Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Max Feb 9
I'm seeing someone often lately, someone I have not seen in a very long time.

It's me.
Finally, my life is back on the track of which it derailed many years ago.
A Simillacrum Jun 2018
There are poor neighborhoods
that are tucked into towns,
where the less educated,
where the lesser of means,
find in the dregs, the ability
to coexist with higher society.

Society is grown to the point of disease,
killing the feeble, disabling the lost,
in the name of and for some ease.
So here comes the city, meaning so well.
They said, "Let's add a train line
to a town that has none!"

Well, there goes the block.
There go the people who
barely have homes.

The Council wants to drop a line
where they see shoes bounce power lines.
What's the harm in displacing
the part of the community already dead?
The town now seems to be just fine
now that the poor are paying fines.
Why not double down and just
gentrify when history tells the story best?

Expand Portland, rid Tigard of blemish,
trade your rug for cement and track.
Beautify Tigard, please your ill desire,
don't be surprised when your eyesore
comes back.

Go ahead, pave your poverty.
Go ahead, clean your streets.
You're thinking, "Lines for dimes."
What do you think a new line means?
What do you think the traffic brings?
The sweet guillotine repeats.
Simon Leake Dec 2017
Sky: a repository of adjectives
―land's fast mirror
―stripped of uniform
―thought to body.

Greece: a repository of alternatives
―Civilisation’s fast mirror
―never fully constituted
―thought to Europe’s body.

And all this water between us
―greasing the dialogue
―speeding up the dissolution

Isn’t it always cooperative?
After all, the trickster
is nothing without prey;
the entrepreneur nothing
without an audience.
Elyse Hyland Nov 2017
It's the night before an exam,
And the rhymes and rhythms,
are screaming in my head,
as the mountain of rejected paper,
grows around me.
Because as I try to voice,
my horrors and hatreds,
my love and life,
politically and emotionally,
all I can think about is that,
at thirteen I was scrawling,
pretty patterns across my skin,
and using my blood as the paint,
                                                          ­      how messed up is that?
I honestly gave up on trying to rhyme anything after the first hour of trying to voice my feelings
Seanathon Jul 2017
I'm Convinced
That after the last fence post ends
Just over the edge

That around the corner beyond the meadow
Is the end

And beyond that
Is rain

Endless and resting
Forever to be parted from the sky

Until the new life comes
And I am refreshed

It is then
And within

Would you explore with me?
Until our own end?
There is an end. But not today. I smile back and say not today.
Inside out May 2017
My cat is crazy
He pelts around the room
He arches his back menacingly
And his tail looks like a broom.
As he side winds towards me
He looks like a furry crab
He will come within a foot of me
Until I make a grab!
Then he's off on his assault course
Tearing round the place
He really thinks he is fierce
And gets right in my face!
If I should make a sudden move
It really is quite funny
He shoots straight up into the air
Just  like a leaping bunny!
Then as soon as he has started
His stamina lets him down
He's ready to surrender
My lovely, furry clown
Max Watt May 2016
Crawling into my own head space
only reminds me of the mediocrity
that climbs the walls of every town and city.
Every thought that races furious around
my brain screams
that I can never be the curious one.
Just the One who observes and never truly
finds his home.
Just the One who whimpers
among those who talk big
and in arrogant tones.

An unfamiliar thing that
never embeds itself in-
to my being.
Talk of arrogance - everyone has it.
Even those who are above it.
Even the One who is not amongst the arrogant,
because he is alone with it. He does not
confide it.
For the One who sits alone confides only in himself
and shares his arrogance with nobody.
Why else would his self indulgent scripture be titled as it is?
Beginning of the end is the start
Of something new;
You have the choice to be your true
Self. Don't be afraid to speak your mind!

Only you are in charge of your own destiny;
Faith---No one can tell you how to live your life.

Zoology- "Cryptozoology, you just might exist";
Understanding that everything has a
Meaning and we all have a purpose.
Moments that we should not miss,
Everyone is equal and everyone is worth it.
R**eminder: Just be you and be kind, the rest follows!
©McNally/Flanders, Inc.
Written after watching 3 episodes of Person Of Interest and quote from Patrick Stump's "Cryptozoology" song. Title- the best tour ever; Fall Out Boy, Hoodie Allen, MAX!
thehiddenwriter May 2016
I close the door,
Tune in to Death metal,
I sit high,
Volume Max,
Bass Max,
I just sit and close my eyes,
At First my body used to shiver
now even this is comfortable
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
Once upon a time.

           Once upon a time there lived a young girl. A girl who believed that words could be mastered. This girl was young enough to confuse love with addiction – for in her mind, she knew no difference. She created symbols and motifs wherever she went. Speech failed her, but words did not. And more often than not, she listened, but did not hear a thing. When she listened, however, she maintained an untarnished faith in the words she heard.

           She was coasting fourteen when she encountered the master of words. He was disguised, however, as an unremarkable seventeen-year-old. His presence solidified a stereotype; he was older, darker, and lurid in his quest for love. Spun from his lust of literature, the boy could read with college leveled comprehension by the time he’d reached sixth grade.

           Once upon a time, a young girl met a boy whose charisma was nothing short of magic.

           Within the time they exchanged, she was too young, and he was needy, broken, and wildly manipulative. Their connection was catalytic and in some instances, he fell in love with her innocence, whilst she grew addicted to his words.

           Words; so trivial, so redundant, and so simple. Yet, so inexplicably controlling. In the same instance that sticks and stones could break her bones, his words would eternally mark her. His words, which enabled her addiction. Words that made it okay to leave her for another, to appear again, only to leave all over again. Words that – months later – talked him into her psyche, away from her companions, away from her family, her academics, her normalcy. Into a space where his redundant sweet-nothings ensnared and enveloped her whole. Into a space where she remained, waiting for the fix she could only find in his mind. Once upon a time, the master of words cajoled this young girl into a space which grew so vast, he eventually couldn’t fill it, so he left.

           On the brink of demise, she examined her feeble body. Within, she found the extra spaces. These spaces weren’t obvious; there were no gaping holes or severed chunks visible. Rather, her body was ravaged by innumerable chasms and hollows, small enough to overlook and large enough to define her; cracks in the foundation. Perhaps a gaping hole was preferable – the equivalent to a broken heart – consuming, but easier to pinpoint and remedy. One large hole in a wall can be filled in. But these cracks she felt, this empty space, it unsteadied her entire foundation.
Nine months into her word addiction, the girl could be found festering within hollows. Miles away from her former self, she dwelled within expired voicemails, his notes, his letters. She knew she had no one to blame but herself, but she blamed him anyways.

           Once upon a time, there lived an extra space in which a girl resided; a girl who was not only surrounded by extra space, but filled with it as well. There lived a recovering word addict. Subsequently, this was all her fault, which she realized in the saddest of circumstances. Yet, she slowly learned to fill the extra spaces with distractions. She encountered drugs, new friends, an environment where she sometimes belonged. She remedied her schoolwork, resurrected her family’s trust, and quenched her addiction with masochism instead. Yet, this new foundation stood a mere ghost of the old one. Within her psyche, there remained cracks and holes and the decaying animal of innocence. As some cracks were filled in, new ones spread forth. Her disrepair did not increase nor decrease in the years to come. Rather, it spread to different locations, as she patched and filled along the way. She strived to fill the void; and yet, nothing she tried, no pain she inflicted and no other drug she tried could fill the extra space inside of her. The foundation of her psyche remained perpetually flawed.

           Months later, the master of words returned. This time, he faced a girl who had been thwarted and mastered by his words, and had grown bitter and stronger. Greeted by this unfamiliarity, he left. Only to come back, and then leave, and return, and then leave again. Frequenting her enough to make sure the extra space remained. As the girl lived on, his magnitude faltered. Somehow, the boy lost his words, and mastered silence. This was mind boggling. How someone who was once defined by charm and charisma could lose his voice. How the master of words could become a pantomime of the past, lost enough to cease speech entirely. Lost enough to master silence.
           Once upon a winter night in the midst of February, the boy finally grappled to re-master words, and seek the extra space, so long reserved for him. He picked up a phone, wrote some long forgotten words, and she came to rediscover him – wondering if his words could rekindle her space. They sat on a bed of formalities and spoke of nothing. Later, when he kissed her, she realized something; this boy was human. He was not an addiction, or a master, and he had no talent of filling up her emptiness indefinitely. Whether she had put him on a pedestal or he had schemed it, she never knew. Her crucial realization was that no one can master words. Words are merely filtered thoughts, twisted and abused by manipulators, such as the boy who became human. Most words are not genuine. They cannot be mastered because they are infinite.
           Extra and speechless, she realized that she was not a victim to any of his actions. She had invited him in, fell every time for his words, created a void, and welcomed him back whenever he saw convenience. He was nothing special, nothing to crave, just a boy. A boy whose words disagreed with his thoughts.

           The next day, she lost her complete and utter faith in words. And years later, she would write books and letters; ones he could not fill.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Next page