The old man sits in the dark,
fire by his radio, listening to
John Legend sing about his all,
which I guess is a lot since
he goes on about it for
four or five fucking minutes.
I sit here and think about all the reasons
I hate 13 Reasons Why. I sit here and
smell my candle, to my future.
I think about Miley Cyrus masturbating
and wonder if she feels pleasure
  like you or me.

I don't know what kind of creature
  is out there.  I don't know
how  to  feel  about  the  world.
My bedroom door may be paranoid
for me,   and I have anxiety over
  knocking that may never come.
Or maybe it will come and I'll
  be ordinarily unprepared for it.
Unprepared for it, as I normally am.

Visions of Japanese women
  dance on the ceiling, like silver
statues in garments of gore.
Or maybe they're not Japanese
and that I am a racist or under-
-educated -- which is most likely
the  same  damn  thing.
  They dance on my ceiling
and I stare, no longer wondering
if I'm rude, if they're real, if
the house I live in is current-
-ly losing value. These type
of things just happen, swear.

My candle is burning bright,
reaching towards the hugging
  blinds; smelling like sea salt
and an ocean I will never touch.

Babe 7d

The best kinds of kisses are the ones that you don't think about.
The ones that take a look into your eyes to get the mood right.
The ones that cut off your thoughts, your words, your mind
But don't make you stress about doing it right.

I was never much of a kisser,
No one wanted to kiss me like that.
That is until I just bit the bullet and took matters into my own hands.
I just did it, for once.
And, for once, that was enough.

It was just a little kiss.
I'm sure it lasted a second.
You told me your name and shook my hand and said 'I think you deserve a kiss for that'
After duetting with you on karaoke.
How millennial!
How divine!
I just looked up at you and it happened just like in the movies
And I pulled away because I had to leave.
You kissed me on the cheek and said goodbye to me.
But I wish I could kiss you again.

When you fall in lust on a night out.

Nima said
she was pissed off
and wanted out
of the hospital.

I was visiting her
outside on the lawn.

She was in her
getting some sun.

What's up?
I said.

from the quacks
to the food
to the damn ants
creeping along the floor
by my bed
she said.

Aren't you allowed
out into town
or up to London?
I said.

Fuck them Benny
she said
just because my mother
put a bad word in
they don't trust me out
in case I go get a fix.

A nurse passed by
out on to the lawn
to attend to a guy
who was doing something
with his penis.

No no Henry
not out here
she said.

Nima shook her head
see what I mean
I'm a druggie
these people
are mentally ill
why am I with them?

The guy was taken back
into the ward
by the nurse.

I looked at Nima
I wouldn't get you drugs
I could tell
them that
I said.

No use Benny
they won't listen.

She lit up a cigarette
from the pack
I brought her
and I lit it
and lit one for me.

A radio played
from the open window
of the ward
a Beatle song.

We sat
and smoked
and talked more.

Henry stood flashing
by the open ward door.

Wyatt R 7d

When we were kids, I'm sure
we had our own naive ideals.
We had aspirations of being
superstars, heros in the making.
As time flew by us all,
I watched you all grow colder.
I've been weathered too,
but I still kept what was in me.

Now is it out of line for me
to ask who are you now?
Am I in a place where I can say
you're someone else now?
As time flew by us all,
the age began to set in.
I've got a lonely life ahead of me,
you all left and now you're
one with the world at last.
Did we all conform to the
concepts we deliberately defied?
Will our dreaming youth
stand the test of time?

I still dream everyday.
sunflower Apr 18

we run and run
through the spotlights
under the street lamps
and the trials of what is yet to come.

you and i have gone a long way:
you were there when the girl who
first stole my heart
had shared a milkshake on
red leather seats,
and when the same girl left
without me
after paying her bill.

the night is young,
our neighbors are nowhere but in the land
that their heads paint as they sleep;
you and i become artists of the sidewalks and
the rough concrete.

we leave our mark.

"long live the thieves of the street."

inspired by "first love that came to be in diners and friendship that thrived on the streets"
JR Rhine Apr 18

I left
immaculately folded tan chino pants
cuffed and disheveled
atop the department store rack
in the Young Men’s section.

They were too big at the waist,
letting me swim laps in them,
stretching out the front with a thumb and forefinger
looking like a successful weight loss ad.

Atop the rack they sat,
cuffed and disheveled,
amongst immaculately folded
tan chino pants
its kin
and they looked human.

Something about them,
factory made, dime a dozen,
not on sale,
but with the spectral imprint
of spaces and wrinkles where legs had been
amongst all those patient, forlorn folds
gave humanity
to the anomaly.

Joshua Haines Apr 18

She painted her nails
some shade she hoped
reflected her personality,
and she thought it wasn't
  honest that they weren't
chipped yet.

Her parents sat on a couch
that slumped around the
  middle, gathering the mass
of her parents,
  maybe the mass of her world.

And they yelled at this
boxed television; a t.v. so
fucking strange you had to
  swear, swear, swear
you were stuck in 1997.

1997, our year of Jordan:
a unisex name that bled
'I am the same and name of
some place I'll never go;
so place I'll never be big as.'

And our Jordan looked
  at her nails; and she
looked at them again, walking
to her campus, thinking,
"It's not honest that these
are not chipped."

But she had dreams, or
something close to what
a dream used to be.
She didn't want to admit
she had the American Dream;
a dream that millions had,
because the odds of compet-
-ition didn't intimidate her;
she was bothered by the thought
  of sharing something with
millions of people she would
pass on by, asking for nothing,
not even the acknowledgement
  that, yes, we are all in this
together, and to kill each other.

You see, this isn't a normal thing,
Jordan Racer-Cameron would
throw-up all over the waves
bouncing towards the ears of
those girls -- you know -- who
sat around the edge of standard
  cafeteria tables; those girls with
perfect nail polish; those guys that
would write shit like this.

"You see, this isn't a normal thing,"
she vomited out, holding her phone,
"It's cracked but I am not. Every one
will think I am damaged -- but I am
so, so, so not fucking damaged.
I am not broken. There is no way
I can be broken. Ah, no; I wanna
live in Los Angeles. I don't want
to be some broken, fake wolf."

When she flopped home,
passing perfect green squares
surrounded by perfect white teeth,
she tripped, kinda fell, and kinda
  caught herself.   Raising her hand,
on her knees, under a coal dust sky,
she rose her hand before the burning fire,
smiling at the blood splitting her finger;
smiling at the middle nail's fragmented being.

She sucked the blood off,
feeling free of the prose,
found her home,  
and greeted her
   potatoes of parents.

Joshua Haines Apr 16

We ride bikes
to parks in our heads
and pedal our bodies
to safe-ish places
  in our beds.

We spend cash
in eight minutes,
that we worked
eight hours for.

We talk about
our ceiling
but are content
at our floor.

We experience
suicidal ideation,
on a day-to-day stasis,
and insure our
  troubled vessels,
on a six month to
  twelve month basis.

We ride bikes
alongside trainless tracks
and wrestle, naked,
on our backs,
smothering the grass,
muddied past our feet,
we ride our bikes, incomplete.

daisyrae Apr 14

let me sip this wine
and go back in time
          to when we were young & free.
running wild
          not much on our minds
         where we could get the next dime
         over each other's bodies
         so they wouldn't see the bruises
         there's more on your mind than drugs
what is this side of you?"
         "it's the side that no one knew
cause life is a blessing
         and we're wasting our youth."

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