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L B Jul 2018
I cannot pick a color
I love more
Each is thrilling
and some seem
the breath of life to all the rest
I loved my crayons
They became my escape
from misery
the contrast to any given day at school

Any excuse to use them all
or just one
to avoid that lowest reading group
the monstrosities of math
If I couldn't sing it
there were no letters in the alphabet
I could not tell you A from Z

But you see--
That day was
purple!
That was all that mattered
I loved its richness and its depth
its mystery
its royalty
King Midas would have liked it, I was sure
almost a religion
Vestments of the priest
in the times of expectation
It is the explanation for

the last of day

As a five-year-old
I drew my love for purple
Passionate
and outside all the lines-- off onto the desk
I was so proud!
But--

Miss Platt, so horrified
asked,

What is it
I was trying to do?

I didn't know....

I was suddenly ashamed
and frightened too
This may have been the first time I actually touched down in reality.  Been trying to take off again ever since.

The religious times of expectation were Advent for Christmas and Lent for Easter.
Daniel T Aug 2018
All the nights of unpleasantries
will no longer keep me awake.
I will never again dream
of you by mistake.

I wish that you would die.
A freak accident leaves you paralyzed
maybe a piano from the window
That lives in the blue of my eyes.
Or maybe that "random" passing car
will clip you in the thigh
And you'd be left (like me)
alone; just to die.

You could paint the town red
with your angry tongue
but instead maybe if i cut it out
you'll finally listen instead.

In laymens terms, prepare to be hurt,
I'll smile as your body lies in the dirt.
And blood seeps into your shirt,
coloring the earth.
Your purpose has been confirmed.

*******.
Thanks for the trauma and mental illness, miss you lots.
Abraham Avalos Sep 2018
It’s 10 a.m.
& rays of sun beam across the room
Lighting up the empty liquor bottles
Consumed to **** the aching sorrow
Of your lonely blues
But the haunting stench of failure fills up the room
Like a kids coloring book
Mad with no direction
You’re living life a drunken fool
Laying next to a naked woman
With her arm across your chest
In a different room
A different bed
Feeling cornered by walls as u notice the door just once again
& with a pounding head of recollecting thoughts
U start to feel like u can’t ever rest
Light up a smoke
& start to puff
U crawl out bed & start to dress
Meanwhile u hear her voice
Asking u “so what’s next”
U give falls hope
Like u have to all the rest
Reaching for the door
U turn the ****
As u leave behind another mess
U take a breath & put on your shades
Walk down the steps with baring shame
Another night that’s come & gone
As u walk on down with loneliness within your heart
Hoping tonight u fill it up

                                                     - Abraham Avalos
poems are cheap they say, the supply exceeds the demand,
all are product of criminal mischief, and Lord, I know,
I’m one of the most thieving, most mischiefing ones

when no one was about, I scribbled many notes,
transplanted from my eyes, for a bottled voyage
to fallow beaches for sandy seeding

no matter IF these poems are from your womb ripped,
****** red concoctions of life’s cute cutting edge inscriptions,
no one cares re your titanic love’s labors, your children’s betrayal

no one cares from whence and wherefore they birthed,
all words, low class and progeny, not prodigy, of demeaning circumstances, best tossed back without much foolish hesitation

writ with pen tip of broken green glass from a parking lot,
the point I broke once more before my commencement,
inked from a wicked witch’s melted green spittle pooling alongside

poets of no way, falsely prophesying falsehoods most singularly bad,
waste not-want not, time better spent than reading rhymes of stolen disrepute and cloudy ownership and ignoble authorship

unless you among a blessed few, who see a full blown poem in glassine clarity, birthed fully formed Elton songs in a mouth full of amniotic fund, you, put down thy laboring eleven instruments

if words you claim of new parentage, you as the mother dear,
know there is nothing new under the sun, even these very words,
scripted by Israelite king whose tomb gone, he, too, poet forgotten

join me in a needle park of junkies who tried and failed, nickel bag
smoking budget dope words, in cigarettes of mostly discarded seeds and twigs, hallucinatory inhaling the same vision again & again

you refuse, naturally, glamming in notional newness, your arrogance, a plentiful commodity of wood-be writers by thousands buried in wooden caskets, under wooden inscription-less crosses

and of the trillion readers possible, to coloring picture books and instant grams, all have gone to the labor-free glancing look-see
of a seconds-short, lengthy meme, 10 second videos, 140 limitations

of the greatest, of Shakespeare and Coleridge, reader’s fast-dying, sunburned neurons reply; “free ***** of his Love’s Labour’s Lost, and the Ancient Mariner, overdue, free him too!”

ancients mock you aware that there be no verbal combination yet to foretell, what Lear said, that’s the the idea, “When we are born, we cry, that we are come to this great stage of fools.”^

fools we are, for there be no fore, the tale already told, once before & more, vaingloriously does this poet’s false vanity speak, so, so boisterously,
  
“why my tale, why my tail, is as new as the oldest fossil”
^ King Lear, Shakespeare
Jo Barber Jun 17
The days went fast,
but the nights moved slowly,
like a sad country song
or the Alaskan summer sun:
forever trying to set,
yet never able to do so,
leaving the sky with
the coloring of perpetual dusk.
Natalie Jan 2018
Gaping mouths grow from the craters etched
Into the plaster walls.
The bulbs in the ceiling sockets flicker and grow soft
And softer still,
Until I cannot be sure of whether
Or not
I am really here at all.

Honey,
Bloodwood sap,
And sweet orange marmalade flow
From the cracks, ooze
From the lips with murmurs,
And mingle with the air,
Coloring the low glow in such a way
That as I lay my eyes upon myself,
I do not see my flesh,
My hands
My feet.

Rather,
There upon my lap lies a form
Sculpted from the dead weight
Of terracotta clay,
Pushed, pulled, molded, pressed
Extruded through a die
By some unseen, unnatural force,
And set inelegantly on display.

In this moment,
I try to claim it as my own--
To move it in some way that feels natural, real
Or complete.
And yet,
To strain against this heaviness--
To splutter and wheeze
As the murmuring tide of warmth rolls in
Is to be swept up and drowned
In the undercurrent
Of my own mind.

Thus, I will float, just so,
And the walls,
With their dribbling mouths
Will seep sticky-sweet whispers
Into my hair.
cat marie Aug 2018
i always find you in the strangest places.
i find you in song lyrics, dog toys, and timber old spice.
i find you in chicken flavored ramen noodles, every shade of blue and purple, and horror movies.
i find you in rainbow coloring books, permanent markers, and colored pencils.
i find you in the grass at memorial park, folded slips of paper in my back pocket, and gourmet lollipops.
i find you in hot fudge sundaes, too-big tshirts, and icp snapbacks.
i find you in chik-fil-a receipts, gumball machines, and arcade games.
i find you in white roses, blue ribbons, animal crackers, and sour gummy worms.
i always find you in the strangest places.
but these strange places are everywhere.
Dylan Mcconnell Nov 2018
When clean from the cutting, the alcohol, negative self-talk, drugs... everything. When after 10 years I finally get one day where I'm numb, I enjoy the **** out of it.

I don't think about my crushes or school work. I don't think about cleaning or showering. Instead, I choose to sit in my room. Play re: Stacks by Bon Iver, lay on my stomach in my cat pajamas, and enjoy coloring, writing, and doing nothing other than what is consuming with love and beauty.

So example. I wrote a story that day. It wasn't for giggles. It wasn't for the word count. It was for the fact I wanted to write. Simple. I wanted to write something beautiful. And I did.

It's this.
Who the hell knows why i sound weird when im content
JJ Hutton Oct 2018
There'll be a crowd encircling you, I'm sure.
They'll nod at your every word, imperfectly mimicking
what people look like when they actually listen.
I'm sure the crowd will be people we know.
Old high school friends with real estate ventures
and gyms and multi-level marketing schemes.
Most of them will be doughier, their cheeks permanently
stained red from a decade of drinking.
Most of them will have photos of their kids on their phones,
and they'll tell you they're "sure you don't want to see them"
as they pull out their phones and show you photos of their kids.

I imagine I'll approach, stop just short of the circle, pretend to bid on an Alaskan cruise.

As you talk about redoing your floor in a faux tile that looks just like the real thing for like half the price, you'll see me.

I hope you'll think of that kiss five years ago, outside of a bar in Norman, when the world entire bent for us, when all traffic silenced for us, when all people vanished for us.

Maybe you'll think of the time we ****** in a twin-sized bed, beside a wall decorated with newspaper clippings, which I thought made me look worldly and learned. I admit now the look was less academic, more serial killer.

And maybe you'll think of the manchild fit I threw when I found out you had moved on after I moved away.

And maybe you'll be totally present. Good to see you, you'll say. You will ask about my family. We will discuss the cooler weather. We will talk about your business, your kids. We will side hug and say goodbye. We will take the same route to the same exit. There will be children coloring the sidewalk with chalk. We'll each borrow a piece. I'll outline you; you'll outline me.
sandra wyllie Oct 2018
Nobody Answers

When she walks into an empty,
dark house it hits her as a wind tunnel. It’s deafening,
as her hand places the key into the slot and turns
the **** to open the door. It used to be a lively place,

of kids and pets and toys
spewed all over the floor, chocolate stuck
to the couch, and little finger-prints, like art-work
coloring the walls. The television would be

singing in a sugar-coated voice
a rhyming silly song. Now it hardly gets
turned on. It’s only a black, plastic box sitting slothful,
as the logs in fireplace. Those logs are cold

as stone. There hasn’t been a fire in many years
to keep them warm. Her phone doesn’t ring much
anymore. And when it does it’s only a bill collector. Her
children are no longer living there; they have

their own lives. Her friends have divorced
and are in the dating pool. Now a day she spends
most of her time socializing on her computer. Silence
creeps in stealthy and grows like a cancer. You call out
his name. Nobody answers.
Roses79 Jan 17
Everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the gutters, right outside my door. Flourishing in the streets of Tegucigalpa, like leftover confetti from Mardi Gras. Lining the paths, nestled in the gravel, the broken concrete, and overgrown weeds. Coloring the landscape with orange and green.

Proliferating around garbage cans, discarded bottles, tires, and take out boxes, liberated to the acrid landscape around.
  
Men, cutting back the peels, devouring the tropical flesh, delectable, united to pits. Dark skin and eyes, their accents singing, so different from my own.

I stepped carefully, but always underneath, a sweet stickness, clinging to my soles. A bond to the red dirt, platanos fritos, and cattle roaming the street.

When I returned to the wide boulevards, pristine and meticulously clean, I stopped watching my feet, looking for mango peels underneath.
ok okay Oct 2018
Come with me
I'll take you into the darkness
We can pretend we are happy
No more pain and anxiety
You can be the light
I'll be drawn to your attention
We can pretend we know whats real
And take turns coloring imaginary roses
You can have my heart
Attached to a chain
I'll never leave your side
Together we can go insane
erwood Jul 2018
Depression is not feeling sad
Or thinking your decisions are bad
It's having this cloud go over your head
It's lying at night awake in your bed
It's coloring shapes to make yourself see
Something, anything for which you could become free
It's shaking and pausing and pretending to sleep
For being numb is much better than taking the leap
And depression is strange for it makes you think faster
Your thoughts speed around til you make them your master
So you paint on a smile and go out to be
The person your family and friends think they should see
They don't need to know about the hurt you can't feel
For to them, you're just fine, though this sensation is real
And the emptiness consumes you until you feel small
For depression is feeling everything and nothing at all.
Wyatt Oct 2018
I once dug deep in my closet,
looking past the skeletons.
Treasures were found,
covered in dust and
forgotten by time.
I found happier times
documented in memories,
yet every time I leave
I’m more depressed.
Toys, tiny cars,
coloring books
and stuffed animals
hiding under the junk.
There came a time where
this wonderland of the past
gave me nothing but anguish
in this present day.
I forced myself to never
set foot in this place again.
That closet was wiped clean,
not a dust particle to be found.
I barely even remember
that place’s contents now.
Is it better this way?
Poet by time Aug 2018
you are the like the sky

blue and shiny / your happy soul
purple / your beautiful mindset
orange and deep / the enthusiasm you bear
red / your loving heart

you are also

gray / the days where you feel nothing
full of thunder / the days where you fell everything

and lastly

you are a rainbow / i can see you coloring my future

i have always been fascinated by the sky anyways
ymmiJ Mar 21
The clubs are my brushes the courses are my empty spaces
Coloring with wide draws and drooping fades
I sweep in a birdie as my friend counts his paces
I yearn for the roars and the smiles on their faces

When I was young and a day was thirty six not twenty four
Now I am done in nine I wish I could play more
But tomorrow I will paint on a new canvas with a new score
Some say it a nice walk spoiled, I couldn't ask for anything more
For my earliest love
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