Gray Jan 2015

My heart
Is a happy drunk
A little too open
A little too optimistic
It's over in the corner of the bar
Playing poker
Screaming at the top of it's lungs
I'M ALL IN
When it's never
To this day
Had a winning hand

My heart
Is a sad drunk
A little too lonely
A little too caught up in tears
It's over at the counter
Forcing the bartender to take its keys
Because it would rather not go home
Than go home alone again

My heart
Is a reckless drunk
A little too unbalanced
A little too impaired
It's over by the door
Making everyone nervous
A little too good at scaring people away
A little too far gone

Like you
A little too far gone
Turn your head
Shuffle away and pretend you don't notice
The breakdown of a heart
Too drunk on feelings
To know when to stop

LITTLE WOLF Mar 2014

once in a while
you have to say to yourself

"I am beautiful"

because no matter what other people think
always love, believe, and take care of yourself.

Live life to the fullest and
never back down.

Austin Heath Jul 2014

Getting ready to play a video game
in a nice, not-actually-dusty-but-
has-the-comfort-of-dustiness-like
Booksto­re.
Maybe.
"Townhall free wifi."
That's just great. I mostly
just cry and complain and wonder
why dolphins are so optimistic as
to not just off themselves,
since they can consciously do so.
Free wifi though.
I mean, that's just cool.

Daylight 4U2C Dec 2014

Maybe I don't have a mind,
but at least I'm not crazy.

I fallen so many times,
so I'm so experienced.

I've been cheated and left behind;
I know my friends and enemies.

I hear the echos of memories;
they see how far I've come.
So I know I've come so far.

Don't have a lot of friends,
so music's number 1.

Would kill for solitude,
but then where is the fun.

Maybe it's complicated,
but that makes an adventure.

Sometimes the darkest times,
are ones we gladly venture.

Optimist living for a life we understand. We were never idiots; we have the upper-hand. Notice their all falling down the depths of agony, but we optimist live strong, proud, and free.

Prabhat Chhetri Jul 2015

like a child who drew
sunshine
on a car window
fogged up by the rain.

Alyssa O Nov 2012

Bright, cheerful, optimistic
The very picture of idealistic

Very short synonym poem...
kg Oct 2014

for seven years i believed that i had no right to say
that i had been abused because it wasn't physical,
like my friend who was beat by her drunk father on
a daily basis.

my abuse was only on an emotional, psychological scale
and while sometimes his hand slipped or gripped too tight on me,
i honestly wouldn't count it as abuse.

recently i began reading into this and while it's not
as talked about as physical or sexual abuse it still counts
and it carries over as children grow up from these experiences.

even experiences that i didn't think counted as emotional abuse,
from times when i was far younger than just a teenager.

the abuse i've dealt with hasn't made me any stronger than i was,
it's made me the exact opposite;
instead of being the person i was before, bright and optimistic,
i'm apologizing constantly for things i don't need to and
second guessing myself and others intentions.

constantly i wonder if i'm bothering someone,
am i being too much of myself? am i allowed to speak?
does my opinion matter? is it all right to assert myself?

after being told for three years that i don't matter,
and there is no point of me for existing and that
it's no wonder i don't have any friends,
i'm trying to break myself out of the box i've placed myself in
and it's so damn hard.

- Oct 2014

i am a dreamer
idealistic, optimistic
the one who imagines her life will actually turn out how she wants

i am the ideal girl to marry, apparently
according to these heteronormative results
that are based upon me knowing how to cook
and liking to sleep in and wear t-shirts
that seems like bullshit to me

i'm not the ideal girl to marry
who would ever want to marry this?
who could i ever want to marry?
to wake up next the same person for the rest of my existence?
to never get a moment to myself?

sometimes i look at her
and imagine my life working out the way it's supposed to
and waking up next to her every morning
and dancing together in sweatpants
with messy hair and fuzzy breath

maybe

Harly A Quinn Apr 2015

I Used To Be an Optimistic
Child

Believing everything was black and white.
~~~~
It was the first summer in our new
home.
I was six or seven
My Father needed help in the lawn so feeling
in a helping mood, I went out.
His hands were in the dirt and his forehead
was bronzed.
He waved his arm at a small,
Delicate flower.
Go pull weeds.
Not one to question him while, he was busy,
I went over to inspect the flower- i mean weed
How could something so tiny, even more do than my hands,
be considered a weed?

My tiny mind thought weeds were
dark green and barley clinging
to life, with thorns that sliced at
other helpless plants and animals.
Almost like bad people.

I imagine it was then that
My small mind had begun
to grasp
at the idea that plants and people alike
could deceive you.

My first poem I've posted.
Zac C May 2013

I consider it
rather optimistic
to view myself
as a small spec
in this large swimming pool
of a universe
because
it only encourages me
to be
bigger

5/8/13
Lysander Gray Oct 2012

Her mouth glittered agape
With sacred promise,
Like a box of unused
Engagement invites
Christening invites
Birthday invites
Still in the wrapper
For sale at a
Lifeline.

When you’d rather live
In a car
Than the zombie stance
Of a modern house,
Clean and soulless
With a hermetically sealed lawn,
Winter pageantry draws to a close
With bogan’s shooting-
Pearly eyed paupers
With constellations in their gaze.
With eyes full of hope and stars
That burnt bright and fade for
Flickering lens light.

Their voices murmur soft
Through catacomb
And underbrush
As only the ephemeral things are whispered of –
Dreams.
The addicts of ideals
The junkies of hope
The drinkers of despair
Have tiger soft tongues.

They lap and feast gladly,
From broken vessels
Chipped with hazardous teeth
That seek to fill their
Ermine mouths with the bloody
Draught
Of truth.
Stumbling through wine-hour
They swarm, with tongues bloody
And all constellations burnt out.

The hyacinth rides wild
Upon her shoulder,
Writhes in the silver brunt
Of moonlight,
Writhes in the stillness of dead perfume.

Marching to the beat
Of my enemies drum,
My hands inside my pockets.

Little bluebirds spun from dream
Sit on the holy perch,
A branch in all innocent minds.

The redeemed and patient
Make a subtle art from
Long distance perversions.

Similarly as we chase ghosts over Daffodils.

Fields of winter
under lunar glow
sway without us.

Long distance love
lingers with loose lust
along Regret street.

I hung it next to the memory
Of childhood cooking and Indian summers
Without further thought.

It slipped into the novel that took the form
Of an old coat, slipping into the lined pocket
It sank with a sigh.
Satisfied with itself.

Bombarded by the pounding
Dead eyed stare of porno goddesses,
Broken by the undisputed angelic
And unglued ones,
All moon faced
All hopelessly optimistic
All lawfully rebellious
With green serenity
We pasted our dreams
On a wall so real it shone gossamer.
He counted the imperfections in the glass
With mind hesitation
As the whole world went black,
In a sea of much deserved discontent,
Wishing for the soft.

A moment of pure luck?
Jesus was an astronaut
Smoking Zen by the fire.

Suicidal angst
never had you in sonnets?
What a fuckin' shame.

Our life is but a song
We never hear.

I chipped away at the excesses
of my baroque person,
each strike took a
Railing
mounting
wall
decoration
desire
demand
exclamation
from the battlements.
All left now, a hill.

I paid for my banquet
with a sip of loneliness
and left behind the question
that asked all quiet poets
the meaning of love,
that asked all quiet poets
to answer with a villanelle
shouted from every
distant peak.

They sent the troopers
to greet me instead,
and my library was put in shackles,
and I kissed their dirty feet.

I answered that I carved this mountain
from the baroque bedrock
upon which they laid their city.
They smiled and asked about the aqueducts.
I wept and spoke of kitchenettes.

A meal provided
on a lead cast plate
my jailor asked about freedom
I answered with defeat.

There were two atoms
One questioned the meaning of existence
The other the existence of meaning.
             -Regardless they looked the same.

An apple on a branch,I took
The same way history takes a footnote.

The same way cashiers are all doctorates.
The same way trains find the station.
The same way you sing like a bird (and I like a cow).
The same way we never really wish to be writers.
The same way our final friend is made of pine.
The same way all streets lead to nowhere.
The same way all jobs fuck society.
The same way we always lie to our children.
The same way a man loves a woman.
The opposite way we fuck.
The opposite way we make love.
The way that I know a man who’s totem animal is a worker ant and he is unemployed by choice.
The same way we take old memories and turn them into fashion.
The very same way all sacred things become profane and all profanity becomes sacred in the eyes of many.

Dying relic of the Optimistic Seventies,
A new coat of paint for the old irony
     -slap dashed with obscurity.
Although I wear the costume of my enemy,
I will write the exaltation in blue smoke
As rape by an unsuspecting victim
Occurs in the dark.

The face of another love stares down at me.
I smile.
Yet I know it is not her.
I weep.
A sudden method sparks revival.

Jackie Pleasure wore a gray smile,
The anthem of a lost generation:
‘Happiness is lost in smiling.’

You are dead to me,
the boatman calls
I will not taste of your amber lips
I will not taste.

The welfare of all never hinged on darkness as we fear the fall,
A multitude of angels sang their songs
And never learnt to say goodbye
Or cast a long distance eye
Over half spent desire.

Drawn out caricatures,
Paraded intoxication
Flirt with our mistress death
And have her pick up the tab.
She pays with silent music.

The sex, we learn, is a bridge
Between all words and waltz’s,
Our Light Brigade to conquer art.

In the twilight of this, our mansioned night
Let us ring out true with indulgence,
Excess, abandon and the call of ‘yes’
Kali rang on the wire of a golden telephone.
Her name
“Kali, Kali…”
Like a quarrelsome minotaur
Flew through the waves of silk ideal
And strangled the babe
With cool breath.

There was ice (oh yes!) and fire and song.
With our candles burnt down to the ash of all streets
We walk then. We walk.
All life is but a song.

The ghosts of all forgotten stamps
Now echo on the wind of speech.
On High! Oh speak!
Of songs sung but never danced
With our broken dream.
When starlight meets the dust, and
Shadow eats the snow,
All our stories are satin sheer
And all our wants are gone.
We watch the memories march, until
They find a sliver of chrome that showed that place
Where all piano’s live and breathe.
My father in the wishing well,
My mother played trapeze.
My sister never saw the light,
My brother never born.
That was that,
Where stars meet dust
And floorboards sing off key.

Over the course of several months, I carried a small notebook in which I kept random musings and poetic snippets that came to me. This is the compilation of that.
nivek May 2014

a date with destiny
many fulfilled
lots more to come

Katarina Elaine Jan 2014

you tell me of all your grand adventures
and how all the lights of the city look so peaceful
from far away
you boast of dazzling sunsets and gorgeous sunny days

but i want to stay inside
the city is dirty and the lights hurt my eyes
i never want to see the sun set because endings are too sad
and sunny days make me sick
i want rain
i want to be able to cry outside and let the floods wash away the pain

"but life is so beautiful on the other side" you said
and i looked into your eyes and with a bitter tone i whispered to you
"i don't ever want to watch the sun set"

it was then i realized i had been watching it gradually fade
the whole time

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