Nothing, and i mean nothing can compare to staring at the dim lit concrete behemoth from the seventh story
-CRM

— The End —