Rise up adolescent
And start to overcome
The burdens and hardships
Adults stand upon

Society strives to forget you
By paving a path to obsolescence
It fails to see the potential
Within your naive, yet growing luminescence

Take heed young one
Let nothing diminish your roar
The world may not be aware yet
However, it needs for you to soar
Teach them well...Hope is something that dwells within us all. While it lies dormant in some, it's innately abundant in our children!
New sights, state lines and new frames of mind
Buildings, kissing skylines like mother and child
Paintings of people I’ll never meet nor know
Their eyes speak of things they never said, never told  
I can see what they want
I want the same
Their humanity saturates the colours of the paint and their veins
They had their secrets, but now I have them too  
Polaroid cameras, toothy grins and breaking the rules
We’ve never been so far from home
But we’ve never felt so free
Dancing on cobblestone beaches
And staying up well past three
Board games and liquor
I can’t feel my face
Is it my smile or my cup?
Or the sweet velvet taste?
My lips chapped from the cold
Your lips waiting my return  
Life is good, life is wild
And I’m well ready to burn
draft
Blotted down on the plane.
You preferred the Mahler
rather than the Delius;
the record played on
your Hi-Fi as we sat
on your blue sofa.

You'd brought us two
glasses of whiskey
and we sat and listened.

There was a print on the wall:
some country scene,
lovers at the corner, kissing.

The curtains were drawn closed
to shut out the street lights
and moon.

Not sure
I could be roused
by Delius, you said,
Mahler it is
who rouses me.

We sipped and sat
next to each other.

Last time I was there,
after Mahler's 5th
we went into your bedroom
and undressed
and made love.

After we lay there hot
and drenched with sweat,
and you said your husband
could never bring you
to such heights.

I remember
our first time,
a year or so before,
and I had come
to your apartment,
and after talk
and drinks,
you seduced me.

You were much
older than I,
but it unwound me
and brought life back
into your bed.

Sometimes I brought
wine or sherry;
often we drank
a whole bottle
between us.

Years later,
a friend of ours
stopped me and said
you had died:
your heart had stopped
and you were found
alone on your bed.

I hadn't seen you
in years;
we had drifted apart.

I remember
your warm smile
and over-beating heart.
I’m slow when I walk now.
My eyes are getting rheumy.
I get crabby sometimes.
I know it. So sue me.
I only hope, when it’s time
That you remember this song;
That you have the fun I’ve had,
That you should live this long.

Being young wasn’t always
The basket of puppies was it?
Remember the growing pains
And all the things that cause it?
It requires that we persevere
And face things less than fun.
It starts right away in life
Well before the age of one.

Every age has it’s roadblocks
And sometimes its outrages.
Some politely refer to them all
As life in all of its stages.
There’s getting back on the bike
After we tumble and fall.
Rollerskating and sports, too.
We manage to learn from them all.

Age makes treasures of memories
And gold of the brass we once had.
The thing is to celebrate age too.
Applaud this stage and be glad.
Slow down when the old must walk
And have some good words to say.
And then walk behind them and smile
Because they are showing you the way.
I’m resting my head on the surface of your knees. my face only skims
and my fingers are curled in the coarse denim of your jeans.
my palms sweat effortlessly.
look my prize is in my hands,
but my efforts you foresee.

I’m enshrined but your eyes glaze views ahead, no blinks
blind to the tug on your skin. Numb, you are
so am I.

The shirt pasted to your chest, you nudge. Uncomfortable.
see I’m so helplessly sewn into the frail hem of your pockets
and I’m senseless here I can’t dance.

Then I’m woven into the smoke infused cotton, and it’s so sweet.
it sours the salt dripping from my tears.

you balance with your knuckles and emerge from your seat to stand.
and I find that I melt into the carpet as you trail me behind so violent
I rot down into the lips of the floorboards.
not yours.
3 june 23:12
Dolores 3d
Here I stand, in front of the grave
Filled with little white stones.
And the white dress wears the young bride
Covered with the lid of darkness.

The boisterous wind blows,
Brings the smell of the flowers in bloom,
Soughs in the culms of grass and leaves
Which, forced to run, stay still in one place,
Fastened to the ground by their roots,
Tied to the stem by their petioles.

And my hairs, too, dance rapidly,
And their moves are various,
As the beautiful music of the wind
Grips them into a rampageous ball
Of free spins, thunder claps and reverse turns.
But they stand firm on my head,
As if glued to the surface,
Allowed to move only their bodies.
And they swim in the pool of perfumes
Brought by the wind
From the violet hyacinths and yellow daffodils.

And the wind invites the dark clouds.
They are on the horizon, with the storm
Hidden in their heavy bellies.
And as the storm joins the ball,
The dances become faster and brisker.

And with this ball on my head
And the storm in my heart,
I stand in front of the grave
Filled with the little white stones,
Still as the mountains and silent as the outer space,
Where the young bride rests.
And the noise I hear
Makes me want to drown in the silence
Of the little white stones.
I wish I could be the one lying in this grave,
While the young bride would enjoy the ball.

She wanted to live but died,
And the death was sudden,
Came as this boisterous wind
And stole her life.

I did not want to live,
I tried to take my life,
Yet I survived.
I would give my life,
So the young bride could live.

I am ready to die.
JAC 4d
Sometimes I'll catch
a sentence of a song

and all at once I'm seventeen
open-eyed and wide-hearted

taking the bus home from work
late in my dad's leather jacket

worn out shoes and transit tickets
and that stupid Pink Floyd t-shirt

with hopes high as the buildings
I dreamed of living in someday

on my way back to homework,
leftovers and a messy room.
I've fallen in love with nostalgic realism in poetry. Ironically, this is the style I began writing poetry with, years ago. I love characterizing a nobody with distinct and simple details.
Dean 4d
Reach unthinkable altitudes
Occupy the high ground
Run across the roof of Africa
Jump hoops over the Grand canyon
Scaled mount Everest...Camelback
Across the sands of the Sahara
Paraglide over the Outback
Touch the treetops of the Amazon
Swim like salmon against the grain
Scaling waterfalls to finally spawn
The next generation of overcomers
Live life to the full while young
Live positively you can do it
Idly stationed in the bucolic hills,
sits a stone well; unknown when abandoned.
Though her people foregone, water yet fills
as much as you can want for. In tandem,
are high trees less old than she, occluding
the view from pathless and naive strangers.
As their wish in well is to keep obtuse,
those that siren would otherwise capture.
Her drink, one thinks they'll constantly receive,
in reality, they'll only be taken.
Youth will fade as the heart minutely bleeds.
Their hollow, dried corpse will be forsaken.
And though her hole but a tall dark crevice,
I see my reflection on the surface.
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