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Mary K Aug 2016
The gap between the platform and the subway car
seems to grow the closer you get to it
Until crossing it seems like the worst idea you could make
But you close your eyes and brave the void
Taking care not to thin about the tracks beneath
So alive in their snaking routes and tortured screeches.
The doors shut abruptly once you've sardined inside
And its all you can do to grab onto something, anything
Before the wheels begin to turn again
And you're lurched into some other time,
Some other place
As the tunnels decide what your fate will be.
And the doors will open again
As a ghost of a platform appears
But commuters be weary
For the tunnels and the tiles can be deceitful
So as you leave the decay
And the fractured tiles behind
Take caution
You might not notice it at first
You might not notice it at all
But the subway tunnels are unpredictable
And they enjoy making the rules
So the vortex you thought you imagined with the tunnel's lights speeding past the windows of the train
Might have actually transported you to some unknown city
To some other dimension
And there's no turning back.
the finale of the series!
Odonko-ba Aug 2016
sushi girl
john dies at the end
two days in new york
Diandra Lathifa Jul 2016
There’s just something about this city that makes me feel some type of way.
The beauty, the crowds, the tall buildings, and mostly, the city lights.
This city never sleeps.

Some people claimed Paris as their city of love, but honestly,
I’ve never thought of Paris as mine,
New York has always been my city of love. Has. Always. Been.

I’ve always wanted to go there, to be there.
To feel the euphoria of walking down the 5th avenue at midnight
Go on a date with my future ‘mon-petit-ami’
Strolling down the streets looking for some late night snacks just the two of us
To be kissed on the lips by someone I love in the middle of times square, To see those beautiful lights all over the city.

Someday.

Someday.
dlx Jun 2016
You said,
This is not the way the love works.
But why I kept controling myself up?  
Why I kept this feeling so tight even I know that you won't ever do the same thing as me
Why?
Why I kept making me not tired to wait?

They say,
Love is not the only way to break your heart,
But for the love that can make you cured.

I know,
I know how easy you to talk to yourself
Very gently and properly
Then when it comes back to you
You lost your ideas
And you afraid to do the things that you planned before,
Again.

- dlx
Aaron LaLux Jun 2016
So I made a song with this poem. Please listen to the song when you read this poem. It's kinda experimental, please let me know what you think. Okay, here's the music link and here's the written poem. Go ahead play the song and read the poem at the same time :-) I'm REALLY CURIOUS to see what you think about it for real. Thank You and YES I Love You. ∆

Soundcloud; Aaron La Lux, Welcome to Wall Street;

Wolf of Wall Street

Belly of the Beast,
Bull by the Horns,
welcome to Wall street,
where it's always calm before the storm,
sun rises in the east,
then sets in the palms,
joker brokers don't give a ****t,
Robin in sin giving no alms,
just stock certificates that are counterfeit,
the poor being robbed blind distracted by Tiffany's charms,

Belly of the Beast,
Bull by the horns,
Raging Bull ****t stinks,
blood red roses and platinum thorns,
devils defecate drama causing trauma dreams decease,
when the American Dream finally dies no one will mourn,
we'll all just grin and bear it like we do when we have a disease,
commerce is always calmer before a perversely well performing storm,
broken hearts we wear on our designer shirt sleeves,
no cuff links just conflicts and economic hit men in uniform uniforms,

in Belly of the Beast in Hell's Kitchen brewing up a **** storm,
can you smell it?
I tell it,
can you hear it,
We're it,
though that what that we are I can't fully describe,
going to hell in a Bentley hand basket,
but at least we're enjoying the ride,

one way,
upside down,
in an elevating elevator,
self implosion motion here in boomtown,
one way on the rise,
rising down,
one way,
on the rise,
rising up full of hot air in a balloon,
until the bubble burst and we fall from Cloud 9,

as we free fall out into nothing...

World wide assisted suicide,
I held him until he died,
self assisted suicide,
from a self inflicted desire to die,
had that beautiful corner office view from floor 49,
until he jumped out the window when he went out his mind,
sometimes the darkest souls burn the brightest lights,
for better or for worse these are the days of our lives,
be careful what you wish for be careful what you find,
and I'm not Darth Vader but welcome to the Darkside…

Who decides,
who lives and who dies?
No one does,
and that's because,
everybody dies,
Bulls eye,
spot on,
bodies in,
the Hudson,
no man or mother is a match for Father Time,

what Son?
What's one,
life when all is divine,
as we walk the line,
with a pocket full of Johnny Cash,
Persian rug burns I've developed a rash,
as we walk the line,
tight rope,
tied between Twin Towers,
a World Trade of world slaves,
intoxicated by the power,

in the Belly of The Beast,
got the Bull by the horns,
so we grin and Bear it,
we take the roses with the thorns,
as we count the moments,
down to the final hour,
there's no time left for atonement,
because our souls have been devoured,
so now we're in the Belly of the Beast,
forgot the Ten Commandments here in the 11th. Hour,
at war with ourselves death will be a relief,
looking forward to the moment when we can finally rest in peace.

Peace.

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

from The H Trilogy;
available worldwide 7/7/16

https://www.amazon.com/Poetry-Trilogy-3-TPT3-ebook/dp/B00YB4ZBDW


Bam!
Rina Vana May 2016
Thousands of humans paint the empty air that
lives on the ***** surface of the subway floors

They wait impatiently
for a train to take them to their eventual destination
twiddling thumbs,
no hint of conversation

Mesmerized by hand devices
and every so often,
a book of pages

Careless children brag in their aura of innocence
creating circles of shimmies throughout strangers with
more laughter than the concern of danger

Polka dots dance with legs no longer than
half the height of the turnstile
filing memories while adults admire
and flash photos they’ll show forty years from now
yacking about young New York and the old times it holds
Rina Vana May 2016
Eleven days into April I threw on an emerald vest with the warm woolen center. I don’t have gloves on my body. I don’t even own those hip knit gloves with the finger holes. What happened to the spring we once knew? Lavender and full of flowers. Two days into May a year ago the New Whitney opened up to the paparazzi of opaque robin and I got drunk from a clear plastic bottle clearly full of ***** at their kickoff public block party. Nobody tried to stop me. Probably because I’m pretty. A DJ played techno beats thick enough to indulge the vast street. I danced alone on steal blue cobblestone with red-pigmented toes. My flushed eye caught colors of something that made me imagine van Gogh and did it hurt? To chop off his ear? Where would he put the fallen flowers if he picked them up?

Free drinks?
Yes, please


Passed out in the grass on the backbone of noon, I swallowed his tongue and tasted every forsythia he’s ever eaten. Maybe I was just dreaming. I recall catching a cab with my best friend because we were too wasted to make it on foot. Taxi wind whipping our hair into a tunnel. Heavy letters unopened on the kitchen table. Cherry blossoms covered the cracked leather and they smelled so much like your backyard. I’m probably dozing off to sleep.
How is it I can only see you when my concrete lids finally meet?
India Rose May 2016
i can write that it’s like a
house, neither here nor
there. when i want to, i can
go inside. i cried all
morning. took a red pill and
went to sleep. it melted in
my mouth. it tasted like
cherries. it tasted like
plastic. it felt like a hospital
bed. it felt like hands.
warm. i keep seeing all
these tiny hands all over
everything. i wash my
hands compulsively when in
new york. a lesson in how
to remember every single
thing you’ve ever touched:
plenty of dirt. every single
doorknob. and scissors.
i think we try to forget. i lay
down and google
symptoms of bipolar
disorder. i realize that i
know nothing about
anything. where do i go
when i go inside. what do
those hands feel like. they
feel warm. they look pink.
the walls are clean. the
fingernails are clear. i can
write that it’s like rainwater
getting on the legs of my
jeans in the shape of a
semicircle. all of a sudden
my legs are too long to be
safe from anything
anymore. the rain, and other
***** things. being pinned in
between the door and the
wall, saying, I’m here, I’m
still here, you’ve got to open
up now so I can get out.
scissors, for people who
are left-handed
and the most dangerous.
she tells me, get clean
before you come here. of
course i am, already. i am
taking up her whole offer,
rattling off my anecdotes,
putting an entire strawberry
in my mouth at once. it feels
hard. like the space when the
dust settles and you’re
spitting up ash that rained
down from the things that
broke. it got in your eyes
and it got in your mouth.
the broken thing is inside
you. the survivors went out
to the garden to get some
fresh air. they’re all
coughing up smoke still.
you’re like a house. that’s
why they came here: to
get safe. there’s a welcome
mat that looks up their skirts.
there’s tools on the kitchen
counter. the furniture is all
from the trash. there’s no paper
anywhere. not a single pen.
to exist in nothingness:
the space in between the
door and the wall.
the empty fridge. the
crater from the doorknob
that comes from the door
flying open, banging against
and singing, honey i’m home.
black bruise turning purple
under your fattest finger
pressing down, hard. a place
to sleep, where you grab and
hold yourself from behind until
your breathing gets slow.
something that’ll be there
in the morning. a promise of
comfort. a single comfort. a
single hope. you know
things like it: the old ice tray.
instant coffee. hand sanitizer.
cheap but good. the door has
got a good lock on it. it
clicks big and it's safe inside.
for now, i’ll just be a house.
neither here nor there. looking
around and saying, it’s ok.
such clean walls. two whole
windows. i’ll be fine to exist
here for a while.
writing about depression is hard
Vamika Sinha May 2016
the girl with the blue hair
bled outside of the lines
like the overdose of colour in the
comics that she read.
big eyes and
big lips - the girls on the pages
had hearts for eyes and tears
of fat diamonds.
their sadness so precious.
their affection spans shaped
like rainbows in the
big big blue.

she liked all the colours.
the girl with the blue hair
painted her lips
in the new york cold for
life should be livid, life should
be vivid.
and she
wanted the colours
inside of her blue.

like inking a sketch she
filled herself up.
i was silent when this meant
she threw herself at countless walls
to call
the carnage 'art' -
see how

the girl with the blue hair
became an artist.
poems for a friend #3

I feel that this one might change. Perhaps it needs more colour.
oui Mar 2016
it's that little voice inside your head that screams anything is possible ******, go shave your head go kiss that human that looks so beautiful tonight. It doesn't matter who you are today if you want to be someone new tomorrow. i find glowing and growing with this unattainable energy each time I visit the big apple seeing one thousand faces today I'll never see again past this moment.

we are so ******* little in the bigger scheme of life, in the most beautiful, unique, unrepeatable way.
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