#curb
All our lives we’ve been told to keep it low
Keep our dreams out of sight and on hold, and our thoughts dressed up in clothes…
Our hopes were like golden blue bows slipping from our frozen poses...
Our hopes for any kind of rightness peering out
from under our beds of excitement turned to functional poison…
And who are we now? The ones that look dead in a beautiful way… we never got to know us but say we’re okay…
And there’s so many actual dead, but we feel like we’ve lost a million realities before us…
So we say how it’s absurd and grotesque,
Shake our heads, and try to expect less…
And when the bullet finally flies towards us in slow motion; we question its beauty… the cold silver glow of a car window with the hope a teetering feeling is imbuing…
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 11:45 AM UTC
She wore the results of last night’s fight
On her face as badges of honor
Sitting on the curb, she is waiting
Waiting for a ride, an escape
Away from this life
Neatly tucked away in a small corner apartment
The sun beats down upon her back
Rays pounding until her body was sweating
And she wanted to cry
No one to call and nowhere to go
She sits outside a church
Hoping for charity
Thinking she should get some religion
Then at least she could confess her troubles
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt
Knowing she had nowhere to go
Except a curb outside a church
Discarded, like a five year old sofa
Permanently sunken in the middle
Or an old office chair missing a wheel
So always teetered to one side
She slumped forward
Watching the traffic speeding by
Hope lingering on her face
Tucked in the wrinkles around her eyes
Maybe, she needed a sign
With HELP scribbled in big bold black letters
Then maybe she could find something more than this curb
Maybe she could find her escape
Her way out of this cycle
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 11:40 PM UTC
I was the king with no throne,
I only sat upon the curb..
My crown was my neighbourhood,
and all that did surround...
I'll never disrespect my brethren,
for they stand by my side,
behind me, in front to protect we, us
all from the idioms of who
think that this land is free verse,
never this is a rhyme of colours
that'll write that this is our
street and others neither may stand
or bellowing there
right to stand on land sacred to our
families.
we don't fight with swords,
but our metal will pierce like
cut from a far we are the knights of
our neighbourhood.
I don't sit on a thrown, on a kerb I gaze
around I wear no crown...
But everyone knows I'm king and ill
bury metal in you like a sword
pieced the stone.
Like that you'll be cold,
metal not pulled but
rather calved out..
Feb 15, 2020
Feb 15, 2020 at 5:41 PM UTC
Snap to
a snapshot of
that time I balanced on the curb
balanced between
the sidewalk and the street
step after step
foot in front of the other
my hands out to each side
to distribute the weight of
the burden on my shoulders weighing
lightly.
Surprisingly light,
my understanding was that it's usually
heavy.
Just not this time.
The sidewalk and the street,
both perfectly distinct
perfectly indifferent.
At times teetering
swaying
for different reasons
as they present themselves.
I'm perfectly contented
balancing on that curb.
At times I wish to walk
on either the sidewalk or the street
one over the other.
And I'm greeted with
either a honk or a fire hydrant.
A minor nuisance
An obstacle or action
that leaves me bitter
that renders me flushed with red.
So I hop back on the curb
not rife with anger or sadness
but indifference
While it may be easy to pick
the sidewalk or the street
the choice shouldn't consume you
leave the curb to divide
follow where it takes you
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 1:50 AM UTC
ive never been
to this part of town
before.
second thought
ive never even been
to this town
before.
then why
does it feel
so ******* familiar
why do i remember
getting drunk in
that bar
chipping my teeth on
that curb.
i think the parts of me
that don't like me
stay here.
calling out for skin.
im freezing out here.
i havent been
warm in so
long
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 12:02 AM UTC
My momma threw me to
the curb like she had a
wanting to stomp me
American history
X
style
to much of her wrong type
of love made her corrosive
in my life.
Telling truths of what her definition
of love was, a gunshot bleeding
every time she let of verbal shots.
But I wasn't the fever that collected
within the palpitations of her heart.
That point which was quenched
by the point of her rage
every time she was coming
down to earth
like she fell from orbit.
But I wasn't a footstep in her failing,
I was a shadow leaving her behind...
Sometimes you have to leave
that which you love..
to make you stronger.
If their there when you return
you know they were willing to change.
And if not,
you just visit there quiet place
and tell them you always loved them.
To survive sometimes we wonder alone,
not to be suffocated by the rot of
another's love,
she curb stomped my love, but I love her though..
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
Lately I.
Can't seem to wrap my head around this recurrent plight.
When I was.
Something playing male and heterosexual, my one regret.
Was I met.
Fearfully disgusted partners, with no touch, nor hungry glance.
Now and queer.
Something more akin to a metronome.
All the same.
Years of absent kisses caress new dejection
in their tidy space.
She said, "Grant your soft skin to devour."
Woke in abundant sheets, in the mess that I left them.
She said, "Open wide for my river."
Eyes up, ingest to distention.
She said, "Thank you for getting me done."
On my back so blue that I'm bruised plum.
Forever waiting for mine, wet with a lover's ***
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 7:21 PM UTC
Y a cuantas querre, a cuantas masturbare, cuantas se masturban, cuantas lo piensan y cuantas lo haran.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC