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Jo Schmo Sep 2017
The Artsy Black Girl

She weaves fabric through her fingers; mere cloths of Nothing.

From It, creation comes.

You watch her inhale energies that drip like liquid gold in shimmering puddles
Below her,
You wait to exhale.

You did not know you were not breathing.

You did not see you were so engulfed.

She knew that you would be.

And, so, w flowers in her hair and bells on her hips,
She tips her waist in rhythmic twists
and turns
and whisssspers this:
"I hope you can withstand it."

Tantric, isnt she?

Eve genes are her makeup.
From her, you came.

Artsy Black Girl
dances spells around you
To music her melanin makes

And you..?
You stare
And wish upon stars within galaxies she manifested,
that you could be like her-
The Artsy Black Girl.

And she knew that you would.

From gods she descended;
W an all knowing mind, she pretended to know nothing
W intentions of blinding you

Robin Carretti Aug 2018
This is far from a
car S-p-a--C-y
Oh! My? Crossover traveler
The Phyton
Top of the rank
New job space
planning tech magic cursor

Magical Podcast*

Do we have space
Sci-Fi-Hi Meeting
Googling creating playing
Cheating Overexaggerating
And faking our

Not meeting our deadlines
What is the right time?
Spacewalking on the yellow brick
the road you are my sunshine*
"Million light years away from being rich"?

     Lucy in the Sky
       LSD-Little space devil
No/space for Jack the shinning
of diamonds, this isn't Oz
Emerald City or spin-off

Climb the ladder space objects clutter
Posh-Rich Witch is which
The last epidemic standup comic

Crawling having a ball Spalding

That Spiderwomen kvetch
Wolftie face switched
Fox lies moms moon pies
The collision of the moon
Space monkey baboon
The equation or burning
Sun people in devastation

Magic God

What time holds the
Mass control Einstein the professor
The brain exploding stars
Study hall those equations

In Princeton New Jersey
Those tiny particles lost in space
This corporation division
Space Between_

*Hard paper scissors and
Mr. Rock

It's time to money pound
The Big Ben clock
"Do we act like the only
one on this planet"                  
The Singularity
The multiplicity
The burning sun
War of the Military
Hot fun "Twin City"
Medieval twin planets

She's brace-space and he's
Well known physic
energy flowing one
step beyond collision of '
     Two Gods"

Magic space-lotus love of "Venus_

The Mall of America Star Spangle Banner
Next International flight became a winner

Plants and animals
The primal magic
Catching the
planets there both
The submerging eye
Space-out engaging

The civilization nightmare
On the cusp right here
Martian stripe and stars
Wipeout species of mars
Gravitatious collide of lovers
Confused about earthlings
More siblings another planet colliding

Like a space odyssey ground control to
      "Major Tom"
Fe fi fun on space run
Our Earth Mondadori
Spicy pleasure taste for
Chicken Tandoori
Magical dish
Make a wish

Magic hands believing

Metagalactic space and time
Holy God realistic
Osprey someone is the prey
In the movie magical classic
Breakfast at Tiffanys
Holiday mind dressed up window
"Out of our comfort zone
eating to the end twilight zone widow"

The extra enchanted evening
For the Moms only
Our heads over space
heels hit the ceiling

Eggs Benedict, the salt wasn't kosher
Artsy Audrey Hepburn don't push her

Celestial Ocean Space Steven Universe
The Christmas madness sale
Poison Ivy Pointsetta what
a vendetta
Interstellar meeting her
new race feeling out of place
Adulation like a prosecution
Space collide anytime
can explode

Two worlds become tragic
Space station not a game
A haunting catastrophic
Collision Titanic ship

Magically got more modified
Needing a space program the
spy to identify  

Dragonfly to Madame Butterfly
Space of magic crime-space
All spots, not Dalmatian
Space wings set up for Superman
Magic fan rising adrenaline
Monster cookies for Madeline

Fire and Ice Global warming
wildfires now the collision
On another planet warning
Miracle blessing of magic
Someone before or after
just to touch them

We cannot stop this craziness
The outburst goes pop the weasel

Magic place portal
Something in the way
to crumble like a baby
firstborn rocking her cradle

The curiosity space philosophy
Like breed of cats,
Licking tongue envelope
The cats eye Egyptian
Terrified space milk the tabby
Meeting my space hubby

Microscopic became two dots .-.
Space became a new buried plot
Is this all I got Twitter
Home run ball and
New York Dodgers
Brooklyn bat *******

So compelled to the computer
Designed the Rover robot lover
Magical Elton John
space planner
Across the Universe
John Lennon
Bennie and the Jets
Like a science
Teacher's pets

Eyes spaced out the magic place within**
So sacred magic hat Rabbit
Mountain bear Airspace Hobbit
Roll over Beethoven
The dog bone playing space I tunes

The spaceship magic
fingers piano
Plays one enchanted evening
Let me see the beautiful
new awakening
When Robin sings
Her magical wand
Lights up the world
of hands magical awaits

Remember "A Poem" can be magic
Collison in Space or Good earth how do we collide into one another planet some fire exposed in our words can we change the way we feel we collide again but what happens when our planets collide
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
The love pretty please
wait for my
Cherry baby on top
Not some love O-Oreo
I could scream beguiled
Both twirled in swirls
Bavarian cream

Love has torn at the seams
Bad dream hot hit
bounty hunter
Bunny ears of the hop heart
it skips divine lips like a light tower
No other apology cries the thunder

And wait a **** minute
O-Oh-Yes where's my tip

I am not your second
fiddle of stunts
The romance of philosophy

We can fly higher
than anyone
will ever be

The Outgaze O hearts
of symmetry
Being told about their love
or other peoples fun
Twilight apology Wolfin tie outrun

Love O Apology light my pleasure
O on Overdrive no time for the
S letter-word SOS seizure
How many love gestures
of psychology

Love word *O
to Outlive
your treasure
Being psyched for physiology
Feeling mighty good right now
Don't blow bubbles like their
stars* of trouble

A few in the A-New heart stays
ever so blue few Good Men
Perfect Zen thumbs up
His or hers how cute
the words up
The Buddha says
Love is a
spiritual existence

The herbs body rubs
Going to the Hubs
Behind all your apologies
Wearing the new Doctor scrubs
Love house of Labs resistance

The morning glory September
rise and stretch your
overworked wings
Believing never comparing
to another love
It's your love

Or very O for outstanding at the utmost
So incredible the feeling
There's absolutely no apology
The love surrender lion and tigers
So bearable

Her turn like a Turnup
Up close nose smells the rose
Picking love out pulling
the weeds
Her red  embarrassed face
of the radishes
The Shy bush compared
to the O outgoing love
A hint of red delicious apple
Buzzing around the
Mulberry Bush_
Big Ben London
O Sweet Lord of magic singing
*Rosebush* fresh lemons
George Bush Patriotic
Chilean Sea Maiden Bass
Love ******

VIP pass especially with love
Here it is his loves
A spinning wheel so dizzy
London foggy she is the
product of the  flower *****
Like a carnival cotton candy
What a head rush
Another apology and a big push
Those hummingbirds of sweet soul
But something ambushed
She got a lump of his
crab meat cheek crush

Getting over someone never to see them

*Picking out all the petals of the rose when she was with him*

How many apologies open heart surgeries
Apology on hold like a new series
*Wake up "O" my muffin*
Cheers to the world of Oats
Fingerpicking Cheerios
*Don't give in  get to know him


New love *Caved In*
His way per click day
High payments to pay off

BMW Billionaire Man wilted
Love head Beamer
_ My__ World the dreamer

That love pain injury, going faster
Strong love never to lose her
Like cancer Santas Deers love prancer

Fine tooth comb
Negative force to succumb

Artsy wings to meditate
She is destined for something
So articulate
Can this be a painful love of fate?
She succumbs to the time given in
To her O Lord temptation
Words stand alone planet of people
Hearing the real voice no recording
From here to eternity the blasted phone

The Love O not to outwit just sit
And lift your gravity of love
Round earth or your flat on the ground or above
someone knows your true love

*She is combing her hair Silkience Queen of the Divination
Love, there should be no apology lifted gravity that loves O went further than he will ever know her sexuality was smiles alive he couldn't learn his numbers.  Where is the love when your heart thunders world of letters and love writers never to apologize we are the real fighters
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
We spread all over the continent
Your underwater girl event
So many times we
spoke curled up in
each other
I heard your getting
married to my
friend's brother huh?

Best friends acting silly
Girly- Goose rhymes
Girls with special

Like the magical tales
All the males get
better wages

And we are stuck
The unfurl girl
On fuel she got
The longer life eyelashes

The Gossamer
Pink Owl it's her
The Consumer Male
Play Bill

The pink lady fussy-Playgirl hat
The dreamer what's new Pussycat
Her body lined all sheer inside
the curtain's play pretend
he calls every time
Her pink slippers are on

Mystical time of men
Lucky Red dragons
* She Opens up pink for him
She's around all He's
Kitchen pink polka dots
In her Galley pink apron
He's in Las Vegas winning
the slots
Pink Mustang Sally
The dark magenta
Pink sugar pop
Mary Kay
Faraway Fay Dunaway
Powder Puff Maina Delray
Jekyll and Hyde
I'm certain I see him, Sir
She's in the Girl furled State

"It's a girl thing always
showing up late"

Girly whirly Artsy celebrate
Like a party pink
Pink pillow talk naps
Spinning bottle
Oh! her brassiere

Girl gone Genie
in her tutu
The Girly gathering
Coffee and brunch Kong Fu

Whats up with her menu
Eye opener Pirates Carribean
Had her Jungle Jane meal
Those feminine smiles
*** appeal
A million stars of
masculinity the rough shave
Pretty in pink ladies
never behave

Girl's of pink pearls of
Let's bury the hatchet

Unfurl Girl Girl

Her Pink/Gold locket shines
Boys and Girls rocket
Spa creamy
The religiously told prophet
Easter Bunny Jack Rabbit
The habitats of the fervor my
Godly savor
The girl goes overboard
Femininity ****** creatures
not Saints we cannot be
what we ain't
We got the girly features

Many people despise the rose crush
We are a naturally sweet  whole bunch

The pink feminine gift
Be careful in your
girly ways look to your left
Let us change our evil days
Unfurl Girl Girl her path to the right
Prayers become artificial
Materialistic Girl talk should be realistic

Animalistic our instinct ******
The girly specimen up to date
The sweet and so modest
She's the divine
A kiss on the hand
Smelling all sweet

Elizabeth violet blue voice
She symbolizes
Grace so sweet the papers
For a real divorce
Wild untamed unfurled
All softly curled and loved
He looks at her the way
she looks now
But here to Eternity, she looks
amazingly well
Shes the girl-girl unfurl
He's handsomely tall she
is the Princess dressed frilly
Pink champagne ball
Their girly wishing well
who wants to tell?
Unfurl so many twists then body curl or the cheese curls but we are "Girls" having fun what we do best  the world turns but we are girls in swirls spinning twirls we do what we are told to learn? We love feminine smells of perfume and masculine smells of men perfect balance how we look at it remarkable gift we all have
C Evelyn Jun 2013
Harry J Baxter Oct 2013
I could get into the whole
an artist says a hard thing in a simple way
but that doesn't seem to be the case
if I have to see one more black and white photo
of an empty playground
I'll burn every camera store to the ground
and if I hear anymore about how pained your soul is
I might just shoot myself
artsy fartsy
silly *****
these words come willingly
but truth be told
I'd rather read the ingredients on my shampoo bottle
carter Oct 2018
I was once a artsy girl
In a worthless world
A worthless society
Who will ever see?

I am the artsy girl
Writing on my arms with the razor
Drew it with silver,
Watch it fade to a ****** mess, maybe even more

I never will be the artsy girl
In this beautiful world
Who would ever
Do this to me?
Swain Alexander Oct 2013
Canvases.......layered on floor and ready to go. need we used your body parts.
Lighting........soft and turned dim then very low.
Ready willing and able to create works of art.
Waited with shallow breaths in deep anticipation.
Drew back curtain to expose my Nubian queen.
I was breathless as you stood before me naked.
Art creating will never be the same after that.  

Still thinking of all the memories we created Betty
and your smile and **** voice saying you loved me. : )
zebra Nov 2017
i felt like talking that night
reciting poetry to your big blue eyes
and raw pink mouth smiling
high as a wind whipped kite
art, ontology, and existentialism
sitting like lotus
at the
Cafe Figaro on McDougall st
in the west village
belly of a ghost
lost in a vagrant memory

we went to a
little one bedroom flat in the east village
haunted by the vapors of its history
a slight stench of ****
and dingo tongue
dripping toilet
all peeling walls
intimating births, cheer and squalor

after a hot bath
of lathered torsos
we followrd each other naked
winding around a table
into a swaying bed
that beckoned
**** here my darlings

and i licked and drank out of your drenched
rose red blossom for hours
it licking back
I salvaged the loneliness
of my soul between your thighs
like a desolate dog whimpering
thanking God with every graze and ******
of your all supple shifting limbs

your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm

we looked in the mirror
reflecting on my glistening face
all red raspberry
my lips like blood hydras
laughing our ***** off at how artsy we looked
with your rouge painted thighs

appearing as if half eaten
you growled swallowed and
licked big butter piggy
till your nose ran like the Ganges
eyes bloodshot pools of fire
cooing and oowing
driving me maniacal
with every ****** of your wild flicking tongue

we poured our selves into each other
viscous creels gushing
coursing like slime silver

and finally used to the marrow
we found ourselves drooping sails
our eyelids  leaden
the night mist fell upon us  
muttering shadows

and our *** shriveled
like cast-off umbilici
and we fell to sleep
steep steep
like two buttermilk clouds

your company
your company
your sweet droplets
of company
in moon rise
summer balm
*** *** ***  love memory fiction nostalgia
Ethan Robison Sep 2011
Well you see the thing to understand is poetry is a gospel to the world.
At first you feel as if it is oppressive chains tying you down to the soiled earth with every simplistic tick tock.
That is at least until you discover this world has no rules for an adventurer of free verse.
Your words now flow like an expeditious brook as long as you use metaphors with pretentious words.  

However rules exist it is plain to see.
Some poems go aabb.
Those are simple ones to find.
Those are the ones stuck in your mind.

Now one more step, aabbc.
Those are a little more artsy.
You draw your crowd in.
Get under their skin,
And finish a little bit different.

And now it's time for set number three.
One that can simply astound.
The great, magnificent abab.
Those make a poet nearly profound.

There are  couplets, sonnets, and monoryhms.
And now for the last one, all in good time.
I wanted you all to hear them like chimes,
But all that I had I left you in these lines.
TC Mar 2013
Calcified age lines,
driftwood was once a shiny ship:
hallowed bow, curved spine, dead.

Jaundiced and gaunt didn’t appear
until after the fact,
break a bottle on its back
because I'm facedown,
dead drunk, waves of saliva breaking
desperately against the asphalt.
Tree branches grappling together in the wind
are handsome
like a handshake
in a bad poem
but they're just trees, just wood.
I am slowburning like an all natural cigarette.

Jaunt through the woods. Drinking spot.
Acrid friends.
Warm bonfire, I want it to be more like a movie.  
Davy Jones my sorrows. Sitting on a log.
Rock bottom and I’m sitting on a log.
Weird girl comes over, she’s artsy and dyslexic.
I hate that word. Artsy. *******.
She asks if I’m okay and I say yeah.

At home,
exhume pillowcase from *****,
futon forget-me-nots
some thick haired little boy
had curled up to die inside;

Post embrace.
Crashed; a solemnly sinking ship captain
with skin peeling like lottery tickets
too leather-faced to shout anything but
as he goes down
with his cracked nymphal exoskeleton
wipes the fire off his brow
he is burning like an all natural cigarette
but phoenixes are not legends
they are metaphors,
and that is enough difference for me.

The sea is salty and stinging
and they say
a smooth one
never made a skillful sailor
but you cannot build a ship
out of driftwood,
just watch one deteriorate into it.

Maybe that’s the point.

For three years,
I found myself in an oozing freefall
base jumping as I carved through the air
like an anchor
parachute made of somber bottle twist
carved cork and microscope slide,
salt stained shoes,
brackish eyes
distort flashes of organic sunlight
thick necked forays into begging for fare
at deserted train stations
lashed out at friends with bullwhip arms
I couldn’t reach my own back
freefalling, base camp
welling up to greet me
from the depths of a tar pit
but the thing about rock bottoms is:
if they don’t destroy you
they give you something solid to stand on.

And if you leap back up, spread eagle
Like a petrified starfish, swim through that tar pit
that is ocean, the warm hovel of under the covers,
Bonfire, whiskey in the back of an old sailors throat,
All natural cigarette,
You can be born again. I promise.

Depression is not sadness, it is the absence of hope
And it is numb. Reduces us to ashes and drowns us all at once.
But it waxes and it wanes, burns itself out if you let it.

And from that flame, scattered splinters in the ocean,
The shedding of my cracked, nymphal exoskeleton,
I understood the impermanence and necessity of flailing tendrils
White hot curling up a mainmast like a handshake
Wet flesh in the womb of moment between sleep and wake,
Breath slipping away like low tide
Gasping for air until it’s easier to ****
Oxygen out of the saltwater in your lungs
Pain killed a boy and made a man

Watch a phoenix **** a baptism
Violently conjure steam into existence
Just for it to disappear, watch them smile.
You’ll understand.
Sissy Gunawan May 2017
Hari itu hari Sabtu. Dan, aku sedang ulangtahun.

Sepi. Hanya terdengar suara tetesan air dari keran yang lupa ditutup rapat di wastafel dapur. Desiran angin yang menggesek dedaunan di halaman belakang. Bambu angin yang bersiul di teras rumah tetangga sebelah. Jalanan beraspal yang kosong. Terpaan sinar matahari. Mangkuk beling yang diketuk penjual makanan keliling. Suara jarum detik jam dinding.
Dalam diam aku menunggu. Mahesa belum juga datang. Duduk di atas sofa, perlahan kulahap sekantung keripik kentang, suara iklan di televisi kini menjadi musik latar yang mengisi siang terikku yang sepi ini. Lupakan fakta bahwa kakakku, Mas Kekar, adalah satu-satunya orang yang mengingat hari ulangtahunku. Ucapan ulangtahunnya tiba tadi pagi pukul tujuh lewat pesan suara. Kalau ada Nenek, ia pasti akan membuat kue tar dan nanti malam kami akan duduk melingkar di atas meja makan, menyantapnya bersama-sama sambil minum teh lemon. Sayangnya, sekarang rumahnya jauh; di surga.
Tiba-tiba, telepon genggamku berbunyi. Satu notifikasi baru, ada satu pesan masuk. Dari Mahesa, katanya ia akan sampai lima menit lagi. Baiklah, akan kutunggu dengan sabar. Walaupun ia bilang akan menjemput pukul setengah dua belas ― aku sudah menunggunya sejak pukul sebelas lewat, sekarang pukul satu, dan lima menit lagi ia akan datang. Menghabiskan waktu seharian bersama Mahesa selalu menjadi momen istimewa bagiku, membuat jantung jumpalitan tak karuan, dan berakhir tersenyum-senyum sendiri setiap kali sebelum memejamkan mata di atas tempat tidur pada malam hari. Singkatnya adalah orang ini selalu membuatku bahagia, sadar atau tidak sadar dirinya, ialah sumber kebahagiaanku. Bulan dan bintang bagi malamku.
OK. Kubalas pesannya, lalu kubuka pesan-pesan lain yang mungkin belum kubuka. Tidak ada pesan lain atau telepon. Belum ada telepon dari Ayah ataupun pesan singkat. Entah kapan ia akan pulang. Entah kapan ia akan menyempatkan diri membuka kalender, teringat akan sesuatu, dan mengucapkan, “Selamat ulangtahun.”.
Aku berjanji tidak pernah ingin jadi orang yang hidup tanpa memiliki waktu.
Bel berbunyi dan pintu diketuk. Spontan, aku merapikan rambut, memakai tas selempang, dan bangkit. Kusiapkan senyum terbaik untuk menyambut Mahesa. Setelah pintu kubuka, senyumku langsung sirna. Mang Ijang, tukang pos daerah kami yang malah muncul.
“Siang Mbak Maura, ada tiga surat buat Bapak,” dia menyerahkan tiga surat berbentuk persegi panjang yang sangat familiar bagiku. Sudah berpuluh, bahkan mungkin ratusan kali aku menerima surat macam ini sejak lima tahun terakhir. Kubaca nama perusahaan yang tertera di kop surat itu. Masih sama seperti biasanya; bank, perusahaan listrik, perusahaan telepon.
“Tandatangan di sini dulu, Mbak,” Mang Ijang menyerahkan pulpen dan sebuah kertas tanda terima surat. Setelah kutandatangani, ia pergi.
Kubuka surat itu satu per satu sambil duduk di kursi teras. Surat-surat tagihan, seperti biasa. Hampir dua bulan rupanya Ayah tidak membayar tagihan telepon. Aku bahkan tidak berselera lagi membaca nominalnya. Aku menghela napas dan memandangi jalanan kosong di depan rumah. Kuputuskan untuk memakai earphone, memilih playlist di aplikasi musik, menunggu Mahesa di kursi teras sambil ditemani angin semilir.
5 menit.
Everything is Embarrassing – Sky Ferreira.
10 menit.
Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want – The Smiths.
15 menit.
Love Song – The Cure.
Dua puluh menit kemudian, Mahesa datang. Senyumku seketika merekah, walaupun ia terlihat begitu lelah. Kaos polo abu-abunya basah oleh keringat, dahinya dibanjiri keringat, napasnya terengah-engah dengan ritme yang tak beraturan. Aku duduk di sampingnya yang memegang kemudi dan masih bisa mencium wangi parfumnya samar-samar, meskipun tujuh puluh persennya sudah bercampur dengan semerbak peluh. Tapi, siapa peduli? Menurutku, ia tetap mengagumkan.
“Maaf lama, Ra. Tadi ada urusan penting yang mendadak,” katanya sambil memilih-milih saluran radio. 19.2, saluran radio yang khusus memutarkan musik-musik indie dan jadul. Mungkin ini salah satunya mengapa sejak awal aku tertarik dengan manusia yang satu ini dan berujung benar-benar mengaguminya, kami menyukai jenis musik yang sama. “Jadi, ke mana kita hari ini? Dan, akan mengobservasi apa?”
Kubuka catatan jadwal terakhir kami, “Hmm. Hari ini jadwal kita ke galeri seni kontemporer yang ada di sebelah balai kota dan pameran seni di hotel Metropolite. Kita bakal mengobservasi lukisan kontemporer supaya bisa membandingkan dengan jenis lukisan yang lain.”
Kamu benar, sesungguhnya ini hanyalah sekadar tugas kelompok bahasa Indonesia. Mungkin bagi Mahesa begitu, tapi bagiku bukan sama sekali. Kuanggap ini sebuah kebetulan yang ajaib. Kebetulan kami sekelompok. Kebetulan kami berdua sama-sama tidak masuk di hari ketika guru Bahasa Indonesia kami membagikan kelompok dan kami masuk ke dalam kelompok terakhir, kelompok sisa. Kebetulan kami memilih tema seni lukis dan belum ada kelompok lain yang mengambil topik itu. Kebetulan dua anggota kelompok kami yang lainnya tidak bisa diandalkan, yang satunya sakit berat dan yang satunya lagi sudah dikeluarkan dari sekolah sejak bulan lalu. Kebetulan hanya aku dan Mahesa yang tidak bermasalah. Maka, hanya kami berdua yang selalu jalan ke tempat-tempat untuk mengobservasi. Sejak saat itu, aku percaya akan keajaiban.
Semuanya berawal dari pertemuan singkat kami di minggu keempat kelas sebelas. Oke, ralat, bukan sebuah pertemuan lebih tepatnya, melainkan hanya aku yang memandanginya dari jauh. Namun, itu satu-satunya kejadian yang mungkin dapat memberi jawaban atas pertanyaan mengapa dan bagaimana perasaan ini bisa muncul. Bukan secara tidak sengaja dan spontan seperti yang biasa kau dapatkan di adegan jatuh cinta pada film-film romansa norak, tetapi adeganku sederhana, penuh kehati-hatian, dan perlahan.
Kelas sebelas adalah tahun yang cukup sulit bagiku. My dad was busy more than ever—well, until now dan itu tahun pertama Mas Kekar menginjakkan kaki di dunia perkuliahan. Dia diterima di salah satu universitas negeri ternama di Bandung, jadi hanya pulang ke rumah setiap akhir bulan. Aku punya waktu sendirian di rumah dengan jumlah yang berlebih.
In that year, my friends left me. Ghia pindah ke luar kota dan Kalista bergabung dengan anak-anak populer sejak mendaftar sebagai anggota baru di tim pemandu sorak. Kami hanya makan siang bersama pada beberapa hari di minggu pertama sekolah, setelah itu dia selalu dikelilingi dan menjadi bagian dari kelompok cewek-cewek pemakai lip tint merah dan seragam yang dikecilkan. Aku mengerti, barangkali dia memang menginginkan posisi itu sejak lama dan citra dirinya memang melejit pesat, membuat semua leher anak cowok melirik barang beberapa detik setiap ia berjalan di tengah koridor. Lagipula, jika ia sudah mendapatkan status sosial yang sangat hebat itu, mana mungkin dia masih mau berteman dengan orang sepertiku? Maura, the average one, yang selalu mendengarkan musik lewat earphone, yang lebih banyak menyantap bekal di dalam kelas pada jam istirahat. Aku hanya masih tidak paham bagaimana seseorang yang semula kau kenal bisa berubah menjadi orang lain secepat itu.
Tapi, hal lainnya yang cukup melegakan di tahun itu adalah aku bertemu dengan Indira. Kami berkenalan pada hari Senin di minggu kedua kelas sebelas, hari pertama dia masuk sekolah setelah seminggu penuh dirawat di rumah sakit karena DBD. Begitu melihatku duduk sendirian di baris paling belakang, dia buru-buru menghampiri sambil bertanya, “Sebelahmu kosong?”. Sejak itulah kami berteman.
Indira dan teman-temannya biasa menghabiskan makan siang di bangku koridor lantai satu yang menghadap ke lapangan, bukan di kantin. Walaupun secara harfiah aku bukan salah satu bagian dari kelompok pertemanan mereka, Indira selalu mengajakku bergabung dan orang-orang baik itu rupanya menerimaku.
Di bangku koridor itu kali pertama aku memerhatikan anak laki-laki yang bermain bola setiap jam istirahat kedua. Hanya ada dua-tiga orang kukenal, itu juga karena mereka teman sekelasku sekarang atau di kelas sepuluh, sementara selebihnya orang asing bagiku. Di antaranya ada yang berperawakan tinggi, rambut tebal, rahang yang tegas. Aku hanya belum tahu siapa namanya waktu itu.
Selanjutnya, aku bertemu dengan laki-laki itu di kantin, sedang duduk bersama beberapa cowok yang tidak kukenal, tertawa lepas. Mungkin karena aku jarang ke kantin, aku baru melihatnya di sana waktu itu. Pada acara demo ekskul, aku melihat dia lagi. Bermain bass di atas panggung. Anggota klub musik rupanya. Pemain bass. Pada hari-hari berikutnya, aku lebih sering melihatnya berjalan di koridor depan kelasku, kadang sendirian dengan earphone, kadang ada beberapa temannya. Anak kelas sebelas juga rupanya, jurusan IPS juga. Hari-hari berikutnya, selalu kutengokkan kepala ke jendela setiap kali ia lewat di depan kelasku. Aku penasaran, kenapa mataku tidak pernah melihat orang semenarik dia sebelumnya? Dan, kenapa dia hanya muncul di tempat dan saat-saat tertentu, seperti saat istirahat, masuk sekolah, dan jam pulang? Hari-hari berikutnya, berpapasan dengannya membuatku senang sekaligus semakin penasaran. Dia anggota klub fotografi juga, aktif, sering memimpin rapat anggota di kantin sepulang sekolah, dan ternyata karyanya banyak dipublikasikan di majalah sekolah. Dari situ aku tahu namanya, Mahesa.
“Geser ke kanan sedikit. Bukan, bukan, sedikiiit lagi. Sedikiiit, oke, pas!”
Sebagai dokumentasi, Mahesa memotret beberapa lukisan dari berbagai angle dan beberapa kali memintaku untuk berpose ala-ala tak sadar kamera. Tentu saja aku pasti bersedia, selalu bersedia. Dia juga merekam keadaan sekitar dalam bentuk video, yang katanya, bakal dia edit menjadi super artsy.
“Percaya sama gue, kita bakal jadi tim paling keren yang menghasilkan dokumentasi paling berseni, Ra,” kata Mahesa sambil tersenyum sendiri melihat hasil jepretannya.
Destinasi terakhir kami—pameran lukisan yang sedang digelar selama seminggu di hotel Metropolite—akan tutup sepuluh menit lagi, tepat pukul tujuh malam. Setelah terakhir kalinya Mahesa merekam keadaan pameran dan beberapa pengunjung yang masih melihat-lihat, baterai kameranya habis. Sebelum pulang, Mahesa bilang dia tahu tempat makan enak di sekitaran sini. Jadi, kami mampir untuk mengisi perut dengan soto ayam dan berbincang-bincang sebentar, setelah itu baru benar-benar pulang.
Di perjalanan pulang, derai hujan turun perlahan. Karena rumah kami terletak di pinggiran kota, jadi kami harus melalui jalan tol atau kalau tidak, akan lebih jauh. Mahesa memencet-mencet tombol radio, mencari saluran nomor 19.2, tapi setelah mendengar acara yang dibawakan penyiar radio, dia langsung mengganti asal saluran radio yang lain. Saluran radio yang menyiarkan lagu-lagu pop kekinian yang sedang hits.
“Sekali-kali dengerin genre lain, ya, Ra,” katanya sambil menginjak rem. Jalanan seketika padat merayap di depan kami. Mungkin karena hujan mulai deras, jalanan mulai tergenang, orang-orang mengemudi dengan lebih hati-hati.

to be continued.
carter Oct 2018
I am the artsy girl
In a worthless world
Who would ever do
This to me

I was the artsy girl
Drawing on my arms with a razor
Making a ****** mess
Maybe even more

I was the artsy girl
But that was a long time ago in this same world
I am now an artist
Drawing a portrait
Meghna Gulati Dec 2014
Stubby fingers, in a world where you seek long, artsy hands;
With the thumb that still looks like that of a child.
No, it isn't something that should be envied.
Put my palm to yours and it will not hesitate in feeling small, insignificant, giving you that ego boost you so desperately seek.
But it holds the power to support. It holds within it, the power of perseverance, hard work, and creating.
It does not flinch while it works like yours does. It doesn't shy away. Instead it makes the grip firm, steady. Unwilling to give up so easy.
Hello, hands. I accept you.
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
The Amazing Grace

"Her Pleasure" Eiffel Kiss France
The lost place trance-spell-
You should see the look
on your face
*        *        
It wasn't her wishful thinking
Bringing her deep love the wishing well
  fuller up guilt tells the trips
Feeling lost but it turns Global
somehow it follows rose stem rural
Hard pillow but painful
The glow her words felt like a burn
His wicked candlelight so stern
smile concert rearranged

Too many heavy metals
Iron Clad Civil war deeply hanged
Something changed all deranged

Change of weather
England his hands are happy
needing more water to sprinkle
The happiest  time in London
Pub cheerful Lad star twinkle

I saw her standing there

Her friend was reminiscing
but lost some memories
Until an image appeared of him
she found herself

Pleasurable oneself she was
Wondering feeling the thunder
now as two cockpit rambler
Being lost on the shabby
chic shelf
The Greyhound those
Siberian Huskies with her
plaid hankies

The race is on those bookies
Growing and howling I was lost in his
Skydiving but I didn't see him
going down bits and pieces
The picture shows what a blow
falling for Autumny leaves
High price got low
Lost his smile that was my pleasure
The praying Mantis Rosary

How do I resume soup consume
Sipping his alphabet words
Always lost it said
Delicious Dove flight
Details of the lover wings
then there split in two lost
Like an experiment pleasurable host
They are strangers in the night-star
Or the economy of life went too far
Like the mosaic artsy wife

Being loved its drawn to you
The intense side
Sunnyside he's up ******
The contrast comes closer
To their bodies hot
streaming intensity
Eyes lost with fragility
Lost in each other what hotties

Lifted to the heights seduction
The lost pleasures images rounded
On the edge of
Ecstacy she is lost
but he was found
The mighty cool way of thinking in her
pleasurable fun wedges less
said without a sound
Not about apples and oranges
Sweeter and hotter but her lips got dryer
The lost painter the splash on her cheeks
Her sheer face lost inside the curtain
Her wetness arise on her lips
What high waves she had and
he the showstopper

Pleasurable but hot wilderness
her wildflower caves happy camper
So demure with an allure
The lost pleasure when you find
it the whipped cream she became the
Debutante what Suzette
Meeting her it was her pleasure
The hard teeth bite that ****** apple
crushed  it came
rolling down
the hill
She caught his jelly roll
His little bite burst her dream soul
Moving on with pain
how can we
meet our pleasure

Whats lost can be found freely
The taste is always there
The pleasure we try different
methods not always nutritious

Someone lost inside her delicious
Like the lost lobotomy

Of the Rite
This wasn't *** education of the
Deans list pleasurable digest
How it leaps up every year
Leap Year, not the frog to kiss
Finding love constitution
Follow me we are on our
next mission *
my pleasure what
are you waiting for?
Being lost in someone's love can be difficult  somehow it gets
harder to find our way every day  but the pleasure word is like a God and the pain word makes it painfully sad being lost is not something to take lightly add some fun the whip-cream and get to her pleasure of her cherries there are so many love theories
Is a **** considered art?
Especially if done well?
Own your stink and wear it well
Mastered, certain, to excel

Let it go, loud and proud
Hot air rises, I just found out
Subtle hints, a certain smell
Right before the dinner bell

Try spinach, cabbage, as well as milk
For the best results
I think you’ll find it helpful
If you were to start a cult

Train yourself to **** at will
Fog the mirror near the windowsill
I meant no harm
Relax, act chill

Pay it off, with a dollar bill
Then blame the dog
For a cheap thrill

A silent assassin
Creeps inside your nose
Just one whiff is all you’ll need
For you to become exposed

A toxic mix so strong it knows
To run for cover before it blows
Phoebe Mae Nov 2013
When we talk
We reckless teenagers
We rebels without causes
We James Deans of the world

We talk about wanted tattoos
"A 3 on my back"
"On my lip"

And piercings
"My nose"
"My belly button"

And alcohol
"Icelandic chocolate"

Because we want to do the things
We can't
We're on the edge
The brink

Does that make us reckless?
Something to be laughed at?
It makes us human.
We're greedy.

We want to be different
So we sit in circles
And curse and drink

And play stupid games
Like truth or dare
Because we're reckless
And we talk about ***
Talk back to our parents

Because we worship sarcasm
And complain about how poor we are.

What else can you expect
From artsy
New York kids?
Kelly Bitangcol Dec 2016
In every battle, it is impossible to never have a speech. I have noticed that in watching movies. Like in Independence day, the President delivered a speech to the U.S Fighter Pilots before the battle. “ Good morning. In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world.”, yeah that’s how it goes. Or like King Aragorn’s battle speech at the black gate in The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, “Hold your ground! Hold your ground! Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers”, he said. And it can even be a simple “May the force be with us” before battling with the galactic empire. And you cannot only see that in movies, there are speeches in real life which also inspired people to fight, like Patrick Henry’s Give me Liberty or Give me death, Winston Churchill’s We Shall Never Surrender, and our battles in our lives. Everyone will always encounter battles in their lives, and maybe we also had speeches for ourselves, created by us, for us, to continue fighting. And they say having a mental illness also means undergoing a battle. Many battles, and one of them, is a battle against the stigma. A battle to end the stigma of mental health. And now I will deliver my speech, to everyone of you, this is my battle speech, telling you to stop romanticizing them.

Poems **** once said that depression is a strange, yet comforting feeling. Comforting feeling, when you feel absolutely terrible, that even eating ice cream and watching your favourite movie can’t do anything to make you feel better. And when they ask you what’s wrong, the worse part is you don’t know. When you’re all alone, and no one is there for you, so you just feel like your inner demons are hugging you and telling you to just end everything. It’s when people tell you that happiness is a choice, it’s like a multiple choice exam, in which you just choose the best answer, but why does it seem to me that the choices I got were nothing compared to the best, and where is happiness? It’s none of the above. There is nothing comforting, nothing artistic, nothing beautiful about depression. It is not an artsy tumblr poem, it’s not an aesthetic, it’s not something you wish you could have,  depression is a total *******!

A twitter account said that anxiety is just another form of excitement. So does it mean that when I have panic attacks, I am just excited? When I avoid everyday situations, when I can’t get out of my house, when I can’t even get out of my bed, because all of those things cause me anxiety. When I expect the worst in everything that I do and it will ruin the hell out of me. When I’m in a job interview, and I suddenly have my panic attack. When I feel that in every place I will go to, I will experience danger and catastrophe. So you see, that anxiety is not another form of excitement, it is not a trend, it’s a difficult thing to have, it's experiencing chaos everyday in your life and who would want that?

Why do we think that having mental illnesses are wonderful? Why do we wish to have them when there are people suffering? Why are we belittling them, telling them they’re crazy, that it’s all in your mind, but can’t you see, that having chaos inside my mind is the most difficult thing you could ever have. Why do we think they’re weak, when they are fighting battles everyday and they never give up. Why do we think that people with mental illness are just asking for attention when they are asking for help because that’s the thing they need? Imagine that the demons inside of you gave you a gift that you didn’t want, and you can’t seem to destroy it, to leave it, because you think your demons have won. But they didn’t, and they will never. And we are fighting with you, we are with you.

In every battle, there will always be the ones who win. The ones who will achieve the greatest feat, happiness and contentment. But they say, that this battle against the stigma, is a never ending war. However, have you all forgotten who we are? If this is a never ending war, then we are the  fighters.  And we will never ever stop fighting.

Tanisha Jackland Dec 2015
I don’t know about you
But I’m fleeing this joint
When I kick the bucket

You see, I got atoms to fill
And spaces to claim

No this ain’t no one
Woman show
Staged and such

I've been practicing eternity cuz
This here is the ascent
This here is the way of the masters
And deities w/no baggage
This is The Path of Gods and Goddesses
The Tao of now
*The Way of the One
Dorothy A May 2016
She remembered it well. Ben made no bones about it, as he told his little sister, "You want to make something of your life, you got to get out of here and don't look back."  And he did just that, saying his goodbyes to her as he embarked off into the army.

There's a whole other world out there than just Jasper Island

How terrifying of a concept that was to Rachel back then. Ben was almost three years older, and without him it was just her and Pop . Jasper Island was all she knew, and at the age of sixteen that was a terrifying concept to a shy girl who had been sheltered her whole life.

Rachel envied Ben. Between the two of him, he was the only one who really remembered their mother. She was close to three-years-old when her mother left this earth. Ben was six. Her recollections of her dear mother were like vapors, like dreams that had lost most of their definition.

There was only one time she really could envision her mother correctly. She could just faintly recall her mother hanging up sheets outside, and they were blowing in the wind like sails, matching her mother's windblown skirt. Rachel was giggling as her mother tried to shoo her out from getting caught up in those magical sheets. She could still remember the beauty of her mother as she snuggled up against her, her mother catching up to her impish daughter as she twirled up in one of the sheets like a girl trying to play dress up. Her mother's skirt smelled like a soft perfume mixed with the sea.

Everywhere, as a child, Rachel was surrounded by sea. It made her dreary home pleasant after she lost her mom. The sea was a constant friend. With its mystery and its beauty, the sea gave her a right to dream of what lay beyond it. Ben was right. She needed to get out from under her little, protective shell. She would read Ben's letters that came  Germany, where he was stationed, and would dream of being there, herself.

Pop never mentioned Ben, again, like he didn't exist. Her father was a distant man, a fisherman who never had much for conversation or desire for closeness. Rachel was used to his distance, for that was her norm. But as she grew up, she realized he was bitter when he lost her mother. Rachel's aunt, Roberta, her father's sister, clued her in on his former life before marriage. She told Rachel, "Your father never was a man to show his emotions. He shied away from people and would rather tinker around in his tool shed or be out on his boat. I sometimes don't know what your mother saw in him, for she was quite a social gal."

Rachel saw herself more in her distant father, more than she cared to see. She was artistic, and felt more at home with a paintbrush than with anything else. She would paint pictures of anything--the quaint homes around where she lived, the woods and nature, and especially anything  to do with the sea.

Everyone told her she had talent. She won a talent contest in her school, though the pool of artsy students was small. Her island school was about three times the size of a one room schoolhouse, and it was quite easy for her to shine there. Was she really that talented? Many of her teachers saw and encouraged her abilities. They  wanted her to do something with her gift, and surely not to waste it. Everyone said so--except her pop. He never took much notice.

Ben was right. Frightened as she was, Rachel decided to try to make it on the mainland. It just became too irresistible of a notion. She promised her father, "I'll write to, Pop". He didn't even face her as she was saying goodbye, so she repeated, "Pop...I am going to write, will keep in touch".

"Don't bother", he simple replied. He wouldn't even look at her, but buried his nose into his newspaper.

Eight years later, on Jasper Island, Rachel stood before the home she grew up in. Those words still stung.

Don't bother

Pop had died. Aunt Roberta was the one to inform her, and she wasn't able to get back in time before the funeral. It was a small one--you could count the attendees on one hand--but her pop probably wouldn't have cared either way.  Rachel felt numb about it all. How should she feel? She knew she should grieve for her father, but the tears didn't come. He was such a hard man to know.

It would be nearly half a year before she returned to Jasper Island. She was living in Europe at the time, and she had moderate success in living off her art.  It was enough of an experience in which she could support herself. She first saw her brother in Germany then eventually went to Rome, to Paris and to London, working her way through as she traveled. Eventually, she stayed in London and became an art teacher. But now here she was again on Jasper Island.

She looked upon her hold house for the longest time. It looked so different. There were new shutters, a new coat of paint, and it didn't seem right with the backdrop of the sea. The house was yellow and the plastic pink flamingos were an eyesore to her. New residents occupied the house, and it just didn't seem right or real. Though she had no claim on it anymore, it still was her home. Now it was sold off soon after her pop died. She never even got a chance to stand inside for one last time, to peer into her old room or sit upon the back porch and bask at the beauty of the sea.

She tried not to appear too nosy, as she looked out back. Clothes were hanging up on the line, blowing in the breeze, and she thought of the faint memory of her mischief with her mother so long ago.      

Rachel didn't dare to knock on the door. Perhaps, she knew the people inside. Everyone knew everyone on that island. If she did know them, she didn't really want to know the details. She was the intruder, after all. Or was it the other way around?  

She made her way around and marveled how time seemed to catch up with her island home. There was a new movie theater in place of the beat up one that she knew as a child. The playground by the school looked so much better it wasn't filled with children. Hardly a soul was there, like all the children had grown up, or something.  

Aunt Roberta was her only real link to her old home now. The few friends she had left a long time ago, just like her. Her mom's people vacated the island long before she ever met them. Aunt Roberta was still there to receive her, though. She had something special for her.  Gathering up two shoe boxes, she handed them to her niece. Rachel wondered what what the contents were, and she couldn't believe her eyes.All the letters she promised to write to her pop were all in there in those two boxes.

"I found them," Aunt Roberta said, amazed herself, "after cleaning out my brother's closets. He kept them all, it seems."

Rachel promised that she would write home, and she did. And it was true--her pop saved every single letter or postcard she ever sent him.  The envelopes were all opened up, so he obviously looked at them. She was amazed that he didn't  throw them away or burn them.  Never once, did he write her back, and Rachel thought he had completely dismissed them and disowned her.

Holding those envelopes and postcards in her hands was like finding some rare and valuable artifacts, and now the tears would come. For the first time in quite some time, Rachel felt something when it came to her distant father. It was everything rolled into one--her island home, her mother, her brother, her father, her sense of self--and she just wept freely as her aunt held her tight and comforted her.

Rachel never cared about the money. Her pop never made a will. He never owned much, but Aunt Roberta would make sure she was fair about the money. Rachel would have traded every cent of it if only she was to see her father one last time. She wanted to come back sooner, but she feared she would not be welcome, that the door would be slammed in her face. Now her only way to see her father was at the cemetery were generations of fellow island dwellers met their resting place.

At the grave, her parents were buried side by side, and the sea was their backdrop. It was just as her father would have wanted it. Rachel cleared away a few weeds, and she placed a handful of wildflowers at her mother's grave. "Hi, mamma", she said out loud. "I miss you and wish I could you could be here, again. I see you in my mind, and you are that young, delightful mother I still think of. " The sound of the breezes, and the birds constant communication of chirping, was a calming response.

She then addressed her father's grave, "Pop", she started to say, "Thanks for keeping those letters. I know it was hard for you now. We all left you, didn't we? Mamma,"

Rachel looked out into the sea. The sun was shining well, and it was like the waters were filled with diamonds. That enchanting sea--that is what her father cherished the most. He taught her how to swim there, not to be afraid of the waters but to respect the strength they held. He protected her from feeling so small and scared by it. He taught her about what was in the sea and how to fish from it. She smiled and thought of how she would have rather collected pretty seashells than to handle a slimy fish . He reaped so many things from the sea, and she knew he belonged to it. She closed her eyes and tried to think of such moments between her father.

Before she left, she held an unopened letter in her hand and said, "Pop, I got really, really sad looking at all those letters, especially because I can't write to you anymore. I'm just amazed you have them. I hope you read them, and if you did, I hoped you knew I really loved you". She smiled at what her dad would probably think as silly sentiment. He probably was rolling in his grave right now, squirming from all this mushy stuff. But at least now, she could tell him she loved him.

Rachel put her hand on his tombstone and stroked its rough exterior. She added, "Well, then I thought--who is to say I can't write? So I did. I got a letter for you,Pop, and I'm going to read it to you, now. Hope your listening."

She didn't know when she would come back for another visit to Jasper Island, but she knew she would return. Unlike Ben, she would not go way and never look back . How could she deny it as her home? She opened the letter, cleared her throat, and read it out loud, "Dear Pop, I hope you are at peace. I hope you are proud of me and that you hear me now. Take care of Mamma, and I'll see you on the other side." After she stopped, the tears came again, rolling down her check. She closed up the letter, put it on her father's tombstone and laid a rock on it to anchor it well. Eventually, the elements would get to it--the sun, the rain, the changing seasonal forces--but for now it was in good shape,

As the ferry made it's way from Jasper Island, the land became smaller and smaller, until it was just a speck in her view. But once it was the whole world to her, not just a destination to visit. Nevertheless, it wasn't some insignificant blip on the many maps of the world. It would always beckon her. Rachel could never forget Jasper Island.
Tucker Freeman Oct 2012
I hate poetry.
I think it's a waste of time.
Trying to think of ways to say things.
And then to make them rhyme!
Some poems are dark and artsy.
Some poems make you laugh.
Some poems make you think or cry.
And some poems are plain ol' crap.
Some poets wear thin mustaches.
Some poets wear fancy hats.
Some poets make up their own words.
Some gilberty hilberty crat.
But I'll tell you this my friend.
That there's nothing in the world more truer.
I'd rather pick up a pen and write.
Than pick up a shovel and move manure.
Bunhead17 Jan 2016
I attract artsy people! 78%
Those free spirited artists with great imaginations find you interesting. They are usually interesting themselves, so its not a bad thing, but they CAN be a bit wifty and choose odd goals. If you like life to always be a bit 'different' from the norm, but not too extreme in any one direction, these are the people for you. If you seek logical decision making skills and good money management, you may want to change something in the way you appear. Artsy people are fun for adventure and exploring, so, have fun! (smoking **** helps too)

58% You attract geeks!   (<My comment: Some are cute tbh)

54% You attract Yuppies!    (<My comment: ''Young urban professional" or "young upwardly-mobile professional.'' Not bad)

54% You attract models!   (<My comment: They're fine)

46% You attract unstable people!   (<My comment: To true. It never fails)

14% You attract rednecks!     (<My comment: I'm black! Aren't rednecks racist?)
Sum It Dec 2013
Have love ever been easy to deal with sympathy?
Just so, Her iron lung breathing calamity of apathy
Beyond eyes and words ,her beauty spoke
Kindle once vital, now perish slow with smoke
Suffocation cannot feel this good, can it?
a crime of love shall never see acquit

A poetess sung for me a poem of love
Soft words - with stings of  venomous dove
Being so deluded by some natural artsy
Dreams woven on silent obscure spree
Cold touch of her once warm soul
Shattering pieces  now never be whole

Poignant themes of once happy souvenir
Whispering breeze of lonely December
Brings me smile then tears falls down
a deep breath sigh and again I avow
holding onto the keepsake- my folded hands try
Squeezed by broken dreams- once more I cry!
kat Jan 2013
i want to remember with you,
i want to forget with you.

the times when time would fly by
like the birds on the horizon
of this pastel oklahoma sky
never within reach,
but we’d always find a way
to make a pseudo-artsy instagram photo of the sight
i’d try to summon thoughts to speak,
to fill in awkward silence with awkward advances
but then i’d look at you, 
bitten lips
sun-stained face
half chewed nails
and the last thing i wanted to hear
was the sound of my own voice
i used to imagine your hair a little messier,
your eyes a little kinder,
your style a little more eccentric,
but i never wanted to change who you are.

i want to remember with you,
i want to forget with you.

when we’d sit and stare at the people
we wished we never met,
and the one’s we didn’t want to.
drowning in our own cynicism
i think i was the one holding your head underwater
and i’m sorry my half-empty attitude got the best of us,
but hating people was what made us fall in love,
and i’ve never admitted to being a pessimist
because i never wanted to be.
i wanted to be what you wanted. 

i want to remember with you
i want to forget with you

skipping stones across a dried up river
making wishes, singing jimi hendrix
like it was the soundtrack to our summer.
i felt the most vulnerable whenever we'd drive home
and the most infinite
the wind combing my hair,
your hand in mine
we both knew what we were thinking,
but neither of us said it,
not wanting to ruin the moment,
not wanting it to be the truth.

i want to remember with you
i want to forget with you
lionheartlion Nov 2016
It was a neutral, fair weathered, mid October Friday night in downtown Raleigh, the sky painted with stars, but barely visible as lights are strewn out everywhere, glittering as they are draped across buildings to create a corner hidden from the rest of the world. There are also lights from the many expensive cars lining the already tight streets; Chrysler, Infinity, Volvo, BMW, but also there’s an array of Hondas and the Chevy I am currently riding in to get there myself.  The lights continue to follow my evening as the holidays are approaching, accompanied by Christmas lights hanging from local breweries. The skyline is made up of buildings mimicking an array of Christmas trees on a Christmas tree farm in December; one my favorite times of year.

The spirit of the air is carefree as people gather to unwind from the week before and have a good time with whomever they are with or alone. The variety of people is similar to that of Candy in a candy store; all there for the same purpose, but different in minor ways. Groups of friends occupying the sidewalks outside of restaurants, breweries, dessert bars, coffee bars, boutiques, and galleries. Hipsters walking proudly and dancing in the streets owning who they are in their hometown or possibly visiting to experience the uniqueness the beautiful city has to offer. Most people dressed their best to welcome the night before them and enjoy the company of their friends, walking around to whatever comes their way.

The atmosphere is quiet, peaceful, and chill but the night is nothing short of alive just like the people I experience. Young couples and individuals line the streets exuberating their young lively spirits into the air as they exhale smoke from their cigarettes. The streets are also lined with a couple individuals that seem a little sketchy, but that’s just because they keep to themselves and walk alone, not effecting the safe atmosphere Raleigh exuberates. Everyone seems to be focused on only who they came with, concentrating on what they will do that evening. My plans included dinner at The Pit, one of the greatest BBQ places I have ever been in my life.

The first place I went to this evening was a Chocolate Shop called Videri Chocolate Factory with the most intriguing vibe I have possibly received upon coming into a store. There are lights strung from the ceiling and a glass case containing expensive, gourmet chocolates made in house. As I continue to walk around the store there is a whimsical feeling I get when I notice the coffee bar and more Christmas lights hanging around and intricate glass cups behind the counter. Continuing down the corridor there is a large glass window displaying where the chocolate is made, making the experience even more real. As I continue to look around the store I notice most of the people are middle aged to older; the people with money. The chocolate in the store is not cheap, but I think most of the people who come to downtown Raleigh are also paying for the experience.

Upon leaving the shop I notice the outside of the store and this is one prime example I think of when I think that people physically impact the place in which they live. The picture shown above of the chocolate shop mimics so much of the personality of Raleigh that I have noticed. The store is made of bricks on the outside that you can tell have been there for a really long time, but displays a modern, exciting font and the final touch of bright white lights adds a perfect finish to the display of the store. The people of Raleigh (or the ones I have noticed the three years out of living here myself) tend to migrate towards vintage, old things and appreciate the beauty of unique sights that make you feel special and unique yourself upon going there.

Another key factor in the imagery of this shop that reminds me of the people of Raleigh is the artsy aesthetic that the door holds with the lights. There are so many art students who consistently go to downtown Raleigh and they are a part of what makes the atmosphere so bright and exciting. While the people who visit downtown Raleigh are looking for those vintage vibes and artsy aesthetics they are also incredibly modern much like the font the door holds. They are caught up on what is currently in style and trend setters themselves, but interpret it in a way that fits them personally. This to me is the only thing that people of downtown Raleigh have in common; they are old fashioned, vintage, modern, and unique all at the same time, perfectly mirroring the city in which they live.
An excerpt from a paper I'm working on
Danielle Renee Jul 2012
I thought, you. And then I stared and wished that I was back
in your line of sight, that time that you tried to
take a photo of me and I held up my hand. You had never
even touched it. It was deemed artsy and you used
me to pick up chicks who thought you were creative. The many
times I thought yes, and felt yes from you too. But all
we did was stare and I want to touch your Greek hair just
once. And I sold smiles and sweets to strangers while
you gave out pop and judgements. How comedic, how blase.
How soon could I get you to never stop thinking about me?
February 27, 2012
Tasha Gill May 2013
I'm attracted to men who do things
the hippie health nut rock climbers
the con-going, larping nerds
the artsy poetry writing, painters
I'm attracted to results,
to getting up off the couch and going
to hikers, and bikers, to MMA fighters
these are the men that I want
The men who get up in the morning
with a purpose
the men who know where they're going
and why they're doing what they do
The men with mettle, with strength, with power
I want a man who takes control
Who's not afraid to spend an evening
away from me
If we have differing interests
He won't give up what he loves
for any woman
I'm turned on by men
with steel in their bones
With iron in their hearts
who don't take their hits lying down
To men with hobbies with talent
with ideas and dreams
that they're making happen
not just pondering
I hate talk
The muscles built for sight's sake
aren't worth a **** thing to me
I need skills, a brain with the bulk
I want a man who rarely rests
who never stagnates
who can take me out to do something new
I'm attracted to men who do things
a h Jan 2015
( im sitting here watching this medicine
drip drip drop
the clock is making a ticking noise and im trying to focus my attention on it
this stuff makes me loopy i swear
and none of my thoughts are making much sense at the moment
which is making me sound extra artsy and poetic)

this false ownership
we say our universe and our planet because we see something gorgeous in it all and as humans we instinctively want to have ownership over things; it's the same kind of scenario as when a young child wants the cutest kitten or the prettiest flower
or in the way that i call you mine
i ask myself all the time
did i find you? are you mine?
the sun is at my back
and the sky matches his eyes
we're almost touching
our mouths hover close
god this thing that we are creating
it is infinitely beautiful

when im getting these treatments called actual hell
i close my eyes
i let visions of him play in my mind
every time i hear his voice a kind of silence washes over me
and for the first time in my life i know who im destined to be and
who im meant to be with
and no other thing has ever felt like belonging to him does
this is how i was made
and here i am
almost home
just not quite
none of this can be undone
and i will never be the same because of him

l o g a n
these letters? they might be my favorite
(they are)
this boy is so marvelous
when he spoke to me for the first time i swear i think the sun stopped to kiss the night
the sun burned holes into the sky
it spoke to the earth and sang to the universe
rays and waves and secret forms of communication
cracks formed in the earth and it opened up to show all of the things that had been lying dormant inside waiting for us
new things began to bloom
there were flowers born
shooting up out of the mud
overwhelming light bursting out of them
the flowers tore themselves wide open
to show us what was hidden inside
his eyes flashed fire
and his eyes flashed nebulas**

**** my heart would've died otherwise
Night Owl May 2010
Past altered states tests postive and subtle
******* So and so's ­teeter Paleolithic après time puddles
And submit terrible philosp­hies
Ashy stubble ticks politics 
and sacrafice to peer approval ­sacralige
Test probably appears stable
Top patriarch's able sudde­nly to
Pop above submerged tables possibly
After, something tests­ patience awkwardly
Stumps tarot practioners and *** testers poor­ application sterily
Topology plain, astrology scorpio
Torpedo po­wer aptly strikes to pedal antlers sour
Take particular appointments
Stop testing plea­se apply sorted
Terror power and sexless torn pigs
afterhours pen­ and store tips, plow.
Alter simians testosterone, pow!
As scient­ists type papers about sexing tasteless past alligator snouts 
te­sting partly after science takes party alliance south to pawn arm­y 
subtle tipped passion. artsy.
Start these.
pick atoms smarmy
T­ally past all sentences take pride
As stencils test pestilence. A­nd sigh.
The previous alterations simply tried.
And didn't work, ­hence the present
Path lit incandescent.
I'm looking towards the ­east waiting for positivity to peak
You're turned backwards nosta­lgic for something that'll never come repeat.
R Saba Dec 2013
in my mind, it was always
a perfect ten
below zero, just cold enough
for me to shiver
and for your nose to turn a rosy pink
and for me to hide a dark thought
behind warm words, excused
by the curtain of soft snow
falling around us

i guess i overplayed this scene
i guess i cut and stripped it
set music to our footsteps
and played it up, all romantic angles
and close-up frames
hovering too long
over your awkward, shifting smile

i guess it wasn't really musical
no artsy, black-and-white short film
not even worth the imagery
that i gave it in each long piece of poetry
just worth enough
for me to hum along
when i hear the song
that i put to the scene, hoping
you'd recognize the tune

here in the cutting-room of my heart
i gave up
sat down on the floor, scattered images
floating down
and i grabbed my scissors
cutting each one into a snowflake
before it hit the ground
trying to recreate that scene
the way i remembered it
and in the darkness, i could ignore
the desperate feeling
of an imagination run too wild

i guess i overplayed this tune
but sometimes
when the words don't come easily
to my real-time writing, i am forced
to look backwards in time and space
across mountains of disgraced, forgotten things
back to a time
when all i could write about was you
old muse, how I try to cease to miss you
Rose Dec 2011
We take the night
Flourish when our minds are most at ease
In between the artsy and the ghetto,
It's gonna take some doing to really change
Maybe if there's someone else
Who isn't too young to save, too irresponsible
We'd be taken to a more realistic edge
Get down and face it,
We don't need as much
As we think we do

Here we are, and here we go

I've been trapped
Lost in a cage
Planning for a great escape
But whether or not
It could happen to me,
I really can't say.
Today you're where I'm at
Where I want to be -
This can happen to me,
I believe I believe

We've investigated a thousand new names
like what I've got isn't good enough for fame
Surprise, surprise - money buys everything,
Actuality and Individuality
it's a state of realism we can't escape
Looking, you don't find flaws in anything
but you know the difference between
poetry and a shallow being
Let's be real here, crazy, let's be real
we feed off of one anothers intricacies
A beauty in ecstasy and believability
I've tried to melt into someone else
Then before nothing made sense
until you, impossibility

There's nothing to compromise
It's just you and I,
I'm not numb,
some would find that irksome
but I'm glorified in the feeling

I find that place on your chest
That beats like a bomb
A keyboard synthesized to play my song
With every breath you grow lost
Confused by each tear
A lapse in judgement, in character
I don't fear, I don't fear.

I have my fingers pressed into you
Like it means something-
"Don't you see?"

We'll be more than we ever expected could be.
Alessander Feb 2015
Oh, you got your politico pals
Posting stuff about them blues-and-reds
Oh you got your new-age pals
Posts about their chakra dreads
Oh you got your pervy pals
Posts about their whips and spread
Oh you got your journal pals
Posts about their EX and meds
Oh you got your comic pals
Posts of grumpy cat in bed
Oh you got your trendy pals
Posts of food and celeb weds
Oh you got your gossip pals
Posts about what so-so said
Oh you got your music pals
Posts of bands on every thread
Oh you got your mother pals
Posts of how their babies fed
Oh you got your nightlife pals
Posts of each local they’ve tread
Oh you got your righteous pals
Post of what you need instead
Then you got your artsy pals
Oh someone shoot me in the head!
Just a silly romp.
idk Jan 2019
between adjectives and history, math and PE, school never taught us that colors lie.
welcome to your new education.

yellow is a happy color.
in school they teach us about vincent van gogh, and how he ate yellow paint because he thought if he had a happy color in his veins, he would be happy, too. the paper-girls who exercise fake distress think that’s romantic. it’s not.

secretly i wonder if i washed out all my tears and replaced them with acrylic, if i opened up my rib cage instead of my broken bleeding heart they would be only yellow.

yellow is the color of broth in aphabet soup, you make for me when i am sick. today i’m not sick, i just couldn’t bear to go to school- feel the stares of all the golden children on the back of my neck.
you are nowhere to be found, there is just the yellow broth beneath the letters in my soup. i can feel it staring up at me and now i really do feel sick.
there is only yellow.

yellow is the color of the record you play when you don’t want to talk. you turn it up so loud that i can feel it in my bones. i go to my room and shut the door just a bit too hard, where yellow sunbeams light up my room like lasers.

i am conflicted.
yellow lights up the world and sunshine lights up my body. i used to think that’s romantic. it’s not. yellow is supposed to be a happy color. the broth in my soup and the record you put on and vincent van gogh play in my head like mice when the cats away.

i wonder i can falsify to prying eyes that i love sunshine because i am happy.
i wonder if i can prove to my dying mind that i love yellow because it is a cure?

i wish inside of insides, i was full of sunshine.
there is so much about life he does not understand powers influences insights secrets repetitions patterns relationships mysteries so many things to learn remember so many things to forget every morning he wakes with hope faith no matter how challenging threatening or bleak the odds he feels confident in the possibilities optimistic in his abilities desires believing in his quest for love success happiness yet every night alone in his empty room he comes undone again

Dad’s dying generates beginning of Odysseus’s awakening from his long deep stupor Dad was so heavy-handed intimidating his reign of terror is done next several years blow by like chilling numb wind off lake michigan dreams seem more real than existence Odysseus continues painting writing bartending drives Farina to beach daily it takes a while for him to realize he is freed of shackles Dad’s tyranny and it is all right to answer to himself alone in june 1994 news reports genocide of 800,000 people murdered in rwanda in july Odysseus feels trapped in identity he can no longer endure after struggling for years to achieve stature as accomplished painter he realizes he is nobody perhaps simply troubled artsy son of well-to-do Chicago socialites Jenny and late Max Schwartzpilgrim his discontent goes beyond family he feels shame disappointment with himself desperately needs to make changes to his life knows he cannot do it in chicago weary of all the sins damage he has made suffered in that city he wants to find somewhere less corrupt stressful more down-to-earth knows all to well how to get in trouble wants to find someplace where there is no trouble somewhere quiet dull preferably beautiful Odysseus liquates ashes to ashes clears altar of every dust flake sells paintings art supplies books music cassettes clothes vintage collection other possessions at sidewalk sale makes out with nearly $6000 whatever he does not sell he gives or throws away he is used to giving or throwing himself away he is 44 Mom protests but her disapproval packs no punch without Dad he says his goodbyes to family friends packs up toyota and with Farina steers away from chicago he leaves behind many destructive friends acquaintances people who will never dig their way out of wrecks they are buried in leaves behind history of minor misdeeds abuses disappointments scenes happenings he feels shame regret about he leaves behind practice of familiar patterns certainties faces names who recognize his talent problematic self never again will he benefit from questionable reputation nor will phone ring many times daily and never again will there always be someone to meet up with or gathering to go to he leaves behind support system of loving family friends fans whom he will miss greatly he lets go the character he was to become someone different hopefully better they drive on aimless odyssey without thinking searching with no place in mind listens for scenery to call to him inwardly the journey is the meaning he drives up streets down alleys through 4 corner towns bypassing most cities whenever he sights a lake he pulls over treats Farina to a swim sometimes swimming together they sleep in tent or stay at inexpensive motels that allow dogs while driving he often feels overwhelmed by diverse raw beauty of American landscapes lush forests spectacular mountain ranges sweeping valleys winding 2 lane highways along coastlines he points out sights to Farina but ultimately he wishes for another pair of human eyes beside him
Sarah Clark May 2019
why drinking? Always!
i should try that
i love old knowable things
everything! Bigger out West
generalization, but ok (I do the same)
morning person for sure
practical vs. artsy
is romanticism irrational, or just differently rational?

put ice under your hat
this whole thing is so **** Hollywood.
i dislike hierarchies- they’re simplifications
but they should!
superficially he’s not really here
ha! (Me)    
he’s trying, rather poorly, to fill the spaces with something other than thought

i see a maze where you take every left
whoa guys whoa
but he doesn’t
thought for the sake of thought is dangerous
but what?
never truth, only conjecture
but is it a human invention?
ah the perfect example

i am so intrigued by this unusual phrasing
building a base
quite bitter, this one
i’m bringing the whole thing down
the knife!
meet an old friend for the first time
i can’t draw a straight line
as he tries so hard to be
sounds like me when I’m vague
too much trust in technology

this reminds me of Ishmael
*** *** ***!
it’s all making so much sense now
familiar but ever-changing is what I want
a disciple!
when the only possible solution is go nuts- go nuts.
he’s a driven man
let me think
you need to narrow the lens
yes yes yes yes yes

no immediate penalty
he’s typesetting
why do people need so many rules, rubrics and objectivity?
what’s wrong with a little mystery?
trying to define quality
the problem with philosophy is incomplete definitions to important words
hmmm, I disagree
using a lot more ellipses
a noble ambition

should just bend and snap from this wind already
so much of the world is already inferred
i hate Socrates for this
the problem with words
an example, but what does it prove?
eliminate the knife!
hurts my head with its obviousness

aah, I see
a little cloudy, but there’s some sun
he’s entering rarified air
story of my life
he’s losing me
me gusta
numbers are a human invention, after all
this is over my head

be in the open country with someone
a generalist, too
i am most productive on coffee
a philosopher could write a 1000 page novel on the question “Are we alive?” And I could just say “Yes” and be done with it
let’s explode them
so monotone
up the mountain, down to the ocean
he’s getting absolutist again

here- have your cake and eat it too
back on track
getting tired of the lack of transition
like the houses on the way to Atherton
you’ve said this 500 times, let’s see it already
it’s slackening for me
how to BE the motorcycle
i hate twilight depression
i want a motorcycle

the *****
loves dividing things
this is all preparation
completing the flow chart

this used to be me, but I’m getting better
fix yourself before the machine
degrees of specificity, scope
a sense of the inner pressure
time away from noise and people helps him peer into that contradiction, that void
so ready to give in
intense… full of something
i know the problem-

        it’s wild, but safe

too long this has built up
part three was terrible
he’s experiencing universal loneliness
no more dams!
so much between the lines
battle of wits, I’m having fun
stop, eat, drive, eat, sleep, drive, etc
mans burden
never surrender

it’s moving too fast for me to keep up
but this requires a restructuring of thought and



* Note to the reader. The below poem was 100% taken in order of page from the scribbled notes in an old copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The author of the erudite scribbles is unknown and I am indebted to their depth, humor and zest.

— The End —