Andrew T Oct 2016

Ok, so you want to meet the love of your life, or at least a sophisticated N.S.A. relationship. Here’s how to do it. Guys leave the pick-up lines at home, many girls are smarter than you’d like to believe. Besides, a poorly-executed pick-up line will only show how your wit is mediocre. And you don’t want that. You want her to believe that you’re funny. Make a girl laugh and you’re in; not in her pants, unless she’s vulnerable, or easy, and do you really want that kind of person? If you’re going to use jokes, and you really desire to prove to your potential soulmate/hookup that you are indeed the next-coming of Louis C.K. then tell her a funny anecdote, involving your younger siblings, or older relatives. Those stories will go over well because they suggest that you do have a heart and a conscience, because you adore your family. But maybe it’s better to not do that. Because sometimes it’s better to keep your mouth shut. Trust me, the more you say, the more chances you have to mess things up. Plus you’ll look all cool and mysterious because you’re listening intently to her. Save the cocky-douche routine; you’re better than that. Point is, don’t try so hard. You don’t have to appear super awesome to her. You will probably never see her again if you act like you’re somebody that you’re not. And look, girls love to talk. So let them talk. Unless they’re mutes. Then, you should probably say something. If neither of you two talk, there’s definitely no chemistry, so just say thanks for the company, and leave the bar. Another thing; don’t gaze into her eyes too much. Of course, making eye contact is an indicator of confidence, but doing it too much is an indicator of creeper status. This is real life; not a bad romantic comedy, she will bolt from the bar to the dance floor and into the arms of that asshole who wears an Ed Hardy Tee. It’s okay to be goofy, but not too goofy; only the guys who get laugh with, get the number. And please be yourself. Unless, you’re a lunatic. Then try to emulate a normal person. Lastly, have fun because everybody only lives once. Except for Jesus, but he probably didn’t have a tough time getting girls, when he could turn water into wine. Another thing; don’t whine if she doesn’t like you. Not every girl is going to like you. Deal with it. Read a self-help book. Lose the beer belly. Or gain the beer belly, because some girls dig that. But most importantly, be honest with yourself. Did you really want to be romantically involved with her, thinking that it was love at first sight when you looked into her eyes, which were so big and so round? Or were you looking at things that were also so big and so round? If you don’t know, then reevaluate what you’re doing. It will work out in the end. Hopefully

JaiLyhn Grey Mar 2016

I don't like to be alone at night.
Cause the darkness reminds me of myself.
It reminds me of all my dark fantasies.
Of all those evil monsters that live inside my head.
Of that voice telling me the most terrifying nightmares.
I'm afraid of myself and what I'm capable of...
The stars are the only things that give me hope.

thinkerdreamer Feb 2016

like the blood spilled by a dagger
crimson on a rose
we go together.

like the seas sailed by a sailor
guiding ship with his compass
we go together.

like the plaintive words we whisper
waiting to take flight
we go together.

like the first words said to each other
and smiles frozen in photographs
we go together.

like the rope holding the anchor
and an arrow through a heart
we go together.

like blue eyes and green,
the greatest love ever seen,
we go together.

Always in my heart.
Timothy Ward Jan 2016

We wish we knew you Mr Brown
The lights glow dim in Poets Town
We stand beside Magnolia trees
And pray your soul is fancy free

I read your verse with teary eyes
And hope that I can be as wise
You were a gentle soul of song
The joy you brought is just as strong

I'm glad your verse you did not brave
Upon Magnolias to engrave
Your words of wit are safe with me
For Poets Town is your tree!

Unlike the old Magnolia tree
Poets Town is full of spree
She was a fool to lose your crown
But we'll always love you Mr. Brown!

RIP Mr Louis Brown. I'm new here and mean no disrespect to him, but simply trying to honor a very creative spirit!
M Sep 2015

But I'm open, you're closed
Where I follow, you'll go
I worry I won't see your face
Light up again

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme
Out of the doubt that fills my mind
I somehow find, you and I collide

I'm quiet, you know
You make a first impression
I've found I'm scared to know
I'm always on your mind

Even the best fall down sometimes
Even the stars refuse to shine
Out of the back you fall in time
I somehow find, you and I collide

M Sep 2015

dancing in private, alone on the waves
some things we can only to each other say
these howling winds can hardly break, hurricanes
will melt like sand around us, we are strong
the ship to my compass, the voice to my song
the heart to my arrow, the love to my pain
the rope to my anchor, the bird to my cage
I won't forget you're the only place I've ever belonged
and, darling, with you I'll stay forever long.

Mariah Langton May 2015

We’re hiding in the dark.
Trying hard to survive this.
Waiting to see the light.
I can feel us breaking.
He’s close to the edge.
I’m constantly worrying about him.
Wondering what will break him.
Will it be the fans?
Will it be the paparazzi?
Will it be the lying?
Will it be the hiding?
I despise having to hide.
I want to be free.
I want to love him.
But they say I can’t.
They say that it’s wrong.
They say it’ll ruin everything.
They make us hide instead.
Lying to our loved ones.
Lying to our loyal fans.
We give them hints daily.
The tattoo’s should be enough.
The compass guiding the ship.
The arrow through the heart.
The rope holding my anchor.
The “Oops” to my “Hi”
The bird to my cage.
But apparently it’s not enough.
They still don’t see us.
Our shared stares on stage.
The wanted and needed touches.
The playful banter that disappeared.
Ones who believe gets blamed.
The tweets should be enough.
“I miss you too sweetcheeks”
“I’ll meet you poolside pumpkin”
“And don’t forget my armbands”
“Always in my heart @Harry_Styles.”
“Yours sincerely Louis.” Not enough.
I wonder what it’ll take.
Trying hard to be ourselves.
It’s hard when we’re watched.
It’s hard following their orders.
Our dreams have faded.
The flashes have dulled them.
They’re still there but barely.’
He looks up at me.
Eyes are kept wide open.
“Please don’t let me go .”
“I’m tired of feeling alone.”
“I’m tired of sleeping alone.”
My arms are wide open.
I’ll hold him close tonight
We make promises for forever.
We remember the easy times.
When we loved not hid.
We laugh at old movies.
We slept closer than ever.
He sleeps while I think.
I’ll make us okay again.
The day will come soon.
Where we can love openly.
When we won’t hide away.
When they’ll finally realize.
We’ll always love each other.
No matter what they do.
But until that day comes.
I’ll bring him the stars.
I’ll watch him from afar.
Trying to make them understand.
Because I know we’re fireproof.
And I know we can survive.
Because he makes me strong.
And he’s all I need.

Mike Essig Apr 2015

Elegy for the Forgotten Oldsmobile

July 4th and all is Hell.
Outside my shuttered breath the streets bubble
with flame-loined kids in designer jeans
looking for people to rape or razor.
A madman covered with running sores
is on the street corner singing:
O beautiful for spacious skies…
This landscape is far too convenient
to be either real or metaphor.
In an alley behind a 7-11
a Black pimp dressed in Harris tweed
preaches fidelity to two pimply whores
whose skin is white though they aren’t quite.
And crosstown in the sane precincts
of Brown University where I added rage
to Cliff Notes and got two degrees
bearded scientists are stringing words
outside the language inside the guts of atoms
and I don’t know why I’ve come back to visit.

O Uncle Adrian! I’m in the reservation of my mind.
Chicken bones in a cardboard casket
meditate upon the linoleum floor.
Outside my flophouse door stewed
and sinister winos snore in a tragic chorus.

The snowstorm t.v. in the lobby’s their mother.
Outside my window on the jumper’s ledge
ice wraiths shiver and coat my last cans of Bud
though this is summer I don’t know why or where
the souls of Indian sinners fly.
Uncle Adrian, you died last week—cirrhosis.
I still have the photo of you in your Lovelock
letterman’s jacket—two white girls on your arms—
first team All-State halfback in ’45, ’46.

But nothing is static. I am in the reservation of
my mind. Embarrassed moths unravel my shorts
thread by thread asserting insectival lust.
I’m a naked locoweed in a city scene.
What are my options? Why am I back in this city?
When I sing of the American night my lungs billow
Camels astride hacking appeals for cessation.
My mother’s zippo inscribed: “Stewart Indian School—1941”
explodes in my hand in elegy to Dresden Antietam
and Wounded Knee and finally I have come to see
this mad fag nation is dying.
Our ancestors’ murderer is finally dying and I guess
I should be happy and dance with the spirit or project
my regret to my long-lost high school honey
but history has carried me to a place
where she has a daughter older than we were
when we first shared flesh.

She is the one who could not marry me
because of the dark-skin ways in my blood.
Love like that needs no elegy but because
of the baked-prick possibility of the flame lakes of Hell
I will give one last supper and sacrament
to the dying beast of need disguised as love
on deathrow inside my ribcage.
I have not forgotten the years of midnight hunger
when I could see how the past had guided me
and I cried and held the pillow, muddled
in the melodrama of the quite immature
but anyway, Uncle Adrian…
Here I am in the reservation of my mind
and silence settles forever
the vacancy of this cheap city room.
In the wine darkness my cigarette coal
tints my face with Geronimo’s rage
and I’m in the dry hills with a Winchester
waiting to shoot the lean, learned fools
who taught me to live-think in English.

Uncle Adrian…
to make a long night story short,
you promised to give me your Oldsmobile in 1962.
How come you didn’t?
I could have had some really good times in high school.

Indian/Native America/First Citizen (take your PC pick) poet of considerable talent and power.
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