"backyards" poems
He pulled and parked the supply red wagon,
then climbed the mast to the captain's cabin.
Captain Red is ready for adventure.
A quest to collect the world's best treasure.
His pirate crew is renowned far and wide.
They're rough and tough and they don't ever cry.
But none of them boys has the captain's stuff.
So don't mess with him, man, cause he don't bluff.
This motley crew has achieved many feats,
has never suffered a single defeat,
and has seen the most incredible things:
whales, whirlpools, storms, mermaids, krakens and kings.
"Set sail," squaws the boss as he munches lunch
and the Ocean Destroyer leaves port Wunche.
These rolling green hills are now ocean waves.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
...
"Hey Benjamin!" beams the first mate Susanne.
Impeding the journey that just began.
"We already played this game. It's my turn!"
The first mate trumps the captain, Ben will learn.
...
Her spacesuit crew is renowned far and wide.
They're smart and nice and they don't ever lie.
But none of these girls has commander's stuff.
So don't mess with her, girl, cause she don't bluff.
This brainy crew has achieved many feats,
has never suffered a single defeat,
and has seen the most incredible things:
aliens, black holes, stars, and martian springs.
"Lift off!" beams the boss as she munches lunch
and the Star Chasing Rocket leaves base Wunche.
These rural backyards are now rocky space.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
...
"Hey Susanne!" beams the pilot Benjamin.
Impeding the flight before it begins.
"We already played this game. It's my turn!"
The pilot trumps commander, Sue will learn.
...
Boys and girls grow up and out the front door.
Those children’s games evolve to adult chores;
those kiddy lawns to grandparent’s domain.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
island summer heat
big backyards
shared by three families
with rambunctious kids
sundresses, sandals, swim trunks
a big mango tree and
a merry-go-round with red chipped paint
geckos and mud baths
"boy's got cooties!"
mid-west plains' dry, summer heat
Mr. Sun is our lamp well past 9:00pm
Dow St., a giant hill covered
in uniform houses, filled with the uniformed sacrificial
spinning wheels, acre-wide hide and seek
nintendo and donkey kong, fireflies in jars
front yard mulberry trees
pippy longstocking "lets' go into this 'cave' of vines"
poison-ivy
southern peninsula, humid, summer heat
above ground pools and trampolines
a red brick house; the first home
the first CD collection, Filipino food
THE PARK,
the sandbox lid drowning in the bayou
sleeping in guest rooms, sleepovers a sign of status
pelicans, ducks, fishing,
sleeping in the boat; camping on the beach
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
They call it a 'Class War"
They call it a "War of Liberation"
whilst its just another instance of white oppression
Childish, immature, mean and nasty underachievers
like the kid on the beach who kicks over others sandcastle
because they are better than the ******* castle he made
Like that that uncool dumb teen who scatters the board game
because he's now seen that he is losing and cannot win at all
like those ugly pimpled friends who would play gooseberry
and cock-blockers because they can't get nice dates of their own
like that bitter mad one who will spill ink over your white top
or new Trainers because he or she has old and ***** ones
They are all from the world of the sicko psychos and damaged
talent-less mean, envious, sad pathetic people going nowhere
If I can't make it, why should others do and be winners
They all graduate to the divisive politics of the ****** losers
Power is stopping progress and advancement because they are down
Power is bringing achievers and enterprise down they can's gain
Power is sabotaging all that is good because they are bad in all
Measly fetid minds they plot and conspire in gangrenous network
dolts, scums, unwashed losers and rejects of society, bottom feeders
Come join the Party, our specialty is chaos and disruption of winners
The pathetic jokes of the white West, losers in their own backyards
picks on an African who came from disadvantages to better them
better educated, more intelligent, cool and stylish in every way
pack full of potential, going places they can never go or reach
Our sick, mean spirited under-achievers, expert losers and scums
crawled on the war-path, riddled with envy, sick with jealousy
ruin his progress, oppose and disrupt a black man who doubles
efforts to achieve, what if losers try is given to them on a plate
What here is done for the greater good, what here is honorable
celebrated victories for psychos, racist underachievers I think not
peoples power? more sick, tormented, jealous n envious chicanery
anarchy jealousy, anarchy shame, anarchy racists, anarchy liars
One Single Black achiever demonstrates the inherent strength
and grace of our all our Ancestors against sick, persistent white oppression. That's the story here.
If its a fair war, why hide and go underground, why fight *****
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
You grew up
on the side of the road,
between sidewalk cracks,
in backyards full of
tall bahia grass,
pushing aside their
stems so you could
find the sky.
You grew up
beneath the sun
and out in the rain
and under every
booming thunderstorm
an Alabama summer
could throw your way.
Dogs ran through you.
Men, too, trampled you
but you sprung back up,
rumpled, but still bright,
unbowing, even when
they said you were just
a gangly **** that no
one would find beautiful.
(I found you beautiful,
because your face was
the sun, and I find it
everywhere.)
You grew up.
You had to grow up,
grew white and fragile
and one day the wind
came for you and
carried you away.
Fly far.
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
When spring arrives, it touches nature’s heart, and awakens it into a new life
Trees are blossoming
Beautiful Lilly flowers are blooming
Fields are dressed in a green garment
Blue butterflies are flying
Bees are buzzing
Baby bunnies are playing
Birds are chirping in backyards
Water springs are bursting
Water waves are dancing
Nature is burning love
I wonder, if we as human being could bring out the best in us, and show the whole world our inner beauty by the touch of spring?
Hussein Dekmak
Mar 12, 2023
Mar 12, 2023 at 4:32 PM UTC
Well morning came and it dressed the sky
in a lovely yellow gown.
Now the shops, they are all opening
in that narrow hallway of downtown;
filled with people who are shopping for
their lovers and their friends
so they won't ever be lonely again.
Well, a forrest bench becomes backyards,
like songs are born from sound.
And the apple fell and it taught us all
that we are chained here to the ground.
So here we go, but there ain't no escape.
Yeah, these streets are just dead ends
so I will never be happy again.
Well it seems you too see a painful blue
when you stare at the sky.
You could never understand
the motion of a hand waving you goodbye.
"Bye bye."
But as the story goes, or it is often told,
a new day will arise and all the dance halls
will be full of skeletons.
They are coming back to life and on a grassy hill.
The lion will lay down with the lamb
and I won't ever be lonely again.
But until that time I think had better find
some disbelief to suspend,
because I don't want to feel like this again.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.
Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.
I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.
I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
We stalked hawthorn hedgerows,
Backyards our battlefields,
Wielding wooden swords,
Dustbin-lids, for our shields.
We scouted railway cuttings,
Long abandoned and disused,
Where friendship’s blended alloys,
Were cast, forged and fused.
We patrolled village streets,
Marched along muddied lanes,
Proudly defending ‘our land’,
From raiding, heathen, Danes’.
We boldly challenged Vikings’,
Beneath a Sixties-summer-sun,
Bonding loyalty, faith and trust,
That will never, come undone.
Those days will not return,
Memories-mismatched-truth,
Recalling the fallen heroes,
Fighting follies of our youth.
Protecting imagined Kingdoms,
Lost in time, for evermore,
Boy soldiers standing guard,
In Castles built from straw.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC
Today is the day I determine how I plan to die:
I will lay in a field,
With flowers in my hair
And gold coins on my eyes.
He will stand over my corpse,
his hands flaying helplessly
to save my naked soul
(but he cannot breathe
Life into a body's that is
Already cold.)
I want children to pick out my teeth and
Then plant them in their backyards;
So when the luscious fruit
Is picked by their tender hands
Tears can fall for their dead muse
(making my insides taste even better)
They shall be blessed
With the gift of metaphors
And they shall be hated.
The ground shall attack them
As they speak of "anti-love"
Their feet will grow weary of
Constant thorns
And heavy thoughts
(They'll give up.)
My legacy will survive in
His hands.
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 3:03 PM UTC
there is some kindness in the way
the earth is suspended on gravity's back.
how it
rotates on it's axis,
bound by the sacred trust
that space won't bottom out &
shake us all from the earth
like crumbs in the bed.
there is little kindness in the way
the earth is suspended
in war, in turmoil;
with handguns & machine guns
& bombs strapped to civilians-
tied to the greater majority
with the intentions of a few.
there is little kindness
in fighting fire with fire-
when our own backyards are burning
&
our neighbors are to blame.
there is little kindness in the fear
of what lies beneath a burka,
a niqab,
a turban-
a police uniform,
a trench coat
or a white robe
&
a
pointed
white
hood.
there is little kindness in the terror
that sleeps in the backs of our minds
and sets up shop in our beds
& lays low
while we condemn the third world,
the local news just confirms
and confirms
and confirms-
we were killing each other first.
there is little kindness in seeing humanity
as this side of the border
or that.
the world is more of a revolving door
that spins you dizzily
& spits you back out.
there is some kindness in the way
gravity still holds the earth
like some sick, sad science fair project;
like some ****** consolation prize.
humanity is
a bed of crumbs
clinging
thanklessly
to
sheets.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 4:48 AM UTC
— for the American Mustang
Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby **** surfaced
for the first time. Last year,
135,000 horses died —
rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.
In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”
In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —
2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
There's too much of me
So I slice into parts
Don't know who I am
Who I was
Where to start
My fingertips stained
a raspberry color
Let's cut off another
Another
Another
My softness dismantled
Set the mood
light some candles
This hole inside grows
So I must learn to handle
Those times where my head was held under water
Men dont give a **** if "that's somebodys daughter"
When all that you've taught me is I should be better
I think of my past self and send em a letter
The version of me that was put under ground
Carving into myself cause I cant speak out loud
Skipping breakfast and dinner or stuffing our faces
For some sense of control
To hope it erases
The feeling inside
that all that you can be
Is how flesh meat and bone
Hangs off of your body
When your own heart could stop
From barely a flutter
Flesh of the womb
Laying wet in the gutter
Taking what's ours
They go on with their lives
Resorted to tonics and herbs
Backyards and midwives
He said it's not that bad
you ******* faker
Beat in her face
Just to text her phone later
All my exes are crazy
I just wanted to bang her
Cut her down from the rafters
when you know what hanged her
It's funny it's sad
at the end of the day
We're in hell together
Across hot coals we lay
Dress your own wounds
Don't bend over for them
Instead let's
Redacted
Redacted
Redacted
Aug 9, 2023
Aug 9, 2023 at 12:00 AM UTC
Padre day always felt so gray
Typically too clouded for anything uplifting to say on a personal plane
Nor much of anything for me to really celebrate
Many moving pieces, some removed before "too late"
This month wouldve marked year 8 -
Of revolutions and opportunities to be great. I would've stayed and stumbled into ways to be brave.
*Instead again I sit here and isolate
Called upon a necromancer for a family to raise. He handed me a mirror and said, "Start here today."
I am grateful to be, and honor the planting of seeds from generations prior
But the cold washes over me alone staring at the embers of a life that was a fire.
I wouldn't say that this is all a test
Life is stress when comparing with the rest
Judge self only by your personal progress
Try not to take it personally and trust the process
When this sun sets, there wont be any regrets. Instead whispers in the wind reminding you to keep steps to the beat in your chest
Ive had my talks with suns, moons, and planets in their orbit...in many driveways, backyards, and various porches. Kicking it with night sky, a dark cave, with stars as my torches. These conversations elevate and ultimately nourish. Still, I can only fantasize about how we'd all have flourished. One daydream at a time finding the courage to surface
Jun 18, 2023
Jun 18, 2023 at 5:21 PM UTC
I remember how that Puxatony dirt
felt between my fingers. Gritty
and cold – the earth that covers graves.
Falling from my palm, landing at his paws,
he curled around my leg, shivering.
Against my ankle, he rested his long ears.
Polaroids of a mothers chew-toy earrings;
memories of March spent playing in *****
backyards, forests, and playgrounds. We shivered
together, in the heat of Spring, with gritty
rock-filled driveways underneath our paws.
Lives, those playful daisies sprouting from gravel,
that we ate day by day; pushing graves
down out of mind, but spilling from our ears.
The summer wrought steel cages to grip awe,
with training meant, bent to destroy dirt
kept caked on worn-out sandals. Grits
scooped off a breakfast plate to a shivering
dachshund. His collar jingled, shimmering
as it clashed against his bowl. Cold gravy
and dry cat food, with textured scents. Gritty,
furry, and harsh. Ears dipped in water bowls
finding the only bath of the month, clearing dirt
from a death in the family. Soft, unknowing paws
treaded with grace, and a parentless pause
as we crumbled. Directionless grief shivered
the big men with their shrunken hearts, *****
from a three-hour drenching sob at the grave.
But love is not measured by the size of loss -
it is made of highs and lows; rough and gritty.
Seven pounds of compassion weighs with gridded
precision on my chest. Those tiny paws,
batting at my heart. Soft, two-times-too-large ears
crying with us and pleading through shivers
to enjoy everything. Now your graves are dug
together - between you only a foot of dirt.
Gritty reality seeps in from shivering
fiction. Your paws on your own grave,
I place my ear to the dirt, and whimper.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 11:24 AM UTC
truck-bedded teens smoke leaves above the tree branch cathedral;
treefort,
& fumes from her lips. her lips/
crush me oh my.
climb down to the street.
snap into a slim jim.
smash into a television.
skateboard kids:
blackboy bent into dust and old motel.
whiteboy with fireworks spitting modern mallrat jazz.
girls of stuffed tiger and bottles shattered,
by blood
by beer
by now. she dreams
of the coast henceforth
& grips glass to imagine it like good futures.
/bong-hit.
/swallow the pizza.
into the arcade ******
like denim jackets and the mohawked-heads of foul foolish boys.
like little sister vanished into the music.
she presents her flesh before needled ink in the neon-rung afterlife.
she tongues flame.
she thumbs for fame and a highway to california.
she speaks in tongues to win enough tickets for the big panda bear.
her boyfriends punch faces in parking lots.
their generations gather at the apricot tree.
they pull at the seams of eachother’s tricky slips,
& watch hyenas tear through the trash
in the lawn across the street.
old factory:
old shrine of sky & night & bottles & bottlerockets
& her hair & us.
take the bus, or
walk the paths of backyards, home.
sneak thru the window,
cracked lip and shower.
to appear,
in a sunday dress.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
I drove dad’s Chevy for the first time one Sunday morning
In a storm.
His old, blue, dented, beat-up, ninety-seven Chevy.
In a storm!
Who would have even let me take control
Of this two-ton machine on a sunny day, when
The raindrops didn’t cover the windshield like a blanket,
And the wipers actually helped to push them aside?
When I couldn’t see my scared reflection in the puddles on the road?
When the worn down tires had traction on the asphalt?
I was going thirteen in a thirty-five, and the
Old woman behind me honked her horn at me
To the tune of a song abundant with cursing.
My heart was beating at the speed of the piston’s pumping,
And my knuckles were white on the wheel
Like little snow-capped mountains.
I was inches from the wheel, and I looked over the windshield
Like a kid at an ice cream store, only
My eyes were not filled with hope for a
Rocky road sundae.
Dad, on the other hand,
Was as calm as the patter of the rain on the sunroof;
Relaxed as the trees in their suburban backyards.
I guess it all goes to show you
How much faith my father has in me.
Or,
How stupid and stubborn he can be sometimes.
But aren’t those really just the same things?
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
Altho nobody knows - and I’m not
telling! - I’m a dope fiend
******* hound and not in the
harmless sense i am
drug vampire, nocturnally creeping
into houses thru
open windows & easy doors taking
kitchen spices & cabinet cleaning
products
cooking little pills & powders
outta strangers’ **** i spend full
moons in velvet in backyards
falling out bathroom windows hopping fences
hoping your mother never finds out
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
******* silly
To think of you at all
To still feel a little sick
That's the problem with moving, you find all those things you hid from yourself
Pictures and love letters
The hate letters that followed
Over the years my memories of you have condensed into a tangle of feelings
Small, but heavy
Love and love and love
Summertime mornings white house blue trim rooftop wildflower bouquets
Atmosphere backyards sunshine is fine for making up
Naked in the lake, maps and
Sheets with ducks
Heartbreak and rage
So lonely
Never enough in the winter, cell phone turned off
Shame and humiliation, regret and guilt
Sick to my stomach
*****
All the things you've called me because of things I'd done before
And now after
You
Had no right
You wouldn't believe how long I've spent trying to cut your words out of my spine
The half-life of all that hurt and
The minefield of defenses you left littered around my heart
It's been three years since the three years that we spent together came to an end
One year since I got your final letter
It was the last goodbye between you and I
And for the most part I don't think of you anymore
I've forgotten far more than I remember about the feel of you
But every January 21st I still look up at the night sky and hear your voice
Telling me that winter stars are the brightest
I wonder if you think of me too
I hope you don't a little more than I hope you do
All the ways I felt about you, each truth making the last untrue
Are tangled in a tight little knot in the back of my mind
Shadows of words that hide in my spine
An unlabelled box in the garage
I couldn't bring myself to throw you away all the way
I hope I never see you again
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
vibrant colors effervescent arrays
energetically on show for the eye's window
gardens ebullient with vivacious displays
front and backyards brilliantly aglow
hues of a rainbow a springtime glory
energetically on show for the eye's window
a paint box of shades telling the story
streets and avenues resplendent of decoration
hues of a rainbow a springtime story
our towns and villages so bright in elation
they bring a gaiety after winter's drear
streets and avenues resplendent of decoration
it does gladden the heart when they appear
the floral tones of cerise purple and orange bloom
they bring a gaiety after winter's drear
spring displacing the cold season's gloom
the floral tones of cerise purple and orange bloom
vibrant colors effervescent arrays
gardens ebullient with vivacious displays
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
rumble
grumble
crack
lightning
jagged
sears the eye
plat
platt
plitt
splat
clouds
burst
forth in
drilling
drumming
rhythm
flinging
water
pellets
at grime
collected
soil
neglected
mosoon season
breaks
the sky
making
backyards
into
squelching
squishy
mudpies
rumble
grumble
crack
raintrack
on
repeat
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
fingers tapping against your thigh, music note mumblings. subtract everyone else and watch the feeling
m
u
l
t
i
p
l
y
disassemble and reassemble the ensemble and allocate your earnings as earnestly as you can without appearing overeager. overhearing a conspiracy between my lips and your neck. a secret isn't a secret unless you whisper it, so do it, make sure the russians don't hear us as they rush off to give reports on that look I just gave you, the one that is oh so telling. reveling in it. living in the revelation of your skin, pouring down your presence like honey, like sweet molasses dripping thick and sweet, simmering under the sun, glimmering in the water like a jewel, jealous and **** painful and dark and dazzling. beating only in anatomical hearts, out of tune, cacophony and cruel crimson, missing someone not something, left wanting and waning in the light of a lopsided moon, farsighted and fingers that prune in purple light rippling across the walls, willing to travel the planes of your body, embodied travesty traversing the sahara, dunes doomed to be swept away by the wind, breaking and kept away, each grain unable to touch one another more than once, gorgeous enough to be pain, staking your claim on misery before the misers bury it in their own backyards, backwards discovery, a convenient amnesia, believing ruses and runes to decipher in delicate dictum like tricking a language into translating itself.
almost too much of not enough.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
The lost causes never remember
moonlight matters
it's tapping at your window
Sounds of baby peddles and November
The looming causes fail to comprehend
loneliness lingers
It's ebbing at your elbows
The best of beer bottles and dead ends
The loose causes refuse to acknowledge
Ignorance ignites
It's gnawing as it follows
Daily articles and unrefined polish
The least causes lose sight in the daybreak
blossoms bittering
It will fade as hearts hollow
Graveyard backyards and bone aches
The lone causes acquiesce to uncertainty
pages punctured
It is freeing as it swallows
Sunsets red and abrupt against afternoon purity
The loaned causes shatter against the bribery
Coins cascading
It is a vision as she wallows
Lipstick Luscious and cultivating calvary
The last causes shall never translate
Sculptures scalloped
it is swallowing in shallows
Hoarded hearts and breakup dates
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
I am so sick of this smog,
(And the plane has only just landed).
Gray and gold, it smothers the city;
I already miss cotton-ball clouds
In a sky that is blue, just blue,
Floating.across flat green fields filled
With yellow-topped corn and spindly windmills.
The flatness is immense here,
But clotted with a wreck of suburbia,
Boxy ranches and sudden apartment buildings.
Instead of a harvest, the backyards are filled
With cement and fetal-curved swimming pools.
Every bit of it looks about to crack
Under all this weight.
The palm trees that used to look exotic
And spark my mind with other people’s sold memories
Of India, Siam, and Hollywood,
Are now tacky, too tall,
Hovering over the highway wall.
They look like a locust infestation.
Even the white windmills
Seemed more benign, their blades
Whipping around and around
As if they were ready for a fight.
Ten months is too long for LA,
But it would probably be too long for heaven, as well.
So when I settle for good,
It will be in a house
With a winter view of the river,
A highway drive from the city.
This valley, though sometimes empty, is filled
With both silence and cement,
Sunshine and snow and thunderstorms,
And the only house that matters,
With a winter view of the river.
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 5:06 PM UTC
Let's join a whistle band
And light matches with our teeth
Lets ask everyone when they lost track of Waldo
Cuz I havent seen that ************ since the 10th grade
Let's believe in all the superstitions
A little luck is what we've been needing these days
Lets eat sushi and climb on rooftops when we aren't supposed to
Just so we can look at the white lights and hope that the height will give us a little clarity
Lets ask long questions with long answers
And know that to talk you also have to listen
Let's watch creepy **** and wear socks with high heels
We'll be class acts till the day we die
Though not in the way everyone expects
Let's spend way too much time together
And cut through backyards in the snow
Lets pay for our café drinks in change
And ask for favors because we're close
Let's spill our guts and our laughs
Because you're the only one who gets me
Lets spell out words with pennies
And decide life in ****** thrift store dressing rooms
Let's cry and be sad
With the promise to be happy
And healed when the other is near
Lets rip up t-shirts
And change the radio in each others cars
Let's take a million memories
And expect the best out of life and gelato ice cream
Let's dry up flowers in the summer to look at in the winter
And wear too many rings on our fingers
Let's hang out with ******
And rent a red convertible for the summer
Lets read books and watch Mulan
And take walks and get together just so we can nap
Lets play assassins creed
And listen to Bon Iver (or Bone Eyever)
And take a break from thinking too much all the time
Lets join a whistle band
And light matches with our teeth Because all of this has meant more to me than a million everythings
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
Black asphalt
Damp bicycle tires
Sparkling trees
The whole of the street scene is blurry and softened
As though covered in a layer of oil paint
The barefoot laughing, no-longer-dry-mouthed children are dancing in backyards
Kicking up mud and dirt with reckless abandon
We dream of moments like these
So soft they live on in memories
Like down feathers on strong wide wings
Sweet-smelling, heather-scented moments
These moments of gentle, dawn-colored rain
Can you feel how your withered heart opens up?
It's ready to heal
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC