Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
CK Baker Feb 2017
There were dividing lines
between springfield
and mariners gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union

it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals

camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the pleasant street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)

there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours

it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
CK Baker Jan 2017
In time you’ll recover and absolve
push those scorned impressions aside
hammer down the jaded edges
and sing
that delightful commoners song
the one you sang so well
in what seems a lifetime ago

You really had it you know
that fiery disposition and nimble cunning
those butter chords and derelict style
we could see it -- we could all see it
it was all it took to turn the evening tide
(and rile that buck fever)
heads bashing
tongues lambasting
middle fingers high
and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen

There were no rules
when it came to your survival
no textbook rally or common bond
no structured songbird or bravado stage
you either made it, or laid it
“life by the *****” Mr. Poppy would say
a kaleidoscope of dreams
with rich colored imagery
hardened artisan seams
in a carefully woven motif

But something got lost in the needle point
something sinister and distorted took hold
the quirks and street genius
that were your lifeline
gave way to grunts
and squeals
and chilling night crawlers
the colors faded quickly
to a cold confining grey

There was no grace in the new world
no retribution or switch back
no salvation or accorded finale
only edged platforms of blackened steel
that kept you cased
in a silent vanquished cell
shivering cold with fear
night without day
all in the shadow of death

But time heals all
and the polish sneakers
and open sores are long gone
(though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain)
indeed the falconer beat the widow maker
this go around
and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again
and if it does you’ll see me
standing hand on heart
with that old verse in hand:

he ain’t tainted
or silly,
and most certainly
not forgotten…
he ain’t loony
or fixed,
or a product of his self-doing…
he’s just a straight shootin’ guy,
who had the most of it
figured out
lmbf Jul 2018
To write someone into existence is to take all one is, who one has loved, how one has chosen to love, and spin it into something new.

Yet writing is inherently selfish. I know that as much. Every time inspiration strikes me I know I am imprinting a part of my soul on every word, every comma I carve about someone and someplace else.

To separate truth from nostalgia - that is a question we have attempted to solve for as long as time itself. In my heart of hearts, I know I cannot do it. For everytime their voices whisper in my ear, begging to be painted into a quick couplet, I have to shake my head like a dog out of water.

Every time I write a simple verse, I have to ask myself if I am writing about the people I know (knew?) or the foggy specters of the people I want to remember. Yet we all know the truth: those recollections grow a little weaker with each passing day. The people we were even months ago have been gone for a long time, and writing them out can only bring back half of our lives back then.

But I'll try. For him, for her, for them, I will try. We haven't spoken in years, but through these verses I will try to preserve parts of the world we wove in that old schoolyard - and someday, the world that arose from a burst of yellow on the bleachers, too.
So that if one day someone stumbles upon these words - or if, perchance, they stumble upon this book - the whole world will know I haven't forgotten.
No, I remember everything.

To separate truth from nostalgia - that is a question we have attempted to solve for as long as time itself. These words are my answer.
After writing for six years, I've come to a few realizations that have helped me mature in my craft. Here's one of them. // Summer Freewrite Sessions 2018
edit; thank you so much for 1.1k reads! it means the world to me.
Sarah Nielle Feb 2015
Tiny hands barely able to hold a bottle,
now drink out of one,containing toxins.
Tiny ears that used to hear bad words and coo,
now spit them like wildfire.
Tiny mouths that would be forced to take icky medicine,
now pop pills and insert drugs into their being.
Tiny eyes looking at life as a breeze,no cares in the world,now turn into
eyes that crave attention but don’t care what we have to do to get it

We are spoiling the pure bodies we once had.
People are sleeping around,
when I remember the worst thing you could do is hand-hold.
We take the things we had as kids,
and ruin them.
We honestly take the cuteness and turn it into ...
well that's for you to decide.
You pick if your morals are guided with a compass,
or thrown away like garbage.
Who am i to judge?
But I've also learned,these days,My darling..
This is adolescence.
lmbf Aug 2018
Dear good old friend,

I don't regret a minute of it. Being given the chance to play with you, laugh with you amidst the grassy plains of our old schoolyard. Fifth grade mancala and sixth grade basketball games, the people may have changed but the memories stay the same. And I remember you, me, and our group of friends, and all I can associate with it is the feeling of finally being free.

Who would've known that just four years later, we wouldn't be able to recognize the person standing in front of us?

I let go a long time ago, but try as I might I can't bring myself to forget those years; and every moment is conflated with the kindness of your smile. Almost like it's a portrait frozen in time. While now I know that's nostalgia casting its rose-tinted spell, part of me still wonders whether you think of me, your good old friend, when those years come to mind, too.

You taught me the meaning of seasons. That every season ushers in new people, new meaning; and that what is given sometimes has to be taken away. Though I questioned this truth for a very long time, I no longer hurt over the year we fell apart. In fact, I embrace it. You taught me how to see the joys in life (even when I wanted no part of it) and you taught me how to love. And in doing so, you taught me how to let you go.

People often say that someone might leave your life after you have learned something from him/her. But you always were the exception; you made sure I knew that life goes on no matter who's in it. No matter if you've learned your lesson right away or not.
That just as we learned in seventh grade biology that the human skin repairs itself, we, too, will learn to heal - and maybe even to love others again.

Thank you.

Yours,
l.m.b.f.
Summer Freewrite Sessions 2018 //
though now i can't even recognize the man he has become, here is an old friend whose memories and whose lessons i will always treasure. the wisdom he (albeit unknowingly) imparted upon me before we said goodbye forms a central part of the progression of "SFW 2018" and of my personal growth  this past summer, too. so i felt it necessary to honor him through this piece.

if you have been reading my works this past month - through trending, through your home page, or through a friend, thank you so much! thank you for receiving SFW Sessions warmly and for sharing it, it means the world to me.

if you haven't, i encourage you to check them out. it would be greatly appreciated! (and also some parts of this piece might make more sense.)
Rachel Ueda Oct 2013
13
first kiss
with a boy
man?
drinks in our
blood..
so
young....

14
second base
groped me
high on
hate
so
numb

15
our lips
weren't used
for kissing
I've had enough
so
done

16
self respecting
and confident
loving...
finally
so
happy

17
Just kidding
That was a dream
a temporary fantasy
Torn by real love

17.5
Real love
What I would give
To not know your
Sweetest remedy
20
Love within myself
Is the sweetest I have known
george glass Dec 2015
my childhood was removed from me
inside of a blue mustang
and what remained after that
I tried to barter off the highest bidder
but I grew,
not up,
but forward
further away
slowly releasing
hands of defiance
fists chock full of hopeless words
like anger, the flavor that aches the bone,
the cold kind,
more barren than the green of Christmas lights
glimmering off the icy veneer of a white picket fence
overeager, in the apathy of theatrics,
to strip off the remainder
because the empty feeling that followed
might one day
make a decent poem
lmbf Oct 2018
she and i are separated by three hours and two thousand miles. when i see him in the halls i smile, even though a small part of me is dying inside.

plato once said that we exist in two worlds: the intelligible and the sensible. the intelligible is what we see and can tangibly describe; in other words, the things we know to be true. however, this “intelligible” world only pales in comparison to the sensible, which are the Forms present within all of us. love, hatred, lust, desire. these Forms transcend human awareness of their existence. so she may never know how the curve of her smile stirred something within me, but that lack of knowledge doesn’t make it any less true. and although i may not know it yet, i’m hoping someone is thinking of me, too.
Fall Freewrite Sessions 2018 //
inspired by sophie's world: an introduction to philosophy (jostein gaarder, 1991)
lmbf Oct 2018
there’s a girl in california who knows my name
and her voice sounds like caramel on a sunny day
i don’t really know what i’m doing, but neither does she
let’s forget our time together is shorter than it needs to be

and so
i’m walking to the lake when i catch
a raven-haired girl gazing at me from the side of my eye and i
notice you were staring at me all this time
but if we’re living in the same place, you’re 2000 miles on the other side

there’s a girl in california who knows my name
and when we laugh together, everything falls into place
as if we met somewhere in our past lives
like when she told me, “i really like your vibes”

you see, i am new to this
i am not used to this
of experiencing love that just feels right
and even though ninety-six hours don’t seem like they matter
it mattered to me that we danced at midnight

call me back, tell me what’s in your heart
darling, what time is it wherever you are
i’ve got family across the world but lately you’ve been feeling fur-
ther away
like two boats colliding, then drifting astray

there’s a girl in california who knows my name
i hope one day i can (again) see her face
and tell her that she’s been the light of my life
even 2000 miles on the other side.
Fall Freewrite Sessions 2018 // I'm a firm believer that most people only stay for the season. This past season was particularly eventful.
Dear M, if you ever read this, know that I am grateful for last summer. You taught me the ropes and you taught me to love. You and I are both hoping we will see each other again, but if we don't, know I will be thinking of you.
Yours - always and forever, l.m.b.f.
lmbf Aug 2018
I’m writing this to you now, when I can still purely and wholly empathize with the challenges you are experiencing. That’s not to say that at some point I will stop understanding the way you think, but you will soon learn that time is unreliable. It shifts, but also tends to shrivel and jade our perspective on many matters of the heart. I hope you will be able to relate to my insight here; perhaps, you will even learn something from it.

You will fall in love. No, it’s not always the type you see in movies: girl meets boy, boy thinks girl is cute, they live happily ever after. Love is an abstract - almost like art, if you will. It blossoms in unexpected places. I have fallen in love with cities, the breeze of the palm trees on my face at the top of your great-grandparents’ house, and the gentle tug of the waves’ retreat into the sea. And I have fallen in love with the people around me, in every possible way. If you are lucky, you will have met some of them by the time you read this. But most you will never know - because that’s the way life works. They have loved me and I have loved them, and we have shared the days we were meant to spend together.

You, my dear, will experience many iterations of love as I have, too, throughout all the seasons of your life. Some will bring you immense joy and as a parent, I thank them for that. Others, not so much. And that’s okay! The important thing is that you use both with equal measure: to develop your capacity for feeling, to develop your means of expressing it, and to develop tenacity for handling all the heartbreaks/rejections of everyday life.

These are just some of the lessons I have learned in love and pain, a summary of all the letters I have written from the road. I hope you will remember these and many more, until the next time I write to you again.

Yours,
l.m.b.f.
(mom)
// Summer Freewrite Sessions 2018
The last piece of July.
Chris Slade Apr 1
Ladies of the Net… A warning to male adolescents everywhere…

“Hi Honey….I just got matched with your profile”… At least that’s what I think it said.
Brilliant I thought because I’m available and life round here is, well…it’s dead
“I’m looking for an experienced guy who’s good in bed…  been round the block, but not the clock…
One with plenty of experience and a huge…err…appetite…
for hooking up instead of these inexperienced boys…
They’re all excitable, probably all over too quick…
need someone with poise reserve and a twelve inch errr… Libido?… ego?
Click my pics kiddo and let’s get it on… you Stud!… Well I would!

*******! I’m overwhelmed but let’s not peak too soon…
There’s loads of stuff coming in as Spam that would probably make us all swoon.
So check it out…without fail, “eeeh!”  They’re all there - these ladies of the net - they crop up daily -
Sheila Blige… Tanya Hide… Mandy May,  Bette Sheedus, Lovinia ****…
I’m not sure if these are their real names... But - Phew -
with things like this going on round here we could all get *******!

She says she’s just round the corner, you know like Sompting, Steyning, LA (that must be Littlehampton)… Southwick…Little Haven Halt, Portslade.
We could meet in a lay-by and we’ll get laid… just an innocent little escapade.
It won’t be my fault if you miss this chance…
Just try it - I’ll handcuff you to the bed and lap dance.
Click on my pix, big boy, they all beckon.
Take a closer look at these sonny boy - now what do you reckon?

Well, you’d have to say they do look very alluring in the taster…
so why not just click...
to the next page… see the site… don’t waste-ya time…CLICK!
*******! The screen’s gone blank…
now I won’t even be able to have a __
Knock, Knock, Knock!

"Kevin!!!?"..."Mum?" "Is that you?" "Yes Mum!… Everything’s OK!… I’m just turning out the light… G’night!"
These days the temptations of the internet are many and varied... no longer restricted to top shelf magazines...It's all free and it's coming to gettya - Check out those parental controls!!
I'm grinding
and the dirt
I'm grinding
and the dirt
I'm grinding
and the dirt


And I don't
understand?

I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

please help me,


"The clawed hand is not for shaking,
although it has amazing grip."
-zₑᵤₛ



"Eat a pork shoulder
dusted in granite powder...
dash of cumen, a salty pinch
you'll get over it."
-ᴾᵉˡᵒᵖˢ

                                                  

    ­                                              "He is a porky one isn't she?" -ᴱʳᶦˢ




Betty, uh, Ms. Page,
didn't it bother you?

"Bother me?"

Well you know,
being a person of God,
-doing those things for money?

"Silly, I do what I do
BECAUSE I AM a believer!"
-ᴮᵉᵗᵗʸ ᴾᵃᵍᵉ
grace snoddy Dec 2017
in the light of pure adolescence;
we see.
and in the air of willful disobedience;
we breathe.
our actions fuel off of the energy
of the violent sunsets.
and we find our individual tranquility
in the nights in which we wander.
not only do we wander, but we wonder.

the playful range of shades the sky possesses
makes us wonder and wander.
looking past on the identities
we were told to portray,
we create our own full of
vibrancy and reason.
this identity gives us a powerful passion
that thrives off of the rays of the sun.
a passion that gives us the motivation to
continue on this messy road of colors.
to continue on our ephemeral yet indelible
adventures throughout the course of life.
Arke Sep 2018
do you remember spending hours
in that old beat up car of yours
sharing fresh packs of gum
and old stories about love and loss
concerts we wouldn't see together
moments both shared and separate
and even now we laugh together
share a pint and share our scars
and I don't miss being that young
but when I look at you, I still see
the same person from a decade ago
and it's as though no time has passed
and we are both still teenagers
driving around way too late at night
you pressed your palm up against mine
comparing fingers and hands
I hoped you wouldn't see through
the red flush of my cheeks
so let's have one more pint
get sloppy drunk together
and compare the stars in our eyes
I liked it, that time of adolescence
When my heart and body gripped
Tightened, relaxed and expanded
And the days spilled me all over .

Short dresses, small *******
Rolled their way with you
I loved to sit upon your knee
Head resting on you.


In that front bedroom with broken glass
And curtains grey, unwashed opened to
The streets below and our bodies warm
Curled and curved together in the light.

Love Mary x
lmbf Apr 16
two strangers were passing
each avoiding the other's gaze.
their eyes used to convey love, hurt, anger, joy
all at once.
they had been made for each other,
for a time.

he was wearing red,
as on the day they first met.
it used to mean blooming, like
every flower he'd send after her shows.

then bleeding, as the lovely piano music she used to play for his eyes alone
turned flat. sharps instead of sparks flew
between them,
a series of exchanges that left both wishing that they could return to
peonies on the tennis court
instead of
painful goodbyes in a transient corridor.

now red made him think of borrowing, because he hadn't realized that they were operating on borrowed time.
they made the mistake of giving into
the feeling of "forever," forgetting that one can't disturb the law of the universe.  
their wavelengths were designed to move in a redshift:
the opposite of blue.
the opposite of "me and you."

but the truth is that hardly anything was said.
they spoke wordlessly, operating through gazes and glances and growing pains;
they were each other's growing pain.

two strangers were passing
each avoiding the other's gaze.
they had been made for each other,
once.

in their periphery, both failed to notice a small girl
clutching a wilting red rose
& a poem about lovely last chance first love.
based on “nineteen,” a poem by george bogin, a wilting rose, one hot day in march, and my favorite teacher not-teacher ever.

thank you to everyone who has followed me after reading “reminders.” two years ago i had not shown my poetry to anyone, not even people from my own family, because i didn’t think that my words could matter so much to anyone. and lately I’ve been forgetting the message i relayed in that work, which was a letter i absentmindedly scribbled to myself at 3 o’ clock in the evening on one of the last few dog days of summer. if you’re still reading, please know that you matter. you might not know it yet, but you are ready and willing to contribute something worthwhile to our world. you’ve just gotta take the time to look for how you can do that.

this poem i’m dedicating to someone i love[d]. brackets because i said i was keeping my distance from you for the moment, but i’m hoping you can tell me i haven’t fully thrown away my chances at lovely last chance first love with you, too.
XOR
Cut my wisdom teeth on a bass synthesizer.
As the day of our green patron saint approaches
I'm indifferent to thoughts of debauchery that once
invigorated my soul. This town has changed and I've
lost faith in the session, these memories are so pointless,
I'm somewhat manic, surely a result of excessive stability.
I think this is my prime reason to get out, but
my love for G-twn remains; part of my soul'll be always buzzin'
here, in the city of my birth,
The place where I learned
how to be a human being.
Kyle Skita Dec 2018
The system wants to stop me
But it harps on "you do you"
They say do what you love
Set your sights on the moon above

And alas, should you miss the moon,
You will land among the stars
But what's that worth if I land among them
And I still can't hide my scars

I don't want cuts, I don't want burns
I want to seize the life that I yearn
But every corner's a dead end, a no place
Only choice is a path with no turns

So my favorite time of the day turns to sleeping
Behind closed eyelids is where I can see
The life that I want and shall work for
I will make my dreams reality
D Lowell Wilder Aug 2018
There might have been a time
When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off
Like a gassy sombrero
like a burrito left in the
Sun to bake and there might have
Been a
Time
When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito
landlocked
In New England, locked in a small state of
Fear and knowing that knowing
just isn’t
Enough.
There might have
Been
A time when luxury was a nickel
apiece paperback
Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale
to raise funds for
Their roof.
To raise their
Roof.
And there
Might
Have been a joy in my spark
Plugs,
A joy
In my canter
A Joy in
My legs that preceded my
Fears.
There might
Have
Been a time:
When I would pick one of the seven records we owned
And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will
Have my own money and
buy my own music.
When I idly lift the leaded paint
from the 200 year old wood
And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma.
And put my hand on the glass pane
Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be
1838 again.
Oh where are the people?
Oh where
when there might have been a time
Did I not see who they are?
Or they did not register.
I must have watched them everyday
Observant
so keen to be seen
Is it possible to feel so much
for feeling so little?
Or did I feel gulfs of embrace
that were not there?
I wanted and I desired and I dug.
I craved and thought and speculated
and clung.
And there might have
Been
A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty
Roads of my town.
Invoking our gods.
Invoking my claims.
There was a time when I stuttered with
Compassion and could
feel a touch observed
There was a time:
Across the street in a
lit house at dusk.
Their curtains are open, their lights are on.
Oh, the sun has settled down
There is that time, golden, when I
Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is
Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on
Them and your walls are mustard gold.
Your plates are unbreakable
I see them lustre in the
Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel.
Guns ablazin’.
Trails awash.
There might be a time when I can slip back
Into your kitchen
lick the plates and then
Run my fingers over
the wall paper.
Tracing the outline of the oil
lamps imprinted.
Growing up in a small rural town in Vermont.  The boundlessness of it vs. the containment.
Shin Dec 2013
I don't know how to write happy poems
because I don't really believe in them.
I thought angst would die with adolescence,
but alas I can still feel its cold dint.

Perhaps like virginity this goes too;
no longer a creep standing idly by.
Plastic smiles taped to our cardboard faces
and yours alone I felt the need to prise.

That's okay, because the teenaged rosebud
that we claim to be so very unique
is beginning to wither, can't you see?
And now it's the thorns society seeks.

So look out over yonder cityscape.
Your mask shall be shed only by the moon.
Until then, a cartographer of love;
yours that is, we'll still pathetically swoon.
CK Baker Feb 28
fifteen years through adolescence
fifteen years to build a man
fifteen years to raise a family
another to know who (I) am

fifteen years to pad the coffers
fifteen years to tinker, and rest
fifteen years to reflect on the moments
before the Sunday best
Meredith Ann Jan 15
and in these moments,
of feeling lost enough,
i find myself turning to the tones that narrate my adolescence,
the ones I know every small shade to.

the way the tongue dipped to form those kiwi sounds,
brings on peace like childhood nostalgia,
dripping in rich indigo and sparkling lavender.

i crawl inside of them,
rewatching the story a thousand times over,
feeling the anticipation of the tide's rise and fall,
deep down in my soul.

As whispers of aristocracy,
teenage anarchy,
broken lovers,
and reeling nights,

take me home to my heart,
and I feel known.
Shaine Fraz Jul 2017
He's known to flip a bat on occasion
it's blatant
-- radiating cool kid,
a mutant?

holy cardinal like:
who bare rib?
fresh cut new did,
said -- who is this?

"slow tread, wrangled thee
there's a 4x4 in his 20/20,
he asked -- double play?
the kid ran away!"

kept pace enough for super stardom baring set backs he's set,
lack the vision but he's starting running back,

ran back to the house of worship,
***** housed adolescence,
children they're just victims
with an unnatural talents,

ravenous,
an unnatural predator,
apex,
believed in --

shot blocks and safe *** fingers latex,
washed him from his feet to my index,
He's speechless,
forgiven,

it's blatant,
coverage hidden,
and what's written is
-- this too shall pass,

as he quoted scripture,
his hand on the right shoulder,
Nearer,
he gets nearer,

meter,
100 meter,
still not older or sober,
And too young to know what ******* was

but,
one 'hell' of an athlete,
sadly
his pastor praised his ministries,
monstrosities.
© 2017 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
mjad Nov 2018
I often wonder about my own origin
I wonder how much of me is from just one woman
I also wonder if I am anything like the man
Does my DNA from her make me the good student I am
Does it explain my ever present sarcasm and attitude
I wonder if we have the same personality or mood
I wonder about my appearance and hers
Does her hair also fall down her back or shape her curves
Does it reflect in the same golden way that mine does
Does she also let hers grow too long just because

I know you from online
And from the few files I find
Is my height, or lack thereof, from you?
(After all, I'm only five foot two)
Do all my half siblings know of me, or just you?
Do you talk to my father? Does he want to meet too?

I meet you this week
17 years or 6,463 days
Not a moment too late
A reunion like an awkward first date
I was told to "expect nothing" from it
That I can easily call to just quit
But I know more everyday that I am ready
I want my family tree to be a little less webby

I want you to know I am not mad
I do not cry because I am sad
You are the reason I live the life I have
I cannot be more grateful for that

I understand the choice you made
That raising me was a price you had to pay
Your past is not something to regret
The questions I have are nothing to fret
You might fear the how's and why's
But they're the last thing on my mind
I just want to meet you for you
And to thank you for giving me the chance to live anew
I meet my birthmother later this week and I am full of emotions, but I want all birthmothers to know that the last question an adoptee has on their mind is  "why?" We want to know YOU, the you of today, so do not be scared. ( ps. If youre an adoptee too, hmu! I am here for you on your journey)
Next page