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Elliot C Feb 2015
Sweet little thing.
you dont know what you are,
well we see from there,
between your legs descending so
Boxing Gloves for you!
Be black and blue, Soon.
Amy John Jan 2013
A simple thought takes over
Taking over your mind
Filling up your brain
Dancing around the thought of doing it
What if?
How?
Where?
When?
Writing down every last detail
Boxing up memories
Breaking hearts
Broken family
Lost their child
Killed herself
Wrote it all down
No one knew
No one thought
No one saved her.
And I wish I can tell you these:

Opening up to each other is one of the bestest way to keep a relationship strong.
I want you to tell me everything, how's your day going, if you're annoyed, if you're tired, if you wanna sleep with me, if you want me to be there at 12am or 3am. If you can't sleep at night, if you need a shoulder to lean on and a shirt to cry on, if you wanna talk about life and how you love coffee so much, talk about how your vape means a lot to you, if you want to shop, if you want to kiss me, if you wanna go somewhere, if you wanna have star gazing, paintball or even boxing, tell me how much you love basketball so much and how good you are in cooking. Tell me about your past, your life. Tell me your dream house, how many kids you want to have, your dream wedding and who's going to be your best man. I'm your best friend, girlfriend, sister, workmate and buddy in everything. Tell me everything you want me to know, what you wanna do or your plans, I will listen, I will stay with you even if you tell me how bad you are, I will be who I am as your gf even with your flaws and imperfections. I will always be here for you, I don't mind staying silent the whole time you talk, as long as you tell me you enjoyed my company. You know, I'm sure you know you mean everything to me. And how thankful I an to God, for giving me the happiness I deserve, YOU.
Your with that straight girl
Whos into you
Shes out of this world
She wont move in with you

You let her make your life ****
While you complain about my boy
Just shut up now this is it
This is all my choice

While you live with our mother
While your 20 years old
Still with her not another
She'll always make you fold

Ill be in my big house
With the same boy I have loved
You wont win this joust
Take off the boxing gloves

Lets agree to disagree
We wont say a word again
She has you n he has me
Lets just see how this will end
Original
SG Holter Jun 2014
There's nothing clean about
A break that nobody
Wants.

It's as ***** as dirt,
As ****** as boxing,

And it hurts more than
Having anything else
Broken.
Ron Gavalik Mar 2022
You are the elixir
of overworked men
a companion
for lonely souls
and a boxing ring
for the fighting spirit
Your camaraderie
leads to immediate
regret
but such pain
forces peace
in the new day
Michael-Angelo Sep 2016
There is not much to say about me, I'm very simple and easy going, more than a personality thing is a choice of life. I think the key to life's happiness is simplicity. I'm a rebel and love is the only force that bends me, time after time. I do not tolerate injustices, superficialities, bureaucracies, social inequalities, or organized religion, but I do believe in God. I write, mostly poetry, I attempt to give meaning to life through words.
Some of the things that I like, in no particular order. . . Watch the sunrise, the rain through a window, the glow of the skin when touched by the sun, philosophize with crazies like myself, laugh attacks, have an ice cream as I take a walk, silence (mostly when I have someone to think about), a complicity smile, the mischievous eyes of children =), fall asleep while reading a book, learning how to live with my mistakes, winning a poker game with a really sucky hand, the happiness to see again someone I love, nights where you sing until the sunrises, the tears that fall after laughing super hard, to deepen my toes in the sand, to swim at the beach, dry up in the sun, bohemian nights and red wine, ring neighbor door bells and run for life, the smell of bread in the oven, the land where I was born, the cold weather, much better if I can hug someone I love, playing my guitar, touch my books and remember their content, a good boxing match, to close my eyes and let my fingers run down my piano keys, to sing while I drive, to cook for those I love, passionate people, poets, fighters, and every day the list of things I love grows. . . =)
topaz oreilly Oct 2012
There will always  be an Autumn spat
where the cat foils the dormouse
and the Annual taster chocolate box
arrives as nonchalant
as the  mysterious sender.
Sometimes I wish we were  boxing hares
to really celebrate an outlet for renewed anger.
Munching on my bagels, i feel a pang of Hypocrisy.
I run fickle,  planning out the chequered
season.
Paul M Chafer Oct 2010
As I enter the room,
She comes to me,
And asks, - demands –
“so, do you love me?”
I nod, smile, and reach,
My hand caressing her face.
“Hmm, you do not love me,”
She says, pushing into my palm.
“Only, know this, you are mine.
All the same.”
My fingers dance along her spine,
She arches, green eyes widening.
“Oh, yes, yes, just there,”
As I press, firmly,
Lovingly, affectionately.
“I do love you,”
I whisper,
Scratching beneath her chin.
“What’s not to love,”
She says, boxing my hand,
Before returning to her basket,
Her contended purr,
Speaking a thousand words.
© copyright with Author
erin barton Dec 2014
habits
like how i lock the bathroom door
when i'm the only one home
habits
like how i run my tongue over
cuts at the roof of my mouth
like how i drop my front hand
when i'm boxing
like how i fold down pages
of a book
like how i turn off plug sockets
when nothing's plugged in
like how i bite my nails
how i slouch
how i run my fingers over old scars
habits
like how i reach out for you
even though you're gone
there was a little dog a boxer dog was he
hoping maybe one day a boxing champ would be
he began to train with weights and a rope
to be a world contender was his only hope
he did a lot of jogging and little run
training very hard he enjoyed the fun
now the dog was ready and in the ring did go
ten rounds was the distance he took it nice and slow
he was doing well the crowd begin shout
then one mighty blow his opponent was knocked out
dog he was so happy a champion was he
held his belt up high for everyone to see
he was very proud his dream it had come true
now goes down history like all the boxers do
My life has been molded
by the world of 15 minute increment agendas
and 150 character updates by the second.

My body has been pacified
by the world of liquid sugar satiation
and instant edible gratification.

My mind has been conditioned
by the world that favors extroverted personalities
and introverted abdomens and collarbones.

I live, move and breathe
in the world that is scared of freethinkers
and will not succeed in boxing me in.

In my world, I define my own worth.
Hank Helman May 2017
Carla said I should furl my anxiety,
Ravel it up in a ball without conviction, she said,
Your curses can’t be creased and folded flat,
Like a dress shirt with pearl buttons and a fancy tie.
Jesus no, she said,
Stuff everything you feel into your closet
Pile it on top of your worn out shoes,
Your forgotten purchases,
And your frightening memories of your mother.

Your weakest link is concern, Carla said,
And your colossal waste of worry,
My god, you are mesmerized by outcomes,
Your pretense that life is a chess game
Is beneath insult,
Do you really think you can see three moves ahead?
There is no tidy way, she said,
To make amends with yourself,
You have dissected your life into an unfathomable mess,
The best you can do now,
Is pause…
Perhaps for a day, maybe two.

As usual I had no idea what Carla was talking about.
At least on the first go round.

I want you to walk among us
And read the story of the world, Carla said,
Humanity is desperately trying to tell you something,
Every public word, every sign, every misspelled message has meaning,
Be brave enough to stop and read things twice.

And so I went out to read the words of the world.
Words that whip and whirl around me every day.

My jam, blueberry as I recall, told me it was pure,
On every packet as bold as a White House lie.

My mechanic informed me,
He has a licensed inspection facility.
In that case, I told him
I want my government inspected
For flaws and lies and hate and deception
And of course check the tire pressure all the way round.

My gym informed me, it boldly declared
That I can burn calories,
Up to 36 hours
Post workout.
I want to burn effigies and look alike dolls
And smash the man in the face with a shovel.

My bank, the callous *****, the *****, the stain,
Told me, The more we get together, the happier we are.
And I want to get together in a march of a million angry men,
Determined to set things right, to hang the traitors,
At least by their ankles and pelt them with marshmallows,
And then smash them all in the face with a shovel.

Starbucks holds still like a library with no bound books,
The staff cling to their smiles as if they were butterflies
About to catch the next breeze and flutter away,
But their sign made my day.
Grab something good it said,
And I thought they meant an idea,
A value,
A concept,
A plan,
A truth,
But perhaps they just meant a *****
How sick and sad and stupid and insipid,
He is a monster

There were many more signs, persuasion everywhere,
Offers for my hair, my pain,
My new home complete with its own memory,
A boxing class for girls only, which seemed a bit off,
Don’t women have to learn
How to smash a man in the face with a shovel,
Why box with girls when it’s the hands and eyes,
And sniffy nose of a man that needs to be smashed flat.


Carla told me, over a glass of scotch, neat,
And a mountain man cigar,
That the world is wilting and the signs are everywhere.
Beware this one she said, he has the mind of child,
The temperament of a rabid dog
And the IQ of a Q-tip.
Yes, that’s what he thinks IQ  means, Carla said,
And downed her scotch with a frown.
I went out into the community to look at the signs we post everywhere. Does the world have something to say. Yes-- the word impeach should be everywhere.
Samuel Alexander Apr 2015
Peace is giving,
Fading,
Quenched by the patient black,
As always I had thought myself free,
A bird released from its cage into a room with no windows,
Free for the moment,
Imprisoned the next,
Clipped wings and a silent song,
At least you'd think so...

I'm plagued by fake smiles and false promises, thought poor because I can't quite pay attention,
Maybe if you'd pay attention to me we could share in the wealth of each other,
...But I'm not quite worth your time.

I breathed in the idea,
Like smoke it filled my lungs,
Killed me slowly,
Stripped away skin,
Diluted flesh...

I'd tell you how I feel,
But all I feel is cheated,
And your attention is like a sigh,
A gust of wind strong enough to send yesterday's newspaper to the bottom of the bin,
I'm old news,
And I never made the front page,
And you don't even read the paper.

Yesterday's absence is a tribute to you,
A sly reference to your biggest punchline,
You punch like Mike-*******-Tyson,
Your apathy a clenched fist,
Striking my ribs and leaving me breathless,
I never was any good at boxing,
And I could never take a swing at you.

I'm down for the count,
Because you can count on me,
And the same can't be said of you,
Because I take hit after hit after hit after hit after hit after hit after hit after hit afteeeeer hit... and then I take a few more,
Because I can't stop thinking,
Because the last guy ****** you over and I don't want to be the last guy to the next me.

You're not my experience, no, I am yours,
I was a new jacket that got old far too quickly,
A cigarette smoked because, ****? who doesn't smoke these days?
I am and only ever was... Temporary.

That tree we carved our initials into was cut down to make room for a ******* liquor store,
An ironic twist, an easy fix,
I was only ever a distraction,
Another bottle,
You dropped me just to see if Id break...
And I did.

Your knuckles still knock the wind from me every time I'm overlooked,
Still graze my cheeks with every impatient sigh,
You still punch like Mike-*******-Tyson.
judy smith Dec 2016
Ports 1961 just announced their company’s collaboration with iconic sportswear and boxing brand Everlast, made famous by the world’s greatest boxers and actors. The collection is now available in stores and on farfetch.com. Milan Vukmirovic, menswear creative director, has revived his Everlast classics such as the “Rocky” hoodie and other essentials. They are all adorned with a trademarked star camouflage motif. Unveiled on the catwalk at the runway show that opened Milan Men’s Fashion Week, this collaboration is a tribute to the fighter inside us all.

A true highlight of the menswear collection, Ports 1961’s signature men’s bow sneaker was also a hit. Their bow sneaker features a distinctive suede bow on top instead of laces or more predictable fasteners. Each pair of bow sneakers is raw-cut, hand-stitched and hand-knotted to be uniquely distinctive to the wearer. As well as bow fasteners, the sneakers can also be opened and closed with a central zipper in the heel for convenience and ease of wearing. These sneakers are available in fabrics and shades to match this season’s garments in classic raw-cut suede and leather. For comfort and durability, they feature hardy rubber soles.

Fashion East Men’s presentation for autumn/winter ’17 offered a significant designer lineup. Fashion East, with the continued support of Topman, was excited to reveal a double billing of bright, emerging talent. Sponsored by London Fashion Week’s Menswear, the showcase featured up-and-coming designers Charles Jeffrey Loverboy, Feng Chen **** and Per Gotesson.

A Central St. Martin’s MA graduate, Jeffrey is an illustrator with a radically creative style. For his Loverboy label, his cast included artists, musicians and friends who stomped stylishly down the runway. They created a club-night scene that the audience identified with immediately. Jeffrey’s tailoring was impeccable. His signature knits collaged with chainmail showed up with Swarovski bug-encrusted boxers and foam accessories.

**** was born in Beijing, but her business is based in London. She launched her label Feng Chen **** in 2015 after the completion of her MA at London’s Royal College of Arts. ****’s 2017 collection explored and celebrated connectivity in the digital age. She combines functionality with an astute attention to detail and puts a strong focus on outerwear pieces as the core of her collection. Her clothes are available in New York City.

Gotesson is originally from a small town in the province of Smaland in Sweden. This London-based designer is also a graduate of London’s Royal College. His looks are voluminous denim pieces in classic blues and monochromes juxtaposed and worn with white tops. The collection played with proportions and was an experimental take on the designer’s own wardrobe. “It’s about scale and about finding balanced pieces between either huge or small,” he explained.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/mermaid-trumpet-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
RIVIS WRITES Apr 2017
to write like me
you must first review my routine
lift weights
take boxing lessons
drink beer in bars
laugh loudly in the street
sing karaoke every week
date women from different backgrounds
kiss like you mean it
and make love that soaks the sheets
take random trains
to far off places
work jobs until you hate them
and quit as you slowly go mad
then you will be half the poet I am
because I am still only half the poet
I know I can be
it's a challenge to balance
to juggle this routine
I am trapped between two loves
my love for life
and my love to write
between living life
and writing about it
between being alive
and writing about it
to me writing and living go hand in hand
but they cannot always co-exist
when you burn your light to the brink
as I do
i must find the line
but the line is hard to find
because there are only so many hours in a day
and life swoops us by like an owl
with a mouse in its mouth
leaving us with only a brief window
in which to carve a lasting legacy
beware this life style isn't for everyone
only the chosen few can pull it off
this artful existence
this vagabond life
a tiresome gift
from mischievious gods
who see themselves in us
but never mind kid
you are probably a better poet than me anyway
https://rivislives.wordpress.com/
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2014
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

Have not chatted in awhile,
me rutted in NYC,
a city of constant tear down
and sometimes flashy urban human
renewal...

While you,
you getting on with life,
growing up, growing down,
buying clothes for a new school season,
or growing children,
or boxing up now grandchildren memories of memories...
falling in love, writing poetry all about it...

You,
in Nepal, Malaysia, India,
Seattle, Portland, and the Florida's panhandle,
the US Midwest sainted hinterlands,
the South, that makes one love water,
water that has travelled from the faraway,
island continent of professorial Australia,
Did I forget the Philippines?

worse sin committed,
is that in
your poetry
I have not toe dipped,
quite the long erstwhile,
after loving it with
obsession devotion...

so just a Saturday afternoon
note penned just to you
and you alone...

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

So by way of apology,
craft a poem for you exclusive,
more than each word, letter,
every syllable, tongue tasted
for conjuctivity,
breadth and thus discovered
notes of red soil, raspberry, lemon,
even a hint of sweet masquerading as a
salty kindness in our veins,
our unique vintage of connectivity

Your hand to my lips raised,
grasped twice, by mine both,
slow lifting with stature, affection and respect,
kiss it and whisper just enough for
we two to hear...

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

even this seems weakly insufficient,
but care taken nowadays,
a new economy of words,
write less, think more, and
give up the truly deserved words only
as a mark of my fondness and respect

these come on no schedule,
often months in the making,
so forgive-me-not my unsweetened silences,
accept them with easy knowing that

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

the summer man wintered in discontent,
his journey now disrupted by forces exogenous,
stealing his vision, jailing him in between
walls of indecision, knocking down
his own twin towers,
but carelessly not making provision
to tell you well and often enough

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)*

Sept. 13, 2014
Thank you SALLY for reminding me of this long ago poem 6/21/18
As the world stands now,
Full of not what we need
Than what we need most,

Full of terrorist Arabs,
Perpetrating punctured civilization,
Of senseless Islam,
In the arsenal  state of ISIS,
Foolishly in ghastly infringement
Of the voiceless poor folks
With their solid foolery
They call the Islamic state,

At a time we need scientists,
In Einstein’s mental stature,
To open the microbes
And hopefully decimate,
Their germ of Ebola,
And her ancestors;
Aids and scrotal Cancer,

Arabs are all over Africa,
Preaching their chauvinism,
Which they call Islam, mental mire in extreme,
They grabbed and annexed North Africa,
They gave it Arabic name; The Maghreb,
Now the fountain of terrorism
And tomfoolery of religion
Devoid in dual logic
Of reason and humanity,
Converting Somali in to beehive,
Of al shabab and Al gaeda drones,
Killing the poor people,
For no reason nor emotion,

We need more Jews than Arabs in the Maghreb,
To convert Mauritania into New York,
And Somali into Moscow,
Egypt into Germany,
Tunisia into France
And Libya into Chicago,
For Africa needs Technology
And property for its people,
But not the religious sludge
In the likes of Islam, Buddhism and Christo-mania,

The world needs more Jews than Arabs,
For the sake of science,
Geo-space adventure,
Viable ideologies,
Like Marxism, reverse capitalism,
Bill Gatism and all of these stuff,
But not funny pieties of the Turban,
From peasants like Al Amin Mohammed,
The **** of Mecca before Adrenalin for Hajira,

Arabs better walk backwards,
To the days before in the antiques,
And revive Al Jebra, the glory of their past,
Make dhows and sail the world,
With Rubiyats of Omar Al Khayyam,
In their hands, burying their beards,
In the rubiyat of the wine and the ******,

The world needs more Greeks than English men,
For sake of succor from vacuum of logic,
We wallow in today,
To relish Aristotle, Plato and Socrates,
Homer and Hesiod,
For more Iliad and Odyssey,
Apology and Crito, Phaeto,
Alexander and Archimedes,
But not colonialism mongering
****** English men,
With no culture to sell,
Other than colonialism,
Infallibility of the queen,
Shakespeare’s fear of ***,
And Churchill’s mental deficiency,

We need more Russians than white Americans,
To entertain and astound the world,
With uniqueness of confidence,
And charm of moon visiting science,
With literary spark in the size of Leo Tolstoy,
Maxim Gorgi and Nikolai Gogol,
With the sweetness of cloaked dead souls,
To stune the world with political shrewdness,
In the fathom of Vladimir Putin,
Pricking capitalism from diurnal somnambulism,
We need more Germans than Italians,
For the sake of sense of reason
Positive aggressiveness,
Stern thought pattern,
Feasible ideology,
And systematic prudence,

We need more black Africans than Indians,
To carry forward the battle of civil rights,
Sports culture and heavyweight boxing,
To sire tough sires,
That can survive climate change,
But not Indians,
Opening shops all over,
Falling in love with corrupt powers,
For filthy sake of merchandizing freedom,

Wee need more Jews than Arabs,
To counter the spiral forces,
Of Chinese capitalism,
Caterwauling the world,
Into crazy whirlpool,
Of yellow civilization,
Making it thus fit,
To stop at stark truth,
That a dead Arab terrorist,
Is better than thoughts of democracy.
phocks Oct 2013
Don’t go, oh baby don’t go.
I’ve been around the block
Looking high and low,
For the answer we keep,
For the workers are weak,
And it’s time to turn the tables.

So listen to the fables,
And the tales the preachers tell.
They mispronounce disaster,
Though their lives are a living hell.
And the rainbow comes
To save me,
When the daisy cutters die,
And the shadow boxing household
Gives us a better chance to cry.

For the angels find the future,
And they hear the shadows fall.
The ragged rangers read their books,
But they never hear the call.
The mission bell it screams and yells
To the missionaries on the floor.
They just shot up
And are taking to the cup,
But their heads are now out the door.

To be discovered never more.
I don’t mind.
There is no time.
But for me, I’m out of line,
When I say to you
That you never know who
Will come out from the shadows
And into the light,
And the one that you love
Is directly in sight.

Take your time my dear friend.
Open your gates
To the mythical plates,
And the place that you know,
Where you go to be alone.

All of your friends
Want to see you again.
They want you
To *** all their smokes
And hold all their hands;
To drink all their scotch,
And snort all their lines,
To smoke all their ****,
And to drink all their wine.



j.b.
Kayla Lynn Dec 2012
I lay my head down
On the pillows of our past
Your indentation hasn't yet shifted
And I can still smell your essence
A twisted mix of shampoo and cheap cigarettes

Inhale.

It's almost like you're still with me
Blackened vision
The ghost of your arm wraps around me
Tighter than you ever had


Let me go.
You let me go.

Exhale.

The months fade like carbon paper etchings
Over time, I can't tell what you used to say
But I swear your voice
Still echoes down the hall
This isn't normal
And I'm proud now
That's half the problem

Inhale.


You breathe in daisies now.
Like I don't know how she smells.
Coconut and sunshine
Run off with your summer dream
While I'm stomping through
Snow angels
Hot boxing igloos, the way we used to
And you pretend to forget
Those nights we died between the stars

Exhale.

Pulse racing.


Suddenly I expose myself
Rip down the walls
Allow the hurt to spew into my vulnerability
Only a fool would miss you
This much

Well, color me brainless
As I breathe you in once more


Darling, I've been abandoned
For the thousandth time
And you'd think by now
I'd keep away

But that's the thing about
Fools in love,


We never learn.
We always think the ones we adore
Are worth the hurt.

They're not,
They're not.

But still,
I'll be waiting at your back door.
Knocking twice with a kick.
Our signal from 1997.

The street lights will gleam in our eyes.
As we try for the last time.

Exhale.


Just stay.
민혁 Aug 2014
We’re pretty and we’re sick.
We’re young and we’re bored.

”I think everyone can benefit from being an *******.” I say as I tap the end of my cigarette stick with the tips of my fingers. I proceed to take another inhale of bliss and exhale toxin, a veil of white shrouding the spaces in between us.

Leon takes the cigarette from my lips and takes a puff instead, which brings a scowl to my face. I let him keep the last one anyway, because he probably needs it more than I do. Not to mention he can’t just walk into a liquor store and buy a pack for himself, because corpses can’t dawdle back and forth in this city. Or anywhere, for that matter. Mental note: retrieve another pack tomorrow. I’m gonna need it.

"An *******? You’re funny as hell, Derek." Leon scoffs in disbelief and hurls the cigarette stub at my face, immediately causing me to retract. “I see the guilt in your face when you **** the trail of ants at your kitchen counter. *******.”

I make a face and protest instead. “Uh, no **** — those are insects. They didn’t hurt me. I just gotta **** them, because… wait a minute, why the **** am I justifying my actions to you? *******, *******.”

Leon’s laugh is surprisingly rich and full of splendor at that moment, and I can’t help but to laugh along. We’ve always been like this. We met in kindergarten and we both liked Pokemon a whole lot. We used to bring our cards to school, then that switched up to becoming fanboys of Digimon, then Beyblade, all the way to Transformers — so on, so forth. The point is, we were best friends mainly because of these kiddish cartoons (which I still watch, by the way), and we were happy. I mean, yeah, we would occasionally flock over to the girls during lunch break and compete, but it was mostly just about us. You and I, Leon and ‘Rek, Sam and Bumblebee — we were two peas in a pod.

We fought, too. We often got into fist fights by the lake after school when we liked the same girl, and at other times it was based on masculinity and a game of 'who is the real man' — which made absolutely no ******* sense, but it worked. After we duked it out, we bought some ice cream at seven-eleven and everything was okay. I guess you could say he was my best friend. He didn’t get me at all, but at the same time… he did. He understood me better than anyone else, even though we never really talked about sentimental *******. You don’t really need any of that with someone like Leon. He gets it without an explanation. He just knows.

Then he moved to Seoul during sophomore year.

I was a little upset, yeah. Just because I didn’t have anyone else to pick on and argue with over the last burger on the table. We had Kakao and Facebook though, so I wasn’t too sad about it. Said he would come back anyway, and he promised to come back strong. He was taking wrestling over there, so I took boxing. "I’ll beat you one day!" And yeah, that sounds like a threat, but to me, it was just another way of saying, "I’ll see you soon, and you better be strong by the time I come back!" I knew this was good for him.

At least, I thought it was.

When you get a phone call at four in the morning about blahblahblah — he died — blahblahblah, you don’t really know how to react at that moment. I thought it was just a prank call at first, but I kept listening. I didn’t cry that night. I didn’t really cry after it, either. I never did. I was a little angry at him, actually. Wanted to sock the dude in the face and duke it out by the lake again. But I knew that wouldn’t happen, so I just let it go. The thing is though, I can’t let it go. When someone tells you that your own best friend commits suicide, you begin to question a lot of **** going on in this world.

He was the strongest guy I knew, the one person I could fight one-on-one without feeling bad about it. He knew how to take my punches and I sure as hell took his. He was the only one who could eat ten burgers per seating with me, instead of criticizing me. And best of all, we danced. Together.

That same guy was the one who struggled with depression, the one who got bullied every ******* day at his new school in Korea, and the only things he could tell me through messages were ******* along the lines of, "It’s great over here," and “I’m having fun,” which also led to, “I wish you were here with me.”

Maybe he didn’t consider me as much of a best friend, because he did a great job at hiding it from me. Out of everyone I know, I didn’t expect him to take his own life. The fact he did do it… meant something. It meant he really wanted to die. Who am I to determine that for him, though? I don’t know.

I just kind of miss the guy.

I don’t smoke because I want to. I smoke because I think of him with every rainfall that comes. I think of him at the depths of the night when I gaze out at the city lights, because we used to take photos of them all the time. Thinking we were fancy hipsters and ****. Life was fun, and I felt alive — now I feel as if I’ve grown a tad dull.

I thought I would have forgotten by now, but apparently not. I don’t know, bro. I miss you. More than I… ever expected myself to. You’re the older brother I never had.

I step onto the cancer stick on the concrete ground, reducing it to ash and dust. I look out one more time before walking back inside.

"I’ll see you soon, Leon."

— The End —