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to the days when we would sit around the fire
singing the only camp song we remember

to the days when we blasted music on our roof at two in the morning
dancing as if only the stars were watching us

to the days when we hunted for vintage records in the city
finding the ten-cent french jazz lp

to the days when we ran down the streets
chasing my longboard, cruising down that steep hill

to the days when we took polaroids of each other
waiting for them to develop in the afternoon sun

to the days when we sat by the river's edge
skipping rocks and fishing for crayfish

summer come soon, i miss you
Poetic T Jul 13
Collapsing emotions
            corrode on my
          ****** perfection.

What was diminishing,
   now collecting in a cup
            of palmed hands collected.

I wanted to no that of your
                            that even
though tears fell,
you never turned

            those now memory to a wine
                         of hope...

Auschwitz was a million
                  tears choked,
but you never turned
a single tear
               to a vintage of peace.

We just choked on the tears,
     and we were a vineyard
                         of silence.

Each a grape that never reached

Instead we fell before we could become
              more that we were.
These tears are sour,
and the taste
                erodes every fallen tears morality.
My happy place is my reality now,
dancing like a  symphony on the seventh heaven.
It's the kind of joy, that'll keep me warm,
when the fireplace freezes and blisters surround my bruises.

The merryland  is not greeting me too long
'cause the reality will take me to the peak and spin away.
I can sense the free-fall charging towards me
and hurling my life back to the ordinary way.

I'd be a happier man if my happiness wasn't real
and if it was a dream that has decided to stay.
Dreams never die, they're like vintage honey,
the sweetness is complicated but it gets better each day.

I can let my summer go on for ages
and lie wasted under sheets of pleasure.
Living the dreamy life will make me a clumsy ******
but will let me hold on to my life's treasure.
Pagan Paul May 7
A vintage year.

Especially July.

It was the last time

one of my poems trended.

Just a piece of idiocy :)
Renn Powell Mar 20
my past lies behind me
like the hairs that are tangled
into a bun resting on the back of my neck
like the world that dangles in my rear view mirror of my vintage
car with the torn seats
it comes to me daily
in everything i do
its there
it always will be there
but my future reminds me as its gushing through my windshield onto my face
its making my long brunette waves shimmer
and my olive skin glow
that something brighter is ahead
annh Jan 29
Cuban motorists
expect the odd puff of wind
‘nother day, ‘nother Zephyr
Wrote this completely oblivious to Sunday’s tornado in Havana. An untimely post - kia kaha! :(
The hurt
That hurts mind and heart
The thoughts, I paint in glossy words
Mould  them in ornate frames
And set free as vintage art
Julie Rogers Nov 2018
Was it you spinning vinyl
In that 3rd floor apartment in New York
Walls close, a small space
You’re wrapped up in my sweater
And singing songs I knew once
To her and her angel face
While leaves paint the pavement outside

Or was it you shouting
In that rally on the streets of suburbia
Last fall, the rain fell forever
But you were brave wrapped in my sweater
Chanting with the big crowd
The air smelled like kettle corn
And the people on the street sides cheered

It couldn’t have been you
On the cold bathroom floor in Seattle
Cold sweats, pupils dilated
My sweater pulled over your sequin dress
Vinyl record song
                in the background
How you looked like disco ball
Shattered on the floor that day

It may have been you buying coffee
Across the taxi tracks in Brooklyn
Americano, extra shot
The city bubbling over like shaken soda
Smiling like the day I gave you that sweater
Broken as the disco ball on the floor
Spinning the vinyl I bought you in suburbia
Tati Oct 2018
Id spend my afternoons in the garden with the flowers
My only real friends.
We’d talk while I drank my milk tea and laughed for hours about absolute nonsense
The daisys would keep me updated on all the gossip going around the garden
And the chamomile’s would offer their advice on anything I needed.
The lavenders would make me laugh
And the roses would compliment my makeup
Since it was inspired by them
I’d bring my diary there and share with them all my stories and the crazy things that had happened to me that day, since they were the only ones that would listen.
They became my only source of joy
One day I walked to the garden, ready to tell them all my new adventures
But when I began to speak, I noticed something off.
They weren’t responding.
I nudged the orchids.
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t any of you speaking?”
I sat there for hours.
No words.
I came back the next day, hoping they’d speak again.
But they never did.
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