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jack cariad leon Mar 2020
I dream of becoming a world-recognized artist.

A glamorous one, appearing at the yearly Gucci runway shows. Gucci because Florence Welch clearly favors their designers.

I’ll be interviewed, either before or after the show, because journalists know people love reading about me.

I’ll tuck my hair behind my ear and bat my eyes like Courtney Love on Jules Holland, and I’ll be so disarmingly sweet.

Then one day I’ll coin a term without even really thinking about it: “I hate pseudo-creative types.”

“What do you mean by that?” that journalist will ask, enchanted into sincere interest.

I’ll give unimpressed smile, the kind Lana Del Rey is known for: “I mean people like James Franco.”
Morgan Alexander Sep 2019
He lay there in a *****, unkept ball,
Having surrendered to the pavement.
Wisps of stringy brown hair
Covered the lines on his sunken in face,
His yellow smoked eyes, rheumy and blurred,
His vision hazy, like a punch-drunk boxer.

Kathleen Harmon sashayed by
With nary a glace downward.
Once they were equals,
When they sat together
During high school Chemistry.

Time slowed from a Tango to a Waltz,
As a drop of saliva
Kissed the pavement.
Stringing there from his cracked, parted lips.

His tangled brown whiskers,
Patchy on his cheeks,
Had lengthened with the passing days
Since their last meeting with a razor.

Nikes, Prada, and Gucci
Ignore him in passing
All sports, fashion, and business meetings;
On the clock, and self-absorbed.

Dusk marked the sky
With a violet crayon
Worn to a nub,
Then worn to nothing.

A sudden thud startled him awake!
Then blackened hardwood stunned him as it bit into his ribs!
A caustic voice berated his slumber,
A navy blue reminder that even surrender was no escape.
The world and its arbitrary hierarchy *****.
mjad Jul 2019
he got the
Gucci flops
Supreme top
Balenciaga bag
Hermes chain
Chanel sunglasses
Louis Vuitton jacket
Rolex on his wrist
he looks A-list

but does he have a heart?
Cox Jul 2019
I stand here in the city.
The tall buildings tower over me,
And the wind cascades around me.

The children and people wear fur coats.
I wear Gucci.
They smell like whiskey and cigarettes,
But I pay no attention.

I see the lights that the city visions,
I hear the cries that the city screams.

It was perfect.  

Because I was here amongst the skyscrapers,
And within the atmosphere of life.
sunshine Apr 2019
and Gucci
he's got his legs around mine
and kissing
I have my fingers in his hair
and sunshine
we didn't tell anyone about it
and Fendi
he's never loved someone like me
and that drip
I told myself I wouldn't get attached
and friends
we're more complicated than we admit
a rap?
but everything is Gucci lies  

Oscar Oct 2018
the sun rises every morning,
blessing the earth with another day.
the moon shines at night,
watching over us as we lay at rest.

the stars give us our dreams,
despite being millions of miles away.
they shoot, we wish upon them
and they smile down at us.

heaven is above us,
but hell's fire is what fuels us.
we run on sleepless slumber and we
keep fighting with broken swords.

we breathe until we no longer can,
our lungs heaving with the hope that we will
survive another day because we're human
and we were crafted to survive.
all of my poems are sad, this one is kinda not sad

told my friends about how i write poetry on this site, they wanted to see but i fear they'll think i'm a bit weird.  what should i do?
oui Apr 2018
demons demons
paint my nails!
bite it off
when all else fails!

slipped into hell + ran away home
whats under your bed when you're all alone?

***** socks and
soured thoughts ~
had a garden
(let it rot)

prayed to God my man would wake
her soul and Gucci bag to take

surfing in my Prada's
running in my Louis's
Giving second chances
Like ya never even knew me

Tigers in the living room,
go on ask whats up!
clawing up my velvet couch
Kiss and patch it up!

melt my brain n lick it up
I write about him daily
chew it up and spit it out
been thinking bout you lately
Andrew T Dec 2016
Her dreams are packed suitcases,
sitting on the driveway,
a piece of cloth sticking out,
ready to be unfolded and opened,
and then carried around.
I miss her
like how Americans
will miss the Obama family.
Touching her lips with my fingertips
is like rubbing healing ointment
onto an open scab.
Mom says, “You will always regret it,
if you don’t send her a text back.”
I dump my phone into the fire,
watch the plastic and metal burn,
the embers and ash piling up.
A black hand reaches for my shoulder,
before I wake up in a cold sweat.
I open up her suitcases:
a blue Grand Canyon blanket,
a laminated receipt
from a Sushi Restaurant,
a deflated basketball,
her knockoff Gucci glasses,
a worn piece of my heart.
I touch my chest.
and I feel nothing there.

— The End —