#caulfield - Hello Poetry

***** girls with lousy guys, drives me crazy Maybe you shouldn't feel too sorry. Old Sally, so **** good-looking but a pain in the *** "Oh, darling, I love you." "You're probably the only reason I'm in New York right now" I told her I loved her; it was a lie. felt like five hundred thousand years, looking at all the phonies. Ivey League guys with snobby voices, a witty bunch of actors drinking their tea and rubbernecks stand around to watch. I was a ******* wolf, just wondering for intellectual conversation. Someone, Anyone! Just give old Caulfield the time to spoil your evening because he's not sorry at all.

0

May 30, 2018

May 30, 2018 at 9:30 PM UTC

FrancesMarie

Spoiled apologies - found poetry

***** girls with lousy guys, drives me crazy Maybe you shouldn't feel too sorry. Old Sally, so **** good-looking but a pain in the *** "Oh, darling, I love you." "You're probably the only reason I'm in New York right now" I told her I loved her; it was a lie. felt like five hundred thousand years, looking at all the phonies. Ivey League guys with snobby voices, a witty bunch of actors drinking their tea and rubbernecks stand around to watch. I was a ******* wolf, just wondering for intellectual conversation. Someone, Anyone! Just give old Caulfield the time to spoil your evening because he's not sorry at all.

14

project yourself through the eyes of a chain-smoker. he tastes cigarette matches and drinks staled coffee but eats nothing else. when he lies, feel your empathetic fingers curl around the throat of his soul. when he says he want to die, feel the birds in your chest tremble. when he stumbles through time, through city streets, dead hallways—watch him go. he is asking everyone for innocence. he remembers the days when the sun was bright, and the museum was cold, and there was a frail, freckled hand clutching at the blood in his washed-out skin. but today he cannot buy anything because his pockets are only full of ashen questions—the kind all the quiet people burn away in their loud, loud lives. they keep spinning and he can’t make it to the end of the street. your heart hurts. watch him ask for innocence back and whisper, to yourself, “i want it too.” fight over it. you know you will both lose. his last words are ink. he’s sick. he never had it. you will go to war with the pavement. it will slip. simmer. bleed. fall. no one has it. it died.

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Aug 25, 2014

Aug 25, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC

k-fitzgerald

we are all holden caulfield

project yourself through the eyes of a chain-smoker. he tastes cigarette matches and drinks staled coffee but eats nothing else. when he lies, feel your empathetic fingers curl around the throat of his soul. when he says he want to die, feel the birds in your chest tremble. when he stumbles through time, through city streets, dead hallways—watch him go. he is asking everyone for innocence. he remembers the days when the sun was bright, and the museum was cold, and there was a frail, freckled hand clutching at the blood in his washed-out skin. but today he cannot buy anything because his pockets are only full of ashen questions—the kind all the quiet people burn away in their loud, loud lives. they keep spinning and he can’t make it to the end of the street. your heart hurts. watch him ask for innocence back and whisper, to yourself, “i want it too.” fight over it. you know you will both lose. his last words are ink. he’s sick. he never had it. you will go to war with the pavement. it will slip. simmer. bleed. fall. no one has it. it died.

3

Only when the rain is as Sharp as a torrent of Central Park ice (Y'know, where the ducks are!) Would I blink, Not willing for anything In the world To miss the joyous songs of a Still sunny carousel— Chorus of 10 year old laughter, falling Much like light spring rains (Though none befalls me here) Trickling down my face Like a second baptism.

0

Mar 31, 2014

Mar 31, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC

jedd-ong

Hazle Weatherfield

Only when the rain is as Sharp as a torrent of Central Park ice (Y'know, where the ducks are!) Would I blink, Not willing for anything In the world To miss the joyous songs of a Still sunny carousel— Chorus of 10 year old laughter, falling Much like light spring rains (Though none befalls me here) Trickling down my face Like a second baptism.

13