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yelhsa 2d
Waking up to the sun beaming at my face

I slept grate, only problem I had was my foot was on the break

A good night’s rest in my car is all I needed, you’d be amazed.
A poem written while living in my car. Couldn't find a spot to rest and when I did, I was so tired I forgot to turn off my car.
Maryann I May 16
The porch light clicks off behind me—
no ceremony,
no words wrapped in warmth,
just the hush of a door
never meant to stay open.

A moth dances in the dark.
I watch it,
wishing for wings
that don’t tear
in the cold.

My feet know this ache.
They’ve felt it before—
sidewalks splitting like dry lips,
a sky too wide
for someone so small.

I carry silence
in the crook of my arms,
like a child that won’t
stop crying.

The moon
presses its white face
against the windshield.
It doesn’t ask me to leave.

Every hour is a question
with no safe answer.
Where do I go
when even the night

runs out of room?

I’m tired
of learning the weight of keys
that don’t belong to me—
of knocking
on almosts.


If I disappear,
will the world blink?

Or will it just
keep driving?
i find the crossroads
i have a tendency to
walk into
during times like these

it’s empty here
except for the invading gusts
of mannerless winds
that don’t say “excuse me”
or “please”
as they pass me

i await for a vehicle
my preference would be
an expensive one
like a really nice rolce royce
to make this quick
painless but pricey

i can feel weight on my chest
about such a lightness in my life
i have people
but there’s this recurring
lack of soul
that makes me feel
ancient and aimless
like lost history
that everyone is familiar with
but no one truly knows
anything of

i feel like the homeless men
i pass by on 137th street
they go by unseen
might as well be six feet deep
in a cemetery

i observe my helpless will
crave for the ability to slow
my mothers inevitable aging
as it shuffles through files
and memory after memory
in search of some hidden
ancient
wisdom to stop time

my dwindling creations
collect dust
in a digital shelf
while i deal with the rust
i’ve allowed to form
in my bank accounts
credit score
and stomach

there’s so much maintenance
towards the inflammation
in my life
that there’s no more antibodies
for anything else
so much struggle to hold
this boulder up over
my neck
which makes me strong
but this constant sweat
leave no more water
for tears

i don’t crave opportunity
i don’t need a friend
i love my lover and my mother
but they ain’t meets to an end
of the never ending fear
of simply not being enough

i crave release from my own responsibilities
i find this tug of war between
sacrificing the self
to overcome it
in order for the greater goods to be
fulfilled
as well as this death of my ego
while
making sure my soul
is still grounded
to be *******
exhausting

i crave a pasture

allowing me to float over the singular blades of grass
allowing me to become
weightless
in the face of all this
pressure

i remember being a boy
and in my island the hills
and mountains and beachfronts
have their own voices

i remember distinctly climbing highly
or swimming far out
or exploration between the tree lines
to be a form of soothing
not therapy
but rather warm rejuvenation

where i wouldn’t think about
my finances and debts
or my relationships and ties to
characters i love
the ones i tolerate
and the ones i’m trying to love
i wouldn’t think about
stability or a consistent routine and schedule

i’m all grown up now
and my creativity compared to
the vast
and endless universes
i’d hide in
as a boy
are a forest fire
compared to my candle
at twenty three years old

i lay here silent
in the middle of this crossroads
waiting for that kid
to come hold my hand and teach me something
because he had the right answers
or at least better answers
he cared about the right things
he genuinely saw
the divinity
in all
and now i’m old enough
to struggle finding the silver lining
in anything

i remember being so creative
that life was almost missing suffering

where the lack of it wasn’t even anywhere near my awareness
and i wasn’t anywhere near as brave
or strong
or wise

it’s almost like the more i know
the older i get
the more i go through
and the more bills i pay
the less of a human being
i become

where the
****
is this **** car
already

hurry up

-melancholicreator
i crave a pasture
kevin Apr 8
to buffalo-civilworks
journalism class is slow, sir
the ag emailed back promptly as i am in year 2 of civil rights violations
we had a mass ****** qualification of loss of life in the california homeless population
attempting coordination with new social workers------------------------------------------ equity -------------- helps with (escort) towards home in state of for worst case scenario

the battle for speech needs equity as i understand from brother bernie sanders

we have a 1 church road violation of church freedom overlapping poor women lobby limits in the city confine

further the day to day private business of my own person as an -------------------------------- by way of (111-11-1111) of new york leads me above military measure of letters to you

a kings measure back to the fold and double timed objective.

obstruction of police policy negates duration of appointment and interference is grounded redress
forthwith my address of (###########) is hereby ordered to be reinstated to end breach
in addition to reinstating privacy act of all homeless in transition bodies in space

updating plea

plea is duly noted
in backtracked assembly of address
the private person in transition of expedited emergency
patiently waits for paper to work
the paper detail are the private life of the lost person in a census
don't count and you will be counted
literal or absurd, a sentence at a time
post hostage reclaim victory, suspend teach me notes

non profit businessing itself, looked out while up is a president
this is title of history

the equity of free speech and free association

this template is right to pass and coordination of post and postage to requisition government from address as citizen.  statseman legislates to the hand not for the banks

ad liberated speech and statement to move forward into the deed.  this is social reform.  no lazy brains for these writes

help build these essays and organize coordinated change of a life overcoming poverty
Jon RT Feb 4
Don’t go popping black balloons.

The red or orange ones are better.

I’m not emo anyway || huh.

Crusty white knuckle streets streaked with overhead lights.

Humming poles holding slap tags to slump on.

Newspaper, media, graffiti.

We need to find lovers who can read us.

Fake love but you got you’re hand out.

Take all the time you need I don’t mind to watch it bleed away.

I got no place to be faded.

Can’t hate the game we just play it but.

Birthdays, parties ballon’s aren’t fun.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Friends of fair weather they find me junking round town.

Scrap a little scratch || ten smacks.

Pop!

Don’t go popping black balloons.

The other colors are better.

I’m not impressed in anyway || huh.

Dingy metal beams stretching overhead block the lights out.  

Echoing musky hobo writing thats slept on.

Red face, man scape, hipsters.

We need to find a place that expects us.

Real love but it’s from wash outs.

Given enough time it goes away I don’t mind.

I got no safe space to qualm your jaded eyes.

Just play along even though we hate them.

Everything’s cake, celebrating but balloons aren’t fun.

Blood, substance, sorrow.

Hospital bed, my friends they find me foul weathered I quit junking round.

Scratch it inside a little but it gets scraped || ten smacks.

Pop!
Street life
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