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Lily McLaughlin May 2015
I can't speak.
Writing is the only way I can truly communicate.
I mess up my words, I say too much at one time.
The chaos that is forced out of my mouth never seems to come out right.
When my pen hits the paper, or my fingers hit the keys.
I am finally at peace.
The words pour out of me.
Maybe this is what it feels like to finally be free.
Even when I text, my words morph into a confusing mess, but when I write.
I finally won the war against myself.
Against my greatest fear.
Telling the world what I really want them to hear.
-Lily P. McLaughlin-
what is it about writers
we put words to emotions
to experience
to life

life others are afraid to acknowledge
maybe

experience others may have had
Or have not had
maybe

emotions others have equally laid with
possibly more
maybe

words are vehicles

writers speak not of the contraption that brings about motion
a writer speaks of the navigator that discerns direction

©Christopher F. Brown 2015
Rebecca Gismondi May 2015
I.
I think you would look brighter with a fresh coat of paint –
a pale blue would suit
your face looks red,
like someone described to you
how you looked in your skimpiest underwear,
like he used to say how much he loved
pushing down on your hips,
melting you into your aqua sheets

II.
the cherry blossoms look promising this time of year
I feel a longing to chop them down
and press them into all the books I own
I promise you that I will comb my hair 100 times in return
I will iron out the stretch marks on my skin –
I won’t pull at it, I promise!
stay vibrant

III.
in the middle of the night,
while I am surrounded by strangers,
home will call and exclaim:
I made fresh scones
and the smell followed me all the way to the top of the tower!
and
I finally took two steps
towards the German shepherd
that terrorizes me on the way
to Christie Pits!
and
he told me my eyes were like
the blue of his favourite childhood jean jacket –
he told me I felt like home.

IV.
my two brothers might have long, swaying limbs when I touch down
mom’s arms might wrap three times around me
she will say,
“I love your peonies growing the length of your spine”
and water them as I lie on my stomach
dad will have feet made of concrete
but his body will still be like palm leaves
I will have to laugh at my own jokes
and ice my own bruised knees
for a while

V.
above all, I wish for the following:
sturdy legs that don’t give out after I’ve walked the length of a strange station
searching for a runaway train
a glimmer from the sweet Parisian rain and the blissful Spanish sun
a new set of lenses with broad castles and rough cliffs and extensive oceans
a jar full of foreign voices, bright smiles, truths
and the fullest heart –
I hope to find me.
Matthew Randell May 2015
Radical as Shakespeare
Cool as Frost
Spooky as Poe
Cyclic as Lee
Rounded as Austen
Abundant as Brontë

Earnest as Hemmingway
Skarlet May 2015
I am so sorry you fell in love with a writer.

As I sit in this coffee shop and my ears are consumed with guitar strums and voices I've never heard, I realize how unfortunate it must have been for you to fall in love with a writer. I've written you into so many pages of my notebook and even if I set every sheet to flames, my words would still exist in this atmosphere. They will not die when I withdraw. They will not fade when you disappear. You are dangerously out of reach, but you are almost tangible within every heartbroken expression I offer to the air. You will exist throughout every website where I mistakenly proclaimed my love for you. You will occur every time a girl faces her first heartbreak and seeks comfort in my art. You want to die, but you will prevail in every retweet, reblog and share. I know you want to be forgotten just as badly as I do, and I should consider myself lucky that I won't live in the creases of every journal you own.

I am so sorry you fell in love with a writer.
Lily McLaughlin Apr 2015
When my temptation is trying to rip me a part at my seams.

I stop to think is it really worth it?

To give it all away?  To someone who isn't even going to stay?

No, it's not.

Now, I tend to pick up a pen and paper, and let my frustration out in the words I scream into the empty lines of my journal.

It helps.
It takes my mind away to another place, far from the strangers face.

I am learning to save myself from my own mistakes.

-Lily P. McLaughlin-
Graff1980 Apr 2015
You do not appreciate me till I am gone
Then you can do what you want
With my words
With my life
Play my corpse
Like a marionette
Interpret as you see fit
Because I am not a genius
Till I am dead
And I can mean what you said
Kooky Collages Apr 2015
So where’s the love that I shall find?
Is it natural or divine?
It is knocking on my door,
But if I open, what’s in store?
Three questions in four lines,
I’m always seeking,
But never find.
One day when I’m looking at the life that’s behind,
I’ll see that what I was seeking had always been mine.
And that questions don’t lead to answers,
Because only time can tell.
So try what you want, and let yourself fail.
Answers are only summoned from our paths as they unwind.
So let your life happen, and leave your worries behind.
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