clever Apr 11
We climb power lines and play Titanic.
We go to parties, but only for the free food.
We sneak out to people watch at Walmart.
We're the whirlwind couple everyone dreams about.
We're what they don't show in movies.
AvengingPoet Mar 20
New York, I won’t come home
Not even if you call
This arcade is on fire
And I laugh and laugh

The blistering cold winters
That took away my soul
In this suburban hell hole
Filled with computerized cynics.

Please don't even call
I won’t pick it up
I never answer the phone anyhow
Why would this be any different?

It surely won’t be.
It surely won’t be.

New York, I won’t come home.
AvengingPoet Mar 20
My love for this girl
Oh, it is all I have
To take me away from this hellish hometown
To start somewhere new where constraints won’t fail me

Where the air is a bit warmer
And where people maybe even care, a little bit
All I ask for is a little bit
A half-light

The ocean is collapsing in on me in this hometown of mine
The ocean is expanding anywhere that isn’t this hometown
This fucking hometown
Maybe all I want is anything but this

Is that good enough?
Will I bloom?
Will the tortured memories of the past drag me down?
Fuck they migh-

Fuck my hometown.
AvengingPoet Mar 20
At least I had my books
They were never enough
And that was the deepest problem of them all
Only liars will tell you they don’t need anyone

My parents and their love of hating everyone
And their superiority to everyone else in this hometown
But everyone in this suburb thinks they’re better than everyone else
And I suppose that’s the greatest joke of them all

I took a walk on this dark, cold March evening
Along the sidewalks of the neighborhood I barely felt I could recognize
It felt like walking without a thought in my head
It drained my brain instantaneously

All I can think is how I need to get away
The evils of this school break
I don’t want to be cruel
Oh, but I have my lov-
AvengingPoet Mar 20
Maybe my thoughts were taken away from me
By those Demons in the Nighttime
Oh, how they took everything I loved
My parents and those selfish causes

Sitting in, an empty room
Searching in, an empty room
Breathing in, an empty room
Taking in, an empty room

Oh how it looks unrecognizable to me these days
And I feel like a stranger in this empty room
In this home that feels empty
With parents who have clearly lost it

And oh how every individual action is judged
In this fucking hometown of mine
By my parents, by the family, by the people
But I had my book-
AvengingPoet Mar 20
This boredom will be the death of me
Coming back to this undesirable hometown
Filled with lonely memories and deathly cold winters
Oh, how I wish to never come back here again.

Those high school graduates who will never leave
And stay in their miserable hometown
Nothing to do, nothing to say
Can barely fucking breathe I feel so restrained.

And I will surely never stay here
With its utterly cookie-cutter suburban homes
Its ungodly taxes to pay for nothing to do
And roads with insurmountable potholes

Maybe I’ll be able to breathe again soon
But right now my lungs feel red and raw
My eyes are blinded
By this fucking hometown.
Lisa Oct 2017
Suburbia greeted me with pale hands in my late teens.
She was a wasteland in a mini skirt; in its’ own right it could be called a Cave with Plato egregiously driving his brand-new Prius 90 miles an hour saying “this is really living as long as you don’t look back” and all you can do is nod your head vigorously because the twisted weed that had settled surreptitiously in your baby lungs was giving you daylight hallucinations. My endeavors didn’t end there when they should have.
There was something uncanny about the way streetlights gave you the eternal glare. Of creating ordinary neighborhood streets appear like you’ve been there before in a dream, in another body. In a dazed stupor the sounds of a television and a light coming from a garage is forgiving in your misguided attempts to be comfortable in a foreign space. It could almost feel like home when your repressed trauma keeps resurfacing while you’re trying to introduce yourself. Almost.
In these polite badlands with everything uniformed the people I met were always trying to stand out from the serene landscapes. Sitting in plaid couches I was giddy playing the nihilist. Rerun episodes of Portlandia playing but all I remember from that smoky room were brown pants that looked extremely crisp to the touch and I wanted to reach out my hands and see if they would crunch under the paperweight of my heavy palms. I didn’t but I’m sure they would’ve emitted the sound of potato chips being eaten in a frenzy.
When I wasn’t walking through dark rooms feeling through what could have been hallways, a family’s living room or the cool gates of hell I was meandering my way through drowsy parties where boys with the names like Dusty and Slaughter were prevalent. Each with their own bizarre story about how they stole their parents’ money one night and took off spontaneously. Driving all the way to Nevada with nothing but half a tank of gas and one pack of cigarettes. You could almost pinpoint their personalities by the type of cigarettes they smoked. Most of them holding different colored American Spirits. Had I been smarter I would have asked for a light and a smoke. Never mind that I was always deadly afraid that I had some undiagnosed lung disease and that asphyxiation was my biggest fear or that I had a pack of Marlboro black menthols in my purse that were over a year old. I found my corner sitting in a worn outdoors chair. The ones where the armrest comes built in with a cupholder. My beer ice cold sitting awkwardly sideways while I tried to consider why the host of the party was wealthy yet so hostile. My favorite party game was the one where I took hit after hit of joints being passed around until I was crazy glued to my chair and my brain started to feel like a lagoon that continued to melt into a Campbell’s soup I once had as a child. Everyone completely unaware of the horror that the house had become to me. Somewhere in the distance I was acutely aware of who I would go home with, why my ventures into the suburbs had sparked my intrigue in the first place. The only reason why I had endured feeling like a spider watching a smut film and why I had lost my virginity just a day before. I was a displaced specimen thinking about her hymen in a room of 30 people or more.
lol my experience with rich suburban kids
Lucy Wooding Sep 2017
Passing through the Amarillo gate,
Abandoned in the Lonestar state.
He could never fathom why God led him this way,
Must be a reason why he treads on dusty plains.

The fiery sunlight has wilted his hopes,
Through these meandering roads, cowboy walks alone.
Rodeo fortune will pay the prize,
And the money earn't will suppress the want for family ties.

The cigar is rolled, as he smokes away his days,
Sun burning his weather beaten face.

A soaring eagle flies over him, the misfit.
As he plays with the thought of free falling from an oil rig.

He strays alongside the vacuous roadside, his eyes encapsulated with dark dejection.
The sky's pastel glow illuminates the desolate wilderness,
Where the purple Scorpion Weed thrives under the suns aggressive rays,
Radiating a rancid odour,
And rabid Coyotes patrol the mountains various nooks and crannies.

Cowboy is hopeless, his soul set in a sorrowful disposition.
Lifeless, like a dead corpse, wasting time, as his numbered days slip away
Like the deserts drifting sand.

The country of freedom is a lie,
A myth that's ruined this cowboys life.
He's treated like an outlaw, though he's not committed a crime,
And his forlorn attitude will remain with him, until the day he dies.
Lisa Jul 2017
There’s a horror in the city
but it’s always Halloween in someone’s basement
in the suburbs the closets are inundated with skeletons
each dressed in friendly attire
but never opening the door
the neighbors always watching through sheer curtains
binoculars at the ready
instead of candy on doorsteps
there’s signs of beware of the maniac with the pistol
locked and loaded watching the 6’oclock news
no apocalypse is breaking into our windows tonight
there’s a hum and it’s making all the locals go mad
they still haven’t figured out it’s the cicadas
not demons in their trees looking for a discount lunch
the desert is a harsh place when the sun is
drawn sloppily on the right hand corner of a page
the houses all uniformed for the drought to come
each manicured lawn is a haunting for the
unemployed drunk in the nearby trailer park
the ghosts of those whose Christmas
doesn’t come in stockings but stalking
and restraining orders
the spookiest part is not the
slasher hotels or the creature feature
shows at the bars and clubs
but the calm, serene and unsettling
manner in which everyone congregates
on Sunday morning to be cleansed
of impurities, each smile stretching farther and farther
until the seconds drip into communion wine
until the hours dissolve in one’s mouth like god’s flesh
reinvented, resuscitated, resurrected

Arise, my brothers
for the pastor is watching
there’s a twinkle in his eyes
and there are boys missing after every ceremony
but no one questions why
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