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Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The
em Apr 2017
between the concrete river
& the park where the bums share a bottle
wrapped in a brown paper sack,

there is a cul-de-sac of plastic houses
holding hands & sharing manicured lawns
wooden cars that don't even make any smoke
drive down gray asphalt streets.

fathers that tell mothers they have jobs
wear down street corners sharing beers with the bums,
like they already are one.

all these paper families rubbing shoulders
until everyone has paper cuts.
going home to dinner around a table full of paper love.

suburbia is flimsy
paper towns shining white
smiling neighbors & shared lawns
paper people slowly falling apart.

couples with their tongues down each other's throats,
midnight in supermarket parking lots
dribbling beer in the backseat
they bought off the bums.  

they say,
I love you, I love you, I love you.
until she leaves for a paper husband
& he leaves for a paper wife.

now they live on two separate cul-de-sacs
with the same cutout love,
as the parents they despised.

& when they have kids one day
they will tell them
never kiss before driving,
never befriend bums,
or guzzle cheap beer in backseats,
or on park swings.
& never settle for a paper husband
or a paper wife.


remembering the love
that was flimsy,
but never paper.

100,000 miles away from where they grew up
& 3,000 miles away from each other
3 kids each & plastic houses
rubbing shoulders & sharing lawns

living in a paper thin suberbia
chafing under their paper love.
Reece Aug 2014
I

The road flies past underneath the tires of the car
and there's a hazy blur as the trees fly by
as fast as the regrets flitting across her mind
like so many white lines falling beneath the left wheels

She's never been to Chicago alone before
Yet she's felt alone in so many places
It was time for a new environment and new faces
and to drink greedily from Illinois skies

She plans to drink more air than alcohol for once
To be drunken in lust or contentment at a push
To feel and experience fully without substance
To be intoxicated on some profound emotion

She pulls up to the curb and kills the engine
so that time ceases to exist
Heart pounding, mouth dry, she steps onto the hot pavement
Every movement magnified in a Midwest summer meeting

Her ankles wobble over 3-inch heels with each step
stumbling like so many times before, but different this time
She takes a deep breath of her new-found independence
and takes the first steps into the welcoming light of the sun

II

It's funny how philosophical eyes can interpret the mundane
Every step an existential crisis under the surface
But even so, the days continue to come and go
as sure as the sun, blocked by clouds occasionally, but still there
like figures in the city, obscured by passing buses
You slash tires and try to blow the clouds away
because even big bad wolves run out of breath
A collaborative poem in two parts
written with hellopoetry.com/rml8301/
during a family road trip
on August 6, 2014
loric Jan 2013
How many chairs have we parked ourselves on,
side by side
in these 6,205 days of marriage?
Side by side at our wedding reception
principals’ offices
school graduations
courtrooms
funerals
new baby nurseries
counselors’ offices
new cars and
bars.

In lawn chairs
pews
rockers
couches
backseats and
airline seats.

The size and shapes of the imprints
we leave behind
changing over time.
The faces of others seated with us coming and going.

Always, we have tried to leave a trail of love,
like the slime of slugs and snails.
And for each other, an extra measure.
rayma Apr 2018
I never wanted to immortalize you.
I didn't want to write a poem
Or a song
And carve these memories into something more tangible.
So instead I will immortalize my hatred for you.

I never understood what it meant to be a teenager.
A seventeen-year-old giving ******* in backseats
Because that's what it's all about, right?

It's about making out on my bed that's
Barely big enough for me,
Because I live closer to work and we can fool around on our lunch breaks.
That's what it's all about, right?

It's about sitting on your lap crying,
Scared that you'll hate me if I say I never wanted this.
It's about you gently scooping me into your arms
When I show you a letter because I can't choke out the words,
And you say it's okay but all you took from my confession was that I was scared.
It's about going too fast and when I grasp for the emergency break you swat my hand then try to hold it as we crash and burn.

I never liked you.
You were nice to me.
You smiled.
You joked.
You flirted and you told me I was the world,
So I thought 'this is it.'

But I could never even bring myself to compliment you back,
Because deep down I knew all along that I never really liked you at all.
You bought me chocolates.
You made me laugh.
You made me feel nice.
For about three days.
And then I realized I was trying to live the life I missed in seven short days.

I ended it nicely, but you persisted.
At first it was cute.
I reminded you kindly, but you persisted.
At second it was sweet.
I told you again, but you put a finger to my lips and played with your lighter.
At third it was no longer a game.
I clarified what I meant, but you ignored my text.
At fourth it was "unread."
I made sure you knew, laid it out plain, but somehow you missed that one too.
At fifth I was ******.
I tried again.
At sixth I was done.
Do you still not get it?
At seventh you disgusted me.

Now I can't even look at you.
Hearing your voice makes my skin crawl,
And the smell that I used to wrap myself in
When I wore your shirt as a sweater
Makes me sick to my stomach.

You still try.
You still speak.
You still make jokes.
And it makes my blood boil.
Because I hate you and everything you have done to me.

I won't speak to you, or
Acknowledge your presence,
But somehow that doesn't matter to you.
Doesn't it make you mad?
How does it not make you mad?
I want to make you mad.

Maybe if you're angry I can finally say
All the things I never got to tell you.
Maybe your fuse will blow and I can finally
Cover your skin with bruises where kisses used to be.
Maybe I can finally scream.
Maybe I can finally admit what you did to me, and tell you to your face.
Do you even realize that you ***** me?

I hate that you have this kind of power over me.
I hate that it has been seven months and my
Lip still curls when I see you.
I hate that I blamed myself for so long,
And that I still rush to amend, "but he didn't **** me in a violent way."
"Well, by the legal definition of ****..."

**** is **** and it is time that I understand that.
What you did is inexcusable.
Sometimes I want to tell you, to scream it in your face,
Because if you don't know then maybe
Telling you will prevent it from happening again.
But then I remember what you said about getting angry,
How it's rare but violent.
I think of your fascination with blades,
Your collection.
I think of how we close together and how I have to
Walk across a dark parking lot alone with you.

I hate that you don't know.
I hate that no one understands why
I hate you as much as I do.
Ben Holders Aug 2013
The wine plays tricks on young mortals
On occasions bathed in pale sunlight
Reason will be lost lost well before dawn
The youth cannot rest
Till only caveman instincts persist

Do not try and hid, nor sleep
The youth will scream you awake
And the youth will give you drugs
And the youth will drag you across town
And shove you into basements, backseats,
Dive bars, dorm rooms, and late night beaches
With swimsuits strongly discouraged.

And the youth will leave you be
Only when the youth has burned you up
Leaving you to the heap of a soul you have left
The youth came last night
To finish me off.
They came with whiskey and women.
And I succumbed to the temptation
Of another blurred night.
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2020
She's in parties
& knees-up
She's half-seas over
& in the king's cup

She's in missionary
She's in backwards
She's on backseats
& dashboards

She's in fast lanes
& intersections
She's in full throttle
& Hail Marys

She's in obituaries
& cemeteries
Danny Valdez Dec 2011
Easter Sunday. My mom dropped me off at my girlfriend’s house early that morning. A couple hours before church. I used the key under the mat and went inside. Ashton had said her parents would be gone that morning and to come wake her up when I got there. So, I went into her room and sat at the edge of the bed. I softly kissed her forehead and she slowly opened her eyes, smiling up at me.
“Hey, baby,” she said, rubbing her eyes.
“Good morning.”
“Let me brush my teeth real quick. I got dragon’s breath over here,” she said, covering her mouth and quickly walking to the bathroom.
“Geez. I can’t believe we’re finally ALONE! I can’t even remember the last time.”
“I think it was around Christmas or something,” I said, stretching out on the bed.
Ashton climbed on top of me, straddling me, for the first time in months. She pressed her mouth to mine, hard, breathing heavily and letting out a big sigh. We kept kissing and things really got heated quickly. I gently ran my tongue across her neck, expecting her to stop me, but she didn’t. Off came her shirt and she reached down into my pants, grabbing every inch of what I had. She bit her bottom lip hard and she had that hungry look in her eyes. Finally, she said, “Come on, put it in.”
“What?”
“Come on, just do it. I need it.”
I knew where she was going and what the outcome would be. It happened every time.
“No. Cause then if we have ***, we’ll go to church later, and you’ll start feeling all ‘bad.’ Because it’s a sin and you think it’s wrong. Then during praise and worship time, you’ll fall to your knees and start crying and I’ll feel like an ******* and … no. I don’t wanna go through all that ****.”
In one quick motion, she unzipped my pants and flopped my ****. Looking up at me, she slowly, very slowly, took it into her mouth. Going up and down. I looked up to the ceiling, my jaw dropped. In the entire five months we had been dating, she had never gone down on me. Never. It was too much; she knew exactly what to do. So then I just put it in. Like she asked me too. And in five minutes, I rolled off and we just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
She propped herself up on her elbows. Smiling big.
“You okay?” I asked, recalling the last time we had ***, and how much she sobbed and cried afterwards. Dripping with spit and tears, all red-faced. She went on about sin and how it was wrong. Cause we weren’t married. I thought it was stupid. I was her boyfriend; after all, there was love there. How could that be bad? This time, on Easter Sunday, she was just smiling in the rays of the sun. Finally, no more Christian guilt on her face.
“I just love you is all.”
And then she kissed me. She got dressed and made breakfast for me. Then we woke up her little brother and sister. It felt like a normal day. I was a regular teenager, having *** with my girlfriend. I wasn’t some repressed celibate, Christian, kid. I felt good, I felt ******* alive. Gettin’ those teenage kicks while the gettin’ was good. But then. At church. Like a prophet from the Old Testament, I had predicted the future. It came time in the service when they did “praise and worship.” Singing songs to God, with their arms up in the air. I used to get all into that, but by this time, punk rock had its mighty hold over me. Every day I just thought about it more and more. Was religion just a mechanism of control? To keep the poor from eating the rich? It seemed like it. So when Ashton fell to her knees and stared cryin’, I just groaned and scowled. I wanted to have a good time, not get some guilt trip for following our natural impulses. A week later was prom. The Senior Prom. I expected it to be like the ******’ movies. Poofy dresses and heels up in the air. Ya’ know, backseats steamin’ up on lover’s lane, above the lights of our town. What did I get? Dropped off before ten o’clock. Right before that, at a park, I had tried to get her to take a walk with me, go somewhere dark and quiet. We were on the swings with her best-friend Jesse and her 'just as friends' date. They were talking about just going home and calling it a night. I began to panic, no, no, no, it couldn't end this way for me. Prom was supposed to be it. My wild night of teenage kicks and high school romance. So I tried to make it happen.
"Hey, let's go take a walk and talk a bit. We haven't really gotten much alone time tonight. Ya know?"
“Yeah, I know. But...if we left them alone...I think it would make Jesse uncomfortable. Her and James went just as friends, she doesn’t want him to get the wrong idea. But we can talk right here. ” She said, with that big, bubbly, smile. I rolled my eyes and played along. It was in that moment, that I had checked out. Yes, ma’am, that was the straw that broke the first love’s back. Had to let her go. God too. I haven’t spoken to him since.
claire elisabeth Feb 2014
i'm the queen
who reigns over the kingdom
of backseats of cars
and chipped coffee cups
and you're a king
who reigns over the night
and my crowded thoughts
JB Claywell Dec 2017
I watched my very own
Charles Bukowski
eat a tangerine outside of  
the arthouse  
where we were reading.

His name is not really Bukowski,
but he has told tales in the same  
vein as the Laureate of Drunkards
for longer than I have been alive.

I have listened to that same back alley
patois,
and barroom wisdom for long
enough that I feel a certain level  
of comfort in calling the old gizzard  
this municipality's own  
Charles Bukowski.

The grizzled old poet  
is telling wanton tales  
of love and honeydew.

He goes on and on,
recounting the times  
that he's drunk  
strong potato liquor
with Bengal tigers  
in the backseats  
of roaring taxis
on his way to parties  
hosted by zebras and  
gazelles.

We each light a cigarette,
pausing to smoke for a while.

Seeking to continue  
the conversation with  
my salty comrade,  
yet knowing my own  
stories cannot compete,
I surge onward nonetheless.

His interruptions jam my  
traffic before I can even make  
it onto the onramp of his  
particular, peculiar highway.

His mouth is already working,
though his tangerine consumed.

He's chewing his next story into
digestible, deliverable bits.

And, now he's chewing the rind.

His mouth,
his words,
his life,
and my own for all of it,
is full of  
zest.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2017
for David, the tiger.
Calli Kirra Aug 2014
And oh I ache, like a creaking door, like a rusty faucet pipe. I can hear all the blood running it's errands in the sides of my head, it's this bathroom, this ******* bathroom. I feel like the turning handle on a mall gumball machine, no, then I feel like the ******* gumball, and I fall to the little black crevice with door, and you roll me out and pop me into your mouth, chewing hard and your spit is turning blue and I'm getting softer and softer in your lips. A caged Ocelot, and all I have to look to for a golden tomorrow is the poster of all the colorful wildlife, advertising this sickness. This pinging on a metal ceiling. This brownness. But my posters are of a different pair of devastating blue eyes that I know are evil too, but I pacify myself with the thought that they are so light because they are pure and clear, not because they are cold and hard. I started crying in my sleep. And I wake up with the streetlight shining through the window from that ***** alley that I love, and my face is so wet and so pink, and I say it's better that I cry unknowingly than consciously. I beg and toss for migration and distraction, chaos, oh baby where did you go? You can't leave me here with loose pieces of skin and a sick heart. You can't pick off the bottles on the ledge one by one with a rubber band and some pebbles and leave me with nothing. All I've got left are some nail polish bottles, some concert tickets, a few empty backseats. Things are either so incredible and hopeful or so *****, filthy, like gas stations, like the inside of ovens, and my fingers are becoming calloused. I'm floating like a cherry in a ***** shirley. Oh come, with your fingers in my hair, and kiss me.
Amber S Sep 2013
speaking of drugs and soul mates,
somehow his dangly fingers found the inner stitches
of my pinkplated skinny jeans.
we fell into backseats and booths at bars that held
sushi and white powder lining caked sinks.
we giggled at how he said tomato, and i dissolved into
the sixth beer, the seventh, the eighth,
the lines between her lipstick.
we danced and screamed among stained floors, holding each other,
waiting until the moon lifted us.
he and i held hands as i ran between poles, pretending
i was the goddess of love, of lust, of night.
we made out and my head cracked upon glass,
his glasses slid upon pavement. he was nervous, i was laughing.
an american girl, his first time.
his fingers traced, cream upon coffee.
in the morning i found bruises upon my lips,
marks of eagerness, of mistakes.
we walked again, not hand in hand,
dreary and rainy, perfect London weather.
and i wondered if having tea
and crumpets would have
helped.
blushing prince Aug 2015
we are the insects trapped inside homemade fly traps
glued on at the roof of the mouth
underbelly, I run around looking for trouble
trailer park princess, bar-fights in every space between my teeth
I'm a child of a child

I beat my paper wings against the shamelessness
Dance like the cigarette breaks are forever
Swisher blunts for the forget-me-not flowers inside backseats of cars, cabs, stolen automobiles
Revenge, locked jaw police officers like the fathers that never let you hold a gun so you become one

Taste blood, tongues, beauty in chaos
loose lips, stolen drugstore mascara and no more bruised knees
Boys like soft but you're the ******* Armageddon, knuckle-ring gods and all
so the men want to be kings and you grow up a feral cat sleeping in twin sized beds with a mouthful of curse words

Lord of the flies, lot lizards and truck-stop races
gritty bathroom graffiti is the cathedral but prayers never stop
Taverns with your name and the angels that spit
The television static never ends here, cicadas  
Doors with mosquitoes held hostage, home for supper
wasted by dessert

Down in the dirt, grimy bathtub I unearth all the things I couldn't drink away; all the motel fantasies, ***-stained skirts and the neon lights waiting for the swarm
Carly Two Apr 2010
I want to go home but I don't have a home.

I live in the middle space between where you're driving from
and where you're driving to.
I live on backseats and inside large purses.

I live in vending machines
and beds you used to sleep in all the time
but don't sleep in anymore
because you moved away.

I live on driveways that got redone while you were gone,
and new haircuts you couldn't see because you weren't there.

I live on promises that we'll do something.

I live in those cool new sunglasses you got,
but they broke,
and I never got to see your wear them.

I live in the little space between you and your lover,
the one that feels like "I love you"
but really means
"I love you, but I'm not in love with you."

I live on unsatisfactory naps
and the island your friends put you on when you finally said what you'd been wanting to say.

I live under the rug when you complain about people behind their backs
because no one really knows how to tell someone they don't like them
for who they are...
as a person.

I live in every spare shoebox that isn't filled with notes
and gets jealous of the other shoeboxes that are filled with notes.

I live on the top bunk
and I've never fallen off

but I'm still kind of scared that I will one day.

I live on the laugh that lets me know you're still listening.  

I live where I never wanted to live,
but I live here,
because I choose to live here.
And you live there because you choose to live there,
even if it doesn't seem that way.

I'm here and you're there.
I'm here for you and you're there for me,
even if it doesn't seem that way.

This is where I live.
You should send me a letter some time.
Copyright C. Heiser, 2010
Keah Jones Mar 2015
I don't want to write about sentimental ****,
not about how your eyes were the color of the ocean at dusk or how you are
made up of stardust and moon beams
Let's be real, you and I were never about that
You and I were about ***
we were about the backseats of cars, broken condoms, and plan B
drunken stutters of affection pushing between colliding hip bones
nauseous mornings filled with clipped recollection of what may or may not have occurred
We were never about those three little words, we survived on two
but even "*******" held little meaning
cuming from you
You and I were about chipped teeth,
separate bills for the meal of the last girls heart
I sustained myself on what you could give me
and you ate me dry
You and I were never about "we"
You and I were never that gullible,
you and I were never about sentimental ****
like flowers and poems.
You and I weren’t,  
But I was.
Edward Coles May 2014
"Lets go on a walk, Sam."
Let's go on a walk; go on a walk with Sam.

Mummy is driving, not walking.
She's being quiet;
I want to be quiet, too.

A Ford Escort is going past.
It's blue and the people inside
are laughing at each other.

The two girls in the backseats
have pretty brown hair but
they're too busy laughing to notice.

"Where did you get that hat?"
Where did you get that hat, Sam?
He needed it for the walk.

Laughter is weird. I do it
sometimes, but it's not with
other people. I'm okay with that.

When I laugh, people look scared.
Mummy says it's like a sonic boom,
and that's why people pull faces.

"Where did Jess go?"
Jess went on the walk with Sam!

Sometimes I wish I had a Jess.
Mummy got married at nineteen,
so I only have two months

and twenty-seven days
until I find my Jess.
Until someone loves me.
A bit of an experiment.
c
Soft Spoken Deals
A Rough Caress
and No Common Sense

Lead me to you

Cheap Whiskey
Inexperience
Flirtations

Made it come true

for one night

Hours pass by
fogged up windows
backseats
reeks of regret

Lost Innocence.
Copyright © 2009 Jacqueline Ivascu
lazarus Apr 2021
I didn't realize that I had missed the rabbits so
til I nearly stumbled over one in the dark and dew

impossibly still and also bounding with movement, vibrating
a tenacious anxiety reflected back to me in more than one
lost, drunken, exasperated moment
memories inevitably left in backseats and waterlogged journals
the thorny irony of holding fervently what this life means to me
and for me
knowing I've forgotten nearly most of it
to trauma
and to time

why would I tuck away the times I've made myself the image of my parents?
why cherish and return to the slur of dysfunction and imbalance
why build myself on the moments I broke upon

each falter is palmed inside me
slick and pressed with dust
the life of every love and bond
I can't release
for fear that I will sink into the sky
for fear that I've only ever been a reflection
is it empathy? maybe it's a pervasive fear of abandonment
as you cannot leave me if you need me
as you cannot fear me if you trust me
as you cannot without me
and I, you
chichee Nov 2018
When people ask, I tell them:
I noticed him because of those
beautiful eyes, all
backlit melodrama and mysteries
waiting to be
understood


The truth is
they were soulless and empty and
hungry for something you
couldn't name.
You're not mine
You said.
No, I agreed.
But I could be.

Razzle-dazzle **** me
fast and ***** into the faux leather
of your backseats.
Darling, we're not in Paris anymore.
You want something fascinating
but I want something real.
We make do.

You say:
I know you're a *******
and I still want you.

with the way it wraps around my heart
you'd think it was a
love confession.

Your teeth marks divide across
my skin like train tracks
You say my name like how
an addict says
morphine, nicotine.
I wonder how long till we crash.

I say:
I hate it when you call me
"Darling"

and with the way you laughed
I almost thought
I paid a compliment

This could be whatever you want it to be
Even if it's not love.
More terrible poetry.
Sin Feb 2014
in the small towns with unknown names, mothers drive vans with grass stains painted across the backseats. in the winters coated with snowfall, mothers make hot chocolate for frozen fingers to grasp and sip, letting it settle on little tongues like some untold secret. in the storms, mothers bring a candle and a story from the past to light the darkness.

and what can a mother do when she does not hear the rain on the rooftops? how does one illuminate pale walls and faded curtains without a guide of light? you could never sense the darkness. you could never hold my hand. mother, my fingertips are poisoned. you weren't going to touch them anyways. you know he says there's a forest in my eyes. but you prefer the city skyline, don't you?

I told father I never wanted to see you again. besides, he doesn't have to. why should I stick to this cracked leather couch when you rest on some beautiful bed down the street? mother, you can only **** a married man for so long. the stones on his ring are brighter than you. I might've kissed you, mother, but there have been too many lips pressed to mine, and you're immune to this sickness, and what is a sign of love without a flicker of pain?

when is the last time I smiled at you? there is a photo somewhere and I am nestled in your arms, and I'm wearing a red dress, and I think I would have slipped away if I knew who you really were. mother, do you want to see the cuts on my wrist? I should've given you that suicide note. remember that day you thought I was sick? I guess you never saw the pills were gone. you shouldn't have kept the matches so far away when you knew I loved the fire. you know, mother, I bet you don't know what a trigger feels like. you know, I was ten when I decided that I did not love you. I am the sliver of moon starving to vanish in the sky and mother, I swear I'll be new.
this ones for you, ma.
JL May 2012
The amphetamines made me god
A street corner king known across town
I feel blue as the pavement moves beneath my feet
I feel gone as the moon comes on
That flickering flourescent light
Down between the streetlights
The record scratch like a Cadillac
I've mistaken for a Buick
The cigarette flick from his window
Spins through the night like a pinwheel
Exploding sparks on the asphalt

Choked on exhaust
Thoughts of you walk beside me
Etched on my bones is your name
I wouldn't call it living
Just existing
Cars headlights sirens backseats
My head is spinning as he asks for change
"No but here's two cigarettes."
That ought to get him through the night
You got a light
On upstairs?
You got a light?
Someway for me to see when the streetlights stop
The road takes on the country
The dividing lines turn to stones and sticks
The sound of night as cows fall asleep
The fields are full of mushrooms that glow caps in the moonlight
I used to pick them at the edge of the forest
I once was happy with the thought of "maybe" having you
Now I don't do much of anything but **** myself quickly
With no one to stop me
With no light
Somewhere between the star-choked horizon and the sea
You fall asleep with another
Your heart gives a flutter when he says your name
When you kiss his neck
When you fall asleep
Dreaming seamless dreams of children and sunlight
Something in storybooks once known as true love
Jennifer Thorsen Nov 2014
Our purest selves
Reaching deep
Warm and wild
Our blood thunders
Tearing through elastic highways
Driven by that rough, rubbery pump
Congregating like pack animals
Evolving thick as thieves
Rough and oily with dull wit and sharp tongues
Minds crackling with electric waste
Droning in the distance
Responding to wide signals
Follow follow follow
Driven by primitive urges and flights of fancy and pickling liquor
Rough clumsy fumblings in backseats
Stolen moments behind straight backs
Populations pour from our bodies
Often devoid of purpose
Leaving us with shredded dignity
And tired blue collar hands
Where our dreams come to an abrupt halt
It is all we can do to live in the present
For in being ill we have drawn a line through our future
Daddy's little princess such a tarred delusion in white.
Let's forget all it's only between me and you and the page tonight.
False hope's and new found delusions  let me slide this hand up that skirt .
Maybe it's wrong but what could feel more right.

You wanted to taste the edge so I took you to the razor.
embraced are sins and found new freedoms sweetheart was it as wicked as you could have ever imagined?

Maybe I'm the worst but it wasn't what you clawed into these shoulders last night.
Cheap moments wasn't it a hell of a time.
Matchbooks of places road stops of emptiness wasn't it a dream that new a nightmares embrace?

If you need a friend it wasn't in the cards but torment is truth mired by *******
can I interest you in one last fix.

Sweet nothings weren't on the menu but the passion could have burnt us both.
I hold no remorse but understand every scar holds a memory I wont bother you with that greater good speech sweetheart it's simply goodbye.

A quick slap beats a broken desire the magic was pure no matter the cancer we shared
in backseats and empty nights regression.

I recall you although I would never admit .
Every scar I treasure for sometimes your the one that I can never forget.

I'll wash it away and hopefully for you it will be something better not to have been.
**** the stories the page always makes us bleed in the end.

Paper cuts are that and nothing more.
Giani LaDavia Jan 2013
Emotions relaxed in reverse,
I can’t imagine it any worse.
The sound of chalk against the wall.
The sound of talk, outside the hall.
The girl of such tall words and steep opinions,
never found the time to leave her voice,
and lend it to another’s choice.
She walked across the smoke filled room,
as if no one was watching,
as if no one noticed.
I see my death in her eyes,
the way a man can only wish he dies.
Wearing that aged cardigan from her father’s early years,
she divided her tears,
and gave me that look,
you only find in mirrors.

You were used to the cold nights,
and the lingering midnight flights.
Driving down a smooth cigarette,
where we were going,
I had not known yet.

On the drive home,
we sat in the backseats of your friend’s car,
The distance never seems as far.
Too many of us for one car.
We left our shoes at the beach,
by nightfall no one could see,
you touch your toes to me.
The reflection of the lights,
and music blaring,
allowed me to see,
you were staring.
Jim Timonere Jan 2017
She should have been fine,
Right school, good family, right color,
But she was at the age when things go wrong.

She began to feel the weight
Of weightless things
And the need to be someone
No one could be outside the cover of a magazine.

So the doubt crept in and
Muddied her image in the mirror
Then frustration took hold
Because she couldn't reach a
Place that never was
Or ease the pain of that failure.

One bad day, the devil whispered
Through the mouth of a boy who knew her pain
In his hand a pill, he said,
“It's cool, everybody does”.

But she heard through tortured adolescent thoughts  
“Here is peace, acceptance is here, belonging “.

And so she did and did
And when she tried to turn away
The whisper became a shout, then a command
And the pill became a needle in her arm.
  
When money ran out, she started selling
Pieces of her soul in backseats, or ***** hotels.
The devil left her then, he had won.
No more promises, no dreams, or hopes or even fears
Only the need for something
No one ever needed.

Her world became an illustration
She maintained with just enough sense
To keep her on the street, but
It wasn't enough in the end.

Her mother found her in her bed
Afterward the woman always said
“She looked so peaceful and
So young. “My little girl “.

Somewhere the devil whispered,
“Peace” and laughed.
Love your kids enough to look closely at them.  They need us in this crazy world.
For every yellow cab maneuvering
Through the city streets,
Holding people who sit in the
Backseats, dreaming of what
Heaven might look like.
For every skyscraper standing
Within New York City,
There’s at least two people
Who stand on their roof tops
Dreaming of how it feels to fly.
the start of a little something.
Heaven Dawn Feb 2014
I pray you burn the wood you carved us into, because I'm tired of fighting this fire alone.
You've roasted our love away, carving us into a childhood bunk bed and praying we stay past our adolescent phase.
I want to kiss you under our initials, show you how heated I can get under your gaze, smolder the letters of my name because I don't belong on bunk beds.
I belong in backseats, and kissing behind your mothers back when she's making us dinner.
I belong as a secret, I belong on letters you were never suppose to send.
Lick the envelopes with love you aren't suppose to have for me, tell your mother it's a platonic relationship and your father I was the kind of girl you'd marry.
I don't belong on bunk beds, so don't put me above your head.
RaySlev Sep 2012
The spark of the lighter,
a noise forever ingrained in my mind
and dear to my heart.
It warms my fingertip as it will soon warm my lungs.
I bring the flame up to decorated glass.
Swirls of pink and blue,
sparkling under the dim light.
They look as if they are tangable,
like I could reach in and pick them up
and feel the softness of the colors in my hands.
Cradling the intricate designs,
as the designs cradle the green that brings ease to my mind.

I inhale.
Burning from green to black before my eyes.
Heat in my throat.
Burning so good,
hitting deep in my chest
and everything that has run wild
finally falls into place.
I exhale.

We rest on porches,
stay wraped in the protection of backseats,
or let the manicured grass hold us as we stare up into the unknown.
We are facinated by the unknown,
That of the world and ourselvs.
We explore through a window newley opened,
savoring every second of the breeze that we have discovered.
Madeline May 2013
I remember when loving him wasn't so wildly painful,
and I remember backseats and whispered things
and I remember winter nights and tiny joys.
I remember when I fell asleep against his arm on the way home from a dance I hadn't wanted to go to -
I remember a kiss on the top of my head,
the gentlest thing you can imagine,
to wake me up.
I remember the thousands of tendernesses.
I remember the the ecstatic joy you filled me with.
I remember I couldn't sit still when you were close by -
I remember the electricity, the wildness
you put into my limbs and the rhythms of my heart.
And truth be told these are what I'd rather remember
and this is how I'd rather it be.
I'd like to hold onto the joy and the recklessness,
the love instead of the loss.
I'd rather remember our happinesses, because they were so many.
I know your fickleness and your faults,
I know that you are in a constant state of moving on,
that you do not hold on and that you probably don't remember
but you know that I do.
I carry things with me and nights like these,
they do make me remember. They make me want and ache and they fill me with things I don't have a name for. They make me breathless and nostalgic and crippled. They make me think, write, and love. They fill me with the same abandon that you did, only quieter now and deeper, but no less beautiful.
And it's an odd thing, to remember love without feeling it,
Or to feel love in ways you don't understand because they feel so odd and out of place, being only yours. It's a difficult game and an exhausting one, and I'm struggling, still, to find my footing.
Today I remember loving you.
Later I will remember missing you.
Later still I will remember remembering,
Or maybe I will forget altogether.
Jon Shierling Nov 2014
I once stood upon the threshold of madness
looking in upon a city of wasted limbs
and batwing eyelashes crusted with tears
flung like sapphires from Tiresias eyes.

How now Great Baron of Lust do
you justify the endless legions of lonely
life sick suicides and the saints burning
upon grotesque piles of dollars brightly?

So much sacrificed and sold in the land of
plenty, mana falling from supermarket shelves
and young girls getting ****** in the ***
by sycophantic strangers full of malt liquor
in the backseats of gestating vehicles
screaming in pleasure because the pain
is the only ****** thing that makes sense.

There is a place and a time for writing
of green fields and summer days
life in Technicolor and flowers abounding
kisses sweeter than the purest nectar
and true love that only ever comes once
in a thousand years of birth and rebirth.

This is not that place and it is not this time.

Bought white carnations and a cheap vase from
the shell of a Winn-Dixie to give to a friend I'd
like to love and know that I won't because on my
bad days I ******* in a torn easy chair to forget
drunk on liquor and memories of a love
writing **** in her own blood on a bruised thigh
that had seen too much of a thing called hate.

I have no illusions about what I am or
where I come from and why I churn out
this scathing miasma of filth and shame
directed to the powers that be sitting
supposedly quiet and content on their
thrones built from infant's starved skins
and the backbones of all those nameless
and forgotten proles ******* down cheap
gin and 305's morning noon and night.

Build them then ye cowering babes in suits
those monuments to the all powerful phallus
conqueror of that mysterious prize virginity
stealing innocence and penetrating the veneer
of perfect femininity that you fear will steal your
shriveled testicles if you don't strike first.

****** you captains of business and human capital
profiteers of human suffering and human
fears that can be turned against we weak
chattel stumbling ever onward to the chopping block.

****** you whatever your name is
that slithers into peoples wet dreams in
the middle of the night to whisper horror
and abuse propagating the will to violence
against innocents because of some half-forgotten
past full of parents and ****** and smashed dreams.

**** me whenever you like but know this:
I WILL NEVER SUBMIT
Austin Heath Dec 2014
And here I thought you were fixed.
You shoved a few bottles of fixed
into your system
and called me because
I am helpless to help you.
This hopeless helplessness
and you were bleeding from
your mouth and all I could say

"I'm gonna miss you."

You're probably catatonic or dead
or comatose
with another 1 or your finger on send.
I'm sorry he didn't love you.
I thought you were better.

You and me had a lot in common.
Now it's probably just me and I feel empty,
and I hate you for this because the alternative
is no good, and I'm no good anyways
and I'm selfish here writing about me
but you're dead or I can't stop you.
What am I supposed to write about you?

You're not gorgeous, or funny,
you don't have a beautiful smile,
you're not silly or soft or kind
or kind of an ***.
You're just ******* dead by now I guess.

You should've been breaking hearts
in backseats and bathrooms
and writing novels for lovers to
commit to memory
or professors to loom over melancholic
and sad, ******* sad, ******* too sad to cry.

You're not amazing anymore.
You're probably dead.

I'm twelve tones of ****** up,
and you gave me hope,
and all these people keep coming to me
and I'm broken and lonely and ******* up
and I'm sorry I wasn't there,
I thought you were better.

I know you want me to think it's not my fault,
but here's the ******* kicker
[because I can kick the blame, but];
I still could've been there.
You're probably dead now.

You ******* idiot.
I want to feel sorry, but why?
Why? I hate you for this.
I hate you for doing this.
I hate you for doing this.
I just ******* wished you'd just
see that me and you deserved living
and I don't believe in ghosts
but now you're another demon
in my closet in my head over my shoulder
out where a god should be.

I knew I couldn't fix you,
and now we have that in common too.

I loved you. I'm so sorry I was so afraid to just say it. I was afraid this would happen, and now it has anyways and it was so ******* stupid. I've never ****** up so monumentally. I just didn't know. I swear if you had just told me sooner, I would've been there. I didn't hate you, I just wanted you to find someone else. I didn't hate you.

But now you've gone,
and you've left me here
and you're probably dead,
and even if you're a vegetable on blue sheets
a white corpse on the floor,
a demon in my red heaven,
a ghost under my bed,
a skeleton in my closet,
or the hand that holds the next
nail in my coffin steady as the tide,

Now, I hate you for this.
chang Oct 2020
there are days
i only feel like a burden.
someone who fills backseats
so that someone could be at the front.
and the weight of my own bones
are too heavy for a family name to carry.
heavy enough to crush a sorry girl.
my breaths are sometimes apologies
people refuse to hear.
im sorry if i am this way.
i wish i could be something more.
Amber S Nov 2013
i think i have finally found myself, in between the cushions of
crumble filled and beer stained backseats of his car. through the spaces
of his fingers, all i taste is *** and lingering
regrets.
i think i can finally disappear, among nights that never end,
with tongues that never parch.
a little touching never hurt nobody, and i think my veins
are nothing but fire tonight.
i had lost myself in his red car with a stupid license plate,
and eyes that held me, shut me, locked me up.
i had lost myself in this idea that you can’t be alone too long,
for your own fingers can only do so
much.
i have found myself, while stumbling and purging through
crisp nights, touching car doors, fur, strangers hands.
i have found myself amid his arms, but i’m still looking for the other
pieces,
i think they might be inside you, you,
you. let me take a look, darling, we have nowhere to be
tonight.
fdg Mar 2015
you've given me good memories in backseats
(we're getting good at 'being bad')
we could get into actual trouble
and i'd still do it all over again tomorrow
Poetic T Feb 2015
Written upon paper receipts
Where angelic kisses repeats,
Our love born upon cobbled streets
Emotions showing on backseats.

We were hearts in forward motion
Crashing on each, sand and ocean,
I drank you like a love potion
Affection riding emotion.

Could this one longing single kiss
Invoke such moments of pure bliss,
Distracted eyes of brown abyss
Lips joined once again reminisce.

One moment a seed was planted
Like a fairy tale love was granted,
Moment forever enchanted
With each new day love replanted
Innocent Dec 2014
She thought this would be easy
Fun to be sure
Exciting and dangerous
Naturally of course

The *** was amazing
At all times of the day
In backseats and parking lots
Oh what a treat

Time moved forward
And things got close
Feelings came into play
And everything changed

Thoughts of running away
Uruguay sounded cool
Fantasy would be fulfilled

Reality hit hard
Decisions where made
Sadness and emptyness
The new flavour of the day

A taste she's remembers well
His car.
In someone's drive way.

The backseats.
Our bodies so close together.
On top of me.

His hands traces my sides, my body.
His cold hands making my body shake.
Our mouths locked.
Our shirts thrown about in  his car.

His lips move down to my neck.
My moans fill the car.
Why is he teasing me...

He stops.
Gets off.
And we drive home.
On a perfect Saturday night...
This is not a true happening. Just a fantasy.

— The End —