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tread Jan 2013
**** angles.
This house has got plenty of **** angles. Tom knows, I don't. Tom knows more about that kinda stuff because that's Tom's forte.
Old Cochrane.

I'm not sure what disabilities he suffers from, but to be honest it doesn't seem much like he suffers. He's just a dude with a loud set of brains fixated on a very Cochrane world, sort of like Plato I guess, beard and everything, looking at the angles and strange asymmetric dots with a feeling that there’s some preternatural 'other world' where all of Cochrane's expectations are met and this house as well as the world would do ******* well to abide by it if it knows what's good.

Old Cochrane loves Superman Returns. I once saw him watch Superman Returns 3 times in one sitting, to the point that it became Superman Returns Returns Returns and for Chrissake if Metropolis were real I doubt his ethics would be much appreciated anymore but hey, who am I to say? I'm no Clark Kent but I'm sure Cochrane thinks he is, and if he's damnwell Plato he can damnwell be Clark Kent just as well as the next Kryptonian sucker to crash-land on planet Earth, and it's damnwell possible Cochrane is from Krypton for all I know, he's got some miraculous will-power and push, that's for **** sure.

He's always yelling, 'ober-der! Ober-der!' like he's some sad German screaming at the **** Poles across the Oder-Neisse line as if it were there **** fault. It's either that or Krypton is ober-der and he just wants to go home, or maybe his face gets red because he knows damnwell where Lex Luthor is hiding and he just wants our ******* help finding him.

I think Old Cochrane has a crush on Kevin Spacey.

I wouldn't know, but I'm making that assumption *** Cochrane looks pretty spacey sometimes.
Okay, that was just a bad joke. I'm not too good at jokes.

I have two coworkers named Ryan. To avoid any confusion we all just call them by their last names, Soprovich and Danyluk, but most of the time we just call Soprovich Ryan Sop, and I'm not sure if he much appreciates the nickname. Our bosses name is Pam Wadden and in response to her calling him Ryan Sop he asked if he could call her Pam ***.
Pam didn't hear that of course, but I heard it. And it was at that moment I made the judgement that old Ryan Sop is good at jokes.

Anyways to slide back to my point, once I was working with both Danyluk and Soprovich and as I was leaving, to shave a few seconds before my bus, I said, 'Bye.. Ryan..s'
that made them both laugh a little so I quickly made the judgement that I'm sometimes good at jokes but I never mean to be which is kinda Zen I suppose. Buddhist effortless effort or whatever they damnwell call it.

I've always been somewhat of an intellect, but not usually of my own freewill. I read a lot, but I sort of read like a ****** addict shoots-up.. just one more line, just one more paragraph.. and before I know it I've finished a book that kinda scared me but good ******* the high was fine.

I guess it's not really like that at all, but I like to think of it like that sometimes, it kind of excites my stomach in the good way, makes me feel like some ******* rebel reading **** the government has probably already burned or recycled into the paper bags I shop with at Safeway..
shopping at Safeway.. livin' life the Safe Way.. gatherin all the grosh-rees, yeah, you ****** know me
I forgot to mention I'm somewhat of a part-time rapper and 40% of the time I have rap lyrics pulsing through my head as my own inner monologue. I dunno why but it's always kinda made me proud to think the way I do and ******* does life get high and low and if you understood you would know what I'm talking about, but I know you probably know what I know, I just like to be a little pretentious about that kinda stuff *** if I pretend I'm the only one it kinda manifests in my attitude and I get girls easier.

True story.

Maybe.

Probably not, but if ya see what I'm getting at that assertion is part of the pretention *** I'm a ******* hipster for Chrissake, writing like J.D. Salinger, reading like Kerouac without the squinty drunk eyes of infinite sadness.
Callum Moffat Nov 2011
Make a blind man blush
Make a dead man walk
*******, *******,
He's a sinner.
Make the heartless bleed
Make the money talk
*******, *******
He's a sinner.

How long does he have?

I just want you to take my soul
Their going to burn my body
Burn my body.
I just want you to take my soul
Their going to burn my body
Burn my body.

Make a mother weep
Watch a child cry
*******, *******
I'm a sinner
Let the waters burn
Set the world on fire
*******, *******
I am sinner.

How long do I have?

I just want you to take my soul
Their going to burn my body,
Burn my body.
I just want you to take my soul
Their going to burn my body,
Burn my body.
Paul Glottaman Nov 2011
From every drop
springs just a little more.
An urgent pounding
against the bedroom door.
Because it's out with
the pilot light,
it's in with the
same old fight,
and it's back to work,
the same old way.
Every ******* day.

You say you believe
that love is the answer.
I don't know,
but hate is a cancer.
And it's miles and miles
to beat my retreat.
Some days it's  ******* the sound
of my own heartbeat.

I'm not another hack,
building out but holding back.
I live in the here in now, or so I say,
until the noise starts.
Rent's late.
Time to pay.
Every ******* day.

I would love, you must believe me,
to see peace.
I would love to lay my head down
and finally get sleep.
But there's work to be done,
there's hours and hours,
and so little ******* sun.
But if you stay with me,
hold hands and live with chance,
I might feel like I can be free.

But the knocking never goes.
We're not some dead beats,
though heaven only knows.
I'm spent from all my mediocre feats.
I can't find my bed and lay,
because the noise doesn't go away.
Every ******* day.
samasati Sep 2012
why is it so hard to see you?
i crumble and i croak
hopeful words dance at the back of my throat
now i’m hopeless
now i’m in a mess
of you or her or him or me
it’s like moving to a new country
and getting the hang of their weird plastic currency
and why the **** is talking to you so hard?
i tumble and i frizzle
a glass smashed into shards
aggravation takes me over because
anxiety takes me over because
suppression takes me over because
i want ******* control over ******* everything
i want to ******* know what i’m ******* doing
what i’m ******* thinking
i tremble and i palpitate
the thirst never sedates
like a lion ******* blood or a needle weaving thread
so much to go around
too much to go around
i’m not sure how to go about
underwater is where i wish i was
underwater, everything is muted
everything is calmer and resentments are diluted
i long to feel less polluted
i long to feel less consumed by
that and this and all the ******* frolicking ****
it pulls and tears and rips in shears
still standing there
i am still standing there
why the **** am i still standing there
here
like a fish suffocating in air
like a statue stands with a smile it can’t wipe off
i sweat under smiles
i want to wipe it off
i want to turn it off
why won’t i just ******* take it off?
why is it so hard to know who you are?
seeing a glimpse of a break down is making me stick around for you
do you still want me to stick around for you?
i crush and i tamper
with anything i can get my hands all over
it really doesn’t matter
what or who or how hard i hit
cause nothing is good enough for this ******* *****
Callum Moffat Nov 2011
Make a blind man blush
Make a dead man walk
*******, *******,
He's a sinner.
Make the heartless bleed
Make the money talk
*******, *******
He's a sinner.

How long does he have?

I just want you to take my soul
Their going to burn my body
Burn my body.
I just want you to take m soul
Their going to burn my body
Burn my body.

Make a mother weep
Watch a child cry
*******, ******* I'm a sinner
Let the waters burn
Set the world on fire
*******, ******* I am sinner.

How long do I have?

I just want you to take my soul
Their going to burn my body,
Burn my body.
I just want you to take my soul
Their going to burn my body,
Burn my body.
Kristen Hain Sep 2015
Complexity in its finest
I’m glancing between the shapes of your eyes that tell stories of history and past excursions I’ve been wanting to know
You say your eyes are just brown, but nothing is just that with you
I think, despite the simplicity in our difficult discussions
Nothing is easy they say
They, the people who’ve let us down time and time again
Its so easy to say they and create a placement test for their behavior
Destructive as it may be and deteriorating within, I am so happy blind
That they haven’t gotten all of you
And honestly if I were in your shoes and walked the 18 years to reach a destination with no map no compass no tour guide
I hope I wouldn’t be too bitter
I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy
The verge of losing humanity felt like a weight of those tons of feathers, thought to be light but gravely succumbed as much as a ton of bricks
More of them than of us
Brown just like the tan of your skin as you hope for it to be opaque but
******* ******* I’ve never been more appeased by looking at something than with you
It’s not just a body its not just the brown hair, brown skin, brown eyes, not just the shrug, eye roll, smile, laugh, pressing of lips, open mouthed, heaving, tired eyes, grinning from cheek to cheek, infinite
Like that song, I’d try to stare at you like the night sky, but you just go on and on and on and-
Looking at you or looking to the same direction via docks and benches and waterways or the caked up fingers from painting with no paintbrushes or pursed with a stick of Pall Malls, night sky scenery or early morning sunrises
****, cups of coffee make me think of you
My daily intake and I think the dosage keeps upping
I’ll sit in bathe in the sunlight reflection of how you can’t be real and none of this seems real
Between it being too much to comprehend or other things being so shallow
odds against the favor
Open and part, attempt to prepare for something crazy infinite
knowing how relationships and losing them can get
and I’m standing aboard this boat with you on it
pretending like I know the waters but honestly
Mother nature is a *****
She sends things every which way at random at last call last moment’s notice
But I’m sure if we stand close enough we won’t fall off
at least, even, we'd dive right in together
This Ain't a ******* Country Song

You know I love my Rock and Roll

I wouldn't write a Country Song

'Cause that's not how I roll

This song it ain't bout country things

Like pickup trucks and cars

You'll never find me writing

About getting drunk in bars

There's no mention here of Taylor Swift

or The Charlie Daniels Band

I wouldn't write of how the banks

are taking our farmland

This Ain't a ******* Country Song

You know I love my Rock and Roll

I wouldn't write a Country Song

'Cause that's not how I roll

I don't know **** 'bout Redneck stuff

like hunting dogs and guns

I wouldn't write of Daisy Dukes

showing off some hot babes buns

I won't write 'bout the Opry

I don't know all that stuff

Of Minnie Pearl and Grandpa Jones

And Mr. Roy Acuff

This Ain't a ******* Country Song

You know I love my Rock and Roll

I wouldn't write a Country Song

'Cause that's not how I roll

There's nothing here 'bout Bourbon

or of Racing through the fields

I don't know much about farming

or crop futures or of yields

I listen to The Rolling Stones

Trace Adkins I don't like

Lady A can go away

Kid Rock can ride his bike

You won't hear much about Zac Browns Band

or of food thats Chicken Fried

I might go to a hoedown

If I'd  just  up and died

My music, it fulfills me

It makes me who I am

But I'll stay away from country

songs, Cause I don't give a ****

No Oak Ridge Boys or Hee Haw Here

Hank Williams I won't buy

I'll never buy a Dixie Beer

It's a drink I'll never try

I won't sing about Kentucky

or of a Texas Yellow Rose

you know this aint no country song

Good god I hope it shows

There's no mohter, dogs or applie pie

no  fishin' in the dark

No Everything is Beautiful

No songs by Terry Clark

I'm really open minded

My friends they are the same

We won't buy country music

To us it's just so lame

This Ain't a ******* Country Song

You know I love my Rock and Roll

I wouldn't write a Country Song

'Cause that's not how I roll

I won't mention stuff you'll find

in songs by Nashville bands

There's nothing here about

watching football in the stands

I'll never write a country song

Cause country just ain't fun

Oh crap I just read this thing

And I think I just wrote one

This Ain't a ******* Country Song

You know I love my Rock and Roll

I wouldn't write a Country Song

'Cause that's not how I roll
SG Holter May 2014
I try to take a walk, I try to close
My eyes; I try to leave behind
The things I see as lies; the ones
You see with daily eyes, but I give up;
It's just so ******* beautiful.

I try to get as drunk as Man can get,
I dream of drugs to throw my soul as
Far away from all of it and name it
****, but it's just too *******
Beautiful.

I try to burn the discs and files with
All the knowledge my father has
Collected of our history, but ****, it
Means too much to me, and it's just
So ******* beautiful.  

Last week we found a paper at the
Site, from '93 and who'd believe
The thickness and the price of
Mobiles that were barely that,
Back then. I try to

Feel ashamed when my girl's youth
Is my lack thereof  
But we laugh together and that just
Makes it 'nice and old' and just so
**** beautiful.

I only barely saw the seventies; the
Tiniest pants I ever wore were
Bell-bottoms.
They were so
*******
Beautiful.
Mitchell Duran Nov 2013
It was 98'.
No, it was 99'.
That was the year.
Yeah, that was the year.

I had just landed abroad and knew no one.
Well, I was there with my girlfriend, Page.

I knew her.

We had to get out of the states.
There was nothing for us there.
We were drowning in that nothingness - that lacking future.

Cookie cutters everywhere.

Everything I saw was like an outline of something that had already happened.
I couldn't sleep.
I couldn't ****.
I could barely call my parents to let them know what I was doing.

Nothing really.

Floating downward like a leaf broken from its stem.
I was scared.
I'll admit it.
I was terrified of the next four years.
Twenty-five seemed so far away and so close, all at the same time.

We had a found an apartment to live in while in the U.S.
We were lucky because people we met later on said it was hell trying to find a place after arriving.
I was never too good at that stuff anyway.
I always felt like people were trying to cheat me or something.

It was small.
You would have said you loved it, but secretly hated it.
One could barely stand in the shower.
Want to spread your arms wide?

Forget about it.

There was a balcony though and you could watch the street traffic from above.
People look so small when your high up.
Down the street, there was a large theatre where they filmed movies.
I rarely saw them shooting, but I could tell it was a good place to.
It was beautiful at night when the lampposts would flicker on, orange spilling on the street.
Everything was damp in the Fall when we first arrived.

"What do you want to do today?" I asked her. She was laying face down on the bed.
Whenever she was hungover, she would do that.
All the covers and pillows over her face, blocking out the world and its light.
I did the same thing, so I couldn't really say much.
We were hungover a lot those first couple months.
Then came the jobs and everything changed...mostly.

She moaned something that I couldn't understand.
I was standing by the window, staring at the pigeons and crows perched on the roof across from us.
They had made a little nest under one of the shingles.
Clever little ******'s.

"Look at those things," I said.
The coffee I was drinking was bitter and made from crystals.
It gave me a headache, but it was cheap and we were broke.
I stepped back to get a better look at their nest and knocked an empty beer bottle around.

She moaned again and rose up from bed, kind of like a stretching kitten or a cat.
Her back was arched like a crescent moon and she stunk of ***** and Sprite.
The blankets were twisted and crumpled and she was tangled in them like a fly in a spiders web.
I went into the kitchen and poured out my coffee, thinking of what to do with the day.

"Breakfast?" she asked me from bed.
My back was to her, but I knew she wanted me to make it.
I put the electric stove on and opened the refrigerator.

"No eggs," I said back to her, "I'll be right back."

She moaned and slithered back into bed.
I threw my jacket and slippers on and made my way downstairs.

"Dobry den," I said to the cashier.
He was a tiny vietnamese man with a extremely high pitched voice.
I struggled to stifle a laugh every time I came in.

"Dobry den," he said back, sounding like air escaping from a balloon.

"Dear God," I thought, "How does his voice box do it?"

I went straight to the eggs, pretending to cough.
All around me were packaged sweets and rotten vegetables and fruit.
There were half loaves of brown, stale bread wrapped lazily in thin plastic.
Canned beans, noodle packets, and cardboard infused orange juice lined the shelves.
Where were the ******* eggs?
We needed milk too.
Trying to drink that crystalized coffee without it was torture.
I don't even know how I did it earlier.
"I must be getting used to the taste..." I thought.

I opened the single refrigerator they had in the place.
It was stocked with loosely packaged cheese, milk, beer, and soda.
There they were, those ******* eggs, right next to the yogurt.
I looked at the expiration date of a small carton of chocolate milk and winced.
"Someone could die here if they weren't careful," I whispered to myself.

"Everyding O.K.?" I heard the cashier squeak behind me.
I turned and nodded and showed him the eggs.
He was suspicious I was stealing something.
It was ironic.
I put the eggs on the counter and handed over what the cash register told me.

"There you go," I said and handed him the 58 crown in exact change.

"Děkuji," he peeped.

His voice sounded like a stuffed animal.
I nodded, smiled, and quickly got the hell out of there.

"You know the guy that works at the shop across the street?" I asked the body still in bed.
Well, she was up now, back up against the wall with her laptop on her lap.
"You mean the guy that has the voice of a little girl?"
"Exactly. I was just in there - getting these eggs - and I nearly laughed in his face."
"That's mean," she frowned, staring at her laptop.
Many of our conversations were with some kind of electronic device in between us.
We needed to work on that.
"I didn't laugh at him directly."
She smiled and nodded and moved down the bed a little more.
Only her head was resting on the pillow.
I cracked two eggs and let them sizzle there in the butter and the salt.

"So, what do you want to do today?" I asked Page, "It's not too cold out. We could go on a walk."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Over the bridge and maybe down by the water."
"It's going to be so cold," she shivered.
"I was just out there in slippers and a t-shirt and I was fine."
"That's because you're so big. I'm tiny. I don't get as much blood flow."

I flipped the two eggs and looked down at them.
Golden and burnt slightly around the edges.
******* perfect.
Now, just gotta wait a little on the other side and make sure to not let the yolk harden.
I hated that more than anything in the world.
Well, that and hearing **** poor excuses like it being too cold.
It was nice out.
She'd be fine.

"Come on," I sighed. I did that a lot. "It'll be fun."
She looked up at me from her computer with a dead look in her eye.
"What?" I asked her.
"You're such a...nerd," she said.
"No I'm not."
"You're so weird. Some of the things you say sometimes..."
"Like what?"
"Let's go on a walk."
She exaggerated the word walk.
I laughed and knew I was being a little too excited about a walk.
"Yeah. So? What are you doing? You're just laying there doing nothing."
"It's my day off," she scoffed, jokingly.

We were unemployed.
Everyday was a day off.
This was not something to bring up.
It was touchy subject.
One had to go about it...delicately.

"We need to find jobs," I stated, "And we can probably ask around or look for signs in windows."

"Oh JESUS," she gagged, coughing and diving back under the covers.

"I'm just thinking ahead so we can stay here. There's got to be something out there we can do."

"Like what?" she asked, her voice muffled by blankets.

"I don't know...something," I mumbled, trailing off as I flipped one of the eggs, "Perfect."

After breakfast, Page finally got out of bed and took a shower.
I tried to sneak in there with her, but, like I said before, one could barely fit themselves in there.
We compromised to have *** on the bed, though I did miss doing it in the shower.
As Page got dressed, I watched her slip those thin black stockings on, half reading a magazine.
I had gotten a subscription to The Review because I was trying to become a writer.
I thought, maybe if I read the stuff getting published - even the bad **** - it'll help.
Later, I realized, this was a terrible idea, but I enjoyed the magazine all the same.
Page finished getting dressed.
I jumped into whatever clothes were on the floor and didn't stink.
Then, we were out the door on Anna Letenske street, looking at the tram, downhill.


"I can see my breath," Page said, "It's cold..."

"Alright," I said as both of us ran across the street, "It's a little cold."

"But it's ok because I'm glad were out of the house."

"If we would have festered there any longer, we would have stayed in there all day."

"And missed this beautiful day," she said mocking me, putting both of her arms in the air.

The sky was gray and overcast and a single black crow flew over us, roof to roof.
No one was out, really.
It was Sunday and no one ever really came out on Sundays.
From the few czech friends I had, they explained to me this was the day to get drunk and cook.

"Far different then what people think in the States to do," I remember telling him.
"What do you do, my friend?" he had asked. He always called me my friend.
It was a nice thing to do since we had only known each other a couple weeks.
"Well," I explained to him, "Some people go to church to pray to God."
He laughed when I said this and said, "HA! God? How many people believe in God there?"
I had heard through the news and some Wikipedia research Prague was mostly atheist.
"A good amount, I'm pretty sure."
"That's silly," he scoffed, "Silly is word, right?"
"Yep. A word as any other."
"I like that word. What else do they do on Sunday?"
"A lot of people watch football. Not like soccer but with..."
"I know what you talk about," he said, cutting me off, "With the ball shaped like egg?"
I nodded, "Yes, the one with the egg shaped ball. It's popular in the Fall on Sundays."
"And what is Fall?" he asked.
You can see our relationship was really based on questions and answers.
He was a good guy, though I could never pronounce his name right.
There was a specific z in there somewhere where one had to dig their tongue under their teeth.
Lots of breath and vibration that Americans were never asked or trained to do.
Every czech I met said our language was a high contradiction.
Extremely complex in grammar and spelling, but spoken with such sloth.
I don't know if they used the word sloth.
I just like the word.

As we waited for the tram, I noticed the burnt orange and red blood leaves on the ground.
"Where had they come from?" I wondered. There were no trees on the street.
Must be from the park down the block, the one with the big church and the square.
There were lines of trees there used as leaning posts for the bums and junkies as they waited.
What they were waiting for, I never knew.
They just looked to be waiting for something.
I kicked a leaf into the street from the small island platform for the tram.
It swept up into the air a couple inches, and then instantly, was swept away by a passing car.
I watched as it wavered in the air, settling down the block in the middle of the road.

"Where's this trammm," Page complained.
Whenever it was cold out, her complaining level multiplied by a million.
"Should be coming soon. Check the schedule."
"Too cold," she said, "Need to keep my hands in my pockets."
I shook my head and looked at the schedule. It said it would be there at 11:35.
"11:35," I told her, still looking at the schedule. There was a strange cross over the day of Sunday.
"You mad?"
"No," I said turning to her, "I just want to have a nice day and its hard when you're upset."
"I'm not upset," she said, her teeth chattering behind her lips.
"Complaining I mean. We can go back home if it's really too cold. It's right there."
"No," she looked down, "Let's go out for a bit. I just don't know how long I'll last."
"Ok," I shrugged.
I looked up the street and saw our tram coming; number 11.
"There it is," I said.
"Thank God," Page exhaled, "I feel like I'm about to die."

Even the tram was sparse with people.
An empty handle of cheap liquor rattled in the back somewhere.
I heard it rock back and forth against the legs of a metal seat.
"Someone had a night last night," I thought, "Hope that's not mine."
We had gone to some dark bar with a lot of stairs going down - all I really recall.
Beer was so **** cheap there and there was always so much of it, one got very drunk easily.
I couldn't even really remember who we met or why we went there.
When everything's a blur in the morning you have two choices:
Feel guilty about how much you drank, lie around, and do nothing or,
Leave it be, try not to think about it, and try and find your passport and cell phone.

We made our transfer at the 22 and rode downhill.
Page looked like she was going to be sick.
Her sunglasses were solid black and I couldn't see her eyes, but her face was flushed and green.
"You alright?" I asked her.
"I'm fine," she said, "Just need to get off of this tram. Feel like I'm going to be sick."
"You look it."
"Really?" she asked.
"Yeah, a little bit."
"Let's get off at the park with the fountain. I don't want to puke here."
"Ok," I said, smiling, "We'll get off after this stop."

We sat down on one of the benches that circled around the fountain.
It was empty and Page was confused why.
"Maybe to save money?" I suggested.
"What? It's just water."
"Well, you gotta' pump the water up there and then filter it back out. Costs money."
"Costs crown," she corrected me.
"Same thing," I said, putting my arm around her, "There's no one here today."
"I know why," she stated, flatly.
"Why?"
"Because it's collllllllld and it's Sunday and only foreigner's would go out on a day like this."
I scanned the park and noticed that most of the faces there were probably not Czech.
"****," I muttered, "You may be right."
"I know I am," she said, wiggling her chin down into her jacket, "We're...crzzzy."
"We're what?" I asked. I couldn't hear her through her jacket.
She just shook her head back and forth and looked forward, not wanting to move from the warmth.
Dogs were scattered around the brown green grass with their owners.
Some were playing catch with sticks or *****, but others were just following behind their owner's.
I watched as one took a crap in the center of the walkway near the street.
Its owner was typing something on their phone, ignoring what was happening in front of him.
After the dog finished, the owner looked down at the crap, looked around, then slunk off.

"Did you see that?" I asked Page, pointing to where the owner had left the mess.
"Yeah," she nodded, "So gross. That would never fly in the states."
"You'd get shoulder tackled by some park security guard and thrown in jail."
"And be given a fat ticket," she said, coughing a little, "Let's get out of here."
"Yeah," I agreed, "And watch for any **** on the way out of here."

We made our way out of the park and down the street where the 22 continues on to the center.
"Let's not go into the center. Let's walk along the water's edge and maybe up to the bridge."
"Ok," I said, "That's a good idea." I didn't want to get stuck in that mass of tourists.
I could tell Page didn't either. I think she was afraid she might puke on a huddle of them.
We turned down a side street before the large grocery store and avoided a herd of people.
The cobble stones were wet and slick, glistening from a small sliver of sunlight through the clouds.
Page walked ahead.
Sometimes, when we walked downtown in the older parts of Prague, we would walk alone.
Not because we were fighting or anything like that; it was all very natural.
I would walk ahead because I saw something and she would either come with or not.
She would do the same and we both knew that we wouldn't go too far without the other.
I think we both knew that we would be back after seeing what we had wanted to see.
One could call it trust - one could call it a lot of things - but this was not really spoken about.
We knew we would be back after some time and had seen what we had wanted to.
Thinking about this, I watched her look up at the peeling paint of the old buildings.
Her thick black hair waved back and forth behind her plum colored pea coat.
Page would usually bring a camera and take pictures of these things, but she had forgotten it.
I wished she hadn't.
It was turning out to be such a beautiful day.

We made it to the Vlatva river and leaned over the railing, looking down at the water.
Floating there were empty beer bottles and plastic soda jugs.
The water was brown, murky, and looked like someone had dumped a large bag of dirt in there.
There was nothing very romantic about it, which one would think if you saw it in a picture.
"The water looks disgusting," Page said.
"That it does, but look at the bridge. It looks pretty good right
a m a n d a Jul 2013
(Ruining Steely Dan concerts since 2013)*

Parrot Dave
you can go
straight
to
hell.

lumbering up
         and
    down
the ******* stairs
47 times -
for christ's sake
SIT DOWN
with your lovely wife
(let's call her linda)
and
enjoy the show.

you may think
i am being overly
harsh
but let me explain:
Parrot Dave
doesn't even have
              the decency
to wear a
proper Hawaiian*
shirt,
the indecent ****!
******* parrots?
why, dave?

they repeat endlessly
too large
                   too bright
                 too primary
  they are clones
                         all facing the same direction
      and you can hear
    the sound
     of the parrot voices
    in an unholy union
"It's a Steely Dan concert, man!"
"Listen to the horns," says the horror of parrots.
Parrot Dave,
you're a real *******...
have some ******* class.
Paul Glottaman Mar 2020
She wakes up alone, thunder roaring distant warnings and churning up her worst memories and instincts.
She is desperate in her need of comfort,
scared of her loneliness,
And ashamed of her fear.
And ******* the storm!
******* this hollow need!
I've paid for my sins
But never enough, it seems.
Never completely.

Nothing helps.

And she wants him to hold her
But the French death only brings him drowsy to sleep.
She touches his back with cold fingertips and ignores the gnawing sense that tomorrow is still on the way.
He snores and she wishes life had been, if not different at least, bearable.
And ******* these worthless men!
******* the empty!
It was full of you once.
Nothing else is enough.
Nothing helps.

In the evenings she stares at the wall above her desk.
At the place where it used to be.
At a future that was taken. Stolen away.
******* the silence.
******* the absence.
**** it.
******* it.

******* the last kiss.
The chances always missed.
The hope she watched die.
Tomorrow is on its way
and somehow, she knows,
she'll have to get through another
Vicious
Day.

Aside:
The sun sets and the moon grows bold.
People grow up, grow old.
And so what if every story's been told?
So what if the telling leaves you cold?
Still hurts for those to whom it will unfold.
End of aside.

Across the ocean, a world and a lifetime away, he stands.
A boy, perhaps only just a man.
There is in his heart a very similar hole.
And it eats him up and it leaves him broken.
Wanting.
Weeping.
Lost. And desperate.
And he hates his fear and his lonely.
He hates that he hates the pity in your eyes.
But it doesn't help and he can't explain why.
He doesn't know why.
He once knew love. He once felt whole and safe. He knew happy as well as he knew family.
He wishes now only for his promised other. His love is a bird with broken wings.
Sure, once he tasted the sky,
But crippled and low he can no longer fly.
Nothing seems to help.

Her words could help. If he could only hear them.
Because we suffer by ourselves
But we never suffer alone.
"I'm not sure if that helps."
We all say with words and eyes
And they smile, because the thought is what counts.
But inside they know a truth, tried to tell us all along.
They'll get better. Stronger. But that's just getting through another day.
Another day.
Another day.
Because we mean well, they love us, but the truth?
The truth is:
Nothing helps.
softcomponent Dec 2013
lizards keep shiney wallets clasped
between their scales, so they're rich
and we're not.. the reeealll 1 percent,
hahahe, aren't we each and always
underneath a lizard and a god? do
we not need others attention like a
lizard needs to sun, because otherwise
our blood runs cold and we smash like
empty beer-bottles in a bar fight WHO
THE **** ARE U cash cash cash in
the mannequins wallet, YER A GOD
-**** MANNEQUIN no I'm a *******
lizard YER A ******* PR CAMPAIGN
no I'm a ******* lizard YER A *******
SALES TECHNIQUE

*NO I'M A ******* LIZZZZARD
Carter Ginter Aug 2018
Dear Sam,

I love you,
But I really hate you sometimes.

I've been cycling through emotions lately
Because our breakup led to me completely shutting down
I felt nothing
Until I felt sadness
And then I felt anger
Now it's all mixing together
In an overwhelming mess
Especially with your recent breakups
With your other partners
The one who I mourned our relationship over
Who you suddenly realized you weren't into
And the one I'm best friends with
Who you told that you were never poly
Because **** me right?

Because if you were never poly
Then you never really loved me
Then again,
Have you ever really loved anyone?
I try to correct the realization
Of you not loving me
With the fact that I love myself
It's probably a lie, but
Fake it til you make it
Right?
It's hard to accept that
Someone I loved more than anyone
Could give zero ***** about me
It hurts
That I was this disposable to you
And I did nothing but love you
And respect you
And hear you
And care for you with every ounce of my existence
And you just left

Remember when you promised that
We could get through anything?
And had me promise you the same?
Whenever we were unsteady
You would ask me that
The same thing you asked your last partner
Right before they left you
"Babe, we can get through anything, right?"
And it sounded so sweet and so
******* real
But you were just scared
You were only ever sweet
When you thought we were leaving you

And ******* it
I wish I had left you
I wish I would've told you all of the things
That led to MY decision to leave
Because when we talked
We agreed it was mutual
And I never told you my story
You never asked
All you asked was what I would tell people
Which to some might sound like you cared
But all you cared about
Was other people's opinions of you
Not me
Not my opinion
Because I was no longer of use to you
And during that break up
You did ask me why I was crying
Though looking back now
You probably just wanted to hear me say
"I love you"
One last time
Because why else would I be crying?

I don't know if I ever told you
But when you got your third partner
I wished I could stop loving you
Ironically, I pretty much did
In an illusory sort of way since
All my emotions shut down from the pain
And if I were religious I would've prayed for it
Begged for salvation
For freedom from
The shackles laced around my limbs
From loving someone who doesn't care
Who didn't respect me enough
To really remind me that I mattered
In the throes of a new relationship
But none of it helped
Because I still loved you
I still do

What's more than you leaving
Is the amount of damage you did first
Convincing me how radical and inclusive you are
When you shame anyone else
For the things that make them happy
Oh, and what about transparency
And how you avoid passivity in conflict?
Where did that person go?
You started being passive-aggressive
Or even silent sometimes
You'd exit the conversation
In the middle of an argument
And yell at me if I tried to do the same
I should've known things weren't ok
When I started to thank you
For not getting mad and yelling at me
Which only made you mad
Because I was demonizing you
Actually,
I was just afraid of you

I was never enough for you
You'd spend a lot of your time
Complaining about your other partners
And, as obvious as it is now,
I didn't know you were doing the same about me
Because when we were together
I thought we were good
I respected your boundaries
Even when they conflicted with my needs
You didn't like physical contact
Something I needed in order to feel safe
And the few times you did let me hold your hand
You complained about it to your other partner
As though I were a burden
But I am NOT
A burden
I am NOT
Disposable
And I may not be perfect
But I sure as hell matter

I deserve love
I deserve openness and honesty
And trust
Not like that one time
You "forgot" you made a promise to me
Then broke it in secrecy
And got mad at me later
When I was upset with you
Because you knew I had trust issues
You knew it would upset me
But you didn't care
Because you "don't need permission"
To do anything
Which is true
Except, when you truly respect someone
You keep your word
Or you don't get upset about it
When they feel pained by your betrayal
You said you didn't want to feel
Like you owed me something
And it's not that you owed me anything
But you sure didn't deserve my trust after that
And that made you angry

Though not angry like those few times
You called me yelling about
How I ****** up
Because 1)
I was hurt that you didn't want to see me
Even though we had plans to spend the weekend together
And 2)
Because I wasn't being a good partner
Aka I wasn't submitting to you
And following everything you wanted me to
You claimed I was hurting you
But when I called you out
For your blatant hypocrisy
You got even more mad

I was crying at work that day
I was crouched in the ally
Listening to you scream at me
Balling my eyes out in pain
Trying to maintain my ability to breathe
I didn't think to just hang up
Because I knew it was disrespectful
And I didn't want you to leave me

Later you told me that
You like when I cry when we fight
Because it proves to you that
I actually care
That is not ok
I can show you that I care
Without being in so much pain that
Tears stain my face and
I struggle to catch a breath

When we met
You taught me about autonomy
And that saved my life when it came to my depression
But then you used it against me
To avoid doing anything that didn't benefit you
As I bent over backwards to please you
And of course I didn't think it was an issue
When you would change your mind at the last minute
The plans I had looked forward to all day
Quickly fell apart
Autonomy freed me from my demons' grasp
So how could it not make sense?
You had the autonomy to choose what you wanted to do
But you were just being selfish
And didn't care about me
Or my feelings
And as soon as I stopped
Being the only one putting in any effort
You left me

You used to say that
Our love was stronger than anything
But that is an abusive tactic
Because if we were struggling, then
It must be my fault for not trying enough
For not loving you enough
And when I tried to put up boundaries
(Because sometimes I needed space too
Especially when you hurt me so deeply)
You decided to threaten that
Doing so would make you want to leave me
You often held me on that way
Threats
Manipulation
Fear

The way we chose to love polyamorously
Was pretty unhealthy
We didn't set boundaries
Until we did something that hurt us
And then we knew we needed to
But even then we really didn't
Because you didn't respect the ones I set
You told me that
I couldn't have any more partners
You didn't even want me to pursue
The new interest I had at the time
Thankfully, I didn't submit to you then
Because within a few days we broke up
And even though I was sad about it
I immediately felt relief
And regardless of all of this negativity
I truly hope you get help
And can find happiness in your life
And can stop hurting others
Just because you're in pain

You matter
So do I
But your opinion of me doesn't
Because I will love myself
Exactly for who I am
And no longer shame myself
For the things you didn't like
Because I am more
Than what you think of me
I am more
Than how you treated me
And even though I love you
I love myself more
And respect myself enough to let it go
And to let myself be happy
Without you in my life
This series is extremely important to me. It has drastically helped with closure over past unhealthy relationships. They were all unhealthy I'm largely different ways and I did not write these to take away my own fault in the breakups, but I wrote this to rid myself of the unnecessary guilt I have been carrying around because of things that these exes have said to me or the ways in which they treated me. This project is about self-love. Not about hatred or wishing ill will upon others, because I wish them nothing but happiness. This is for me.
The story of us.

There is no story really.  Well not of 'us' at least.  Not yet.  I just liked that line and thought I’d use it to write.  To write this.  You spoke with me today.  You pulled me into a conversation, but so terrified that my ***** little secret will be found out, I pull away. And, you weren’t alone.  Who’s he?  He is so ******* good-looking!  I see the way you look at him, and know I can't compete.  I'm so jealous, that I just want to peel away.

The story of you.

Do you know that you have the most engaging smile?  I am sitting in the dark, thinking. That’s what I’m doing right now, sitting in the dark, thinking about your smile.  It was not supposed to turn out this way.  This was not my plan.  You were meant to be forgotten. You were meant to be never minded.  I know that smile, and knew you would never be mine.  My smile now stolen, by him.  Who was that guy? And, Jesus Christ, why is he so ******* good-looking?!

The story of me.

I existed before you, you know.  I’m almost sure I did.  Before I saw that smile, before I heard that voice,  before, I saw that...face.  Before, before, before.  Before I saw you, I had a pulse, I’m almost sure I did. Who is that guy?  He's tall, and so ******* good-looking. And, with a ******* ******* beard!  I mean, come on!  I too, have a beard. Doesn’t that count?  I know, I know.   I'm not so tall, and I know, I am not so ******* good-looking.  But, like him, but just like him, I have a beard.

And like him, and just like that guy, I now have A Story of Us.
softcomponent May 2014
Find the lighter, use it as a lighthouse on a walk below the wall you watch along the wave-formations. Who Wants a Cold One? a Coors Light ad corrects.. When it comes to your home, the little things matter.. an insurance ad blares.. my computer is infected with 3rd party applications unremovable to my meagre tech-ability.. there is a hero as Joseph Campbell once theorized.. in myself like a sick bastardly virus waiting for moments to prove to me "I AM THE SAVIOR, I AM THE CHRIST, I AM THE WARLORD, MICE, MAN, AND VICE".. the windows of opportunity close, I am left waiting the door

& the elevator.

Thirty-thousand years ago, there was nothing but a breeze.. a viscous breeze across chill-spined pterodactyls.. warm-under-the-jungle-brush tyrannosaurus rex, and to think one day I will be just a legend in bone..
Charlotte said she thinks of death and so did Jen. They sat next to the all-you-can-eat and discussed the inevitable. I was sour and playful with no-will-to-understand, just reminding my hair of breezy summer days of 10, thinking of strangeness, of place I was in.

When it's quiet sometimes, I think of old dreams.. dreams I sunk below drown-level as a child in bed and belief. Both mommy and daddy were arguing in the kitchen, this was 7 or 8.. they argued so often one could hear mom begin to cry sometimes, and dad I could see in minds-eye with a grimace so closed and so creased he was hurt and yet honest.. I did not understand so I hid under-stood-silhouettes, oh adulthood..

once in dream I was in pulsing green graveyard like crayon realism strobe lights, tombstones all-round and faint-buzz of outside and one of those strange balded henchmen of badguy Jafar from Disney's Aladdin came peaking outta nowhere with curled eyebrow and baggy one-thousand-one Arabian nightlives parachute pants, curled toes brown-beige moccasins to.. he let out conniving 'HEUHEE!' and slapped me right-side cheek and I JOLTED up bedwise in real time to feel actual physical sting for a few lingered seconds then the sobs of poor mother outside.. I never remembered a dream so clearly again.. they all come, Pro-Found, and dizzy away after hour or two for rest of eternity or perhaps to Place I Can Visit at Death to Review Every Vision and I wonder... when your life flashes before your eyes and the light is encroaching, scenes of mother, brother, father, son, daughter, best-friend, party, break-up, heartbreak, slip-fall, first-sip, first-drag, last-leg, first-kiss, first-hit, first-game, fear, love,  HATE, wait.. do the Dreams come to? Are they all flesh-ed before your eyes as you pass into Light? Are they brought to direct remembrance as you cross the border with Passport of Gods and a Goddess (and which Picture appears on the Page)..?

I remember the old eczema taking bits of skin to carpets round-town and round-lower-mainland to disgust of friends old and new-- this was era where confidence ate itself in mirrors, the sober reality of ugly-ness chiseling away at my Goodness Attempts.. All That Pointless Pain was no Exception nor a Rule, it just **** Happens every once-and-again to the sound of life farting. I used to miss school for feet so impossible to walk on, pussing and bleeding and staining the sheets, shoe soles, carpets, and soul.. limp thru the hallways of Brooks Secondary feeling like bad flavor additive to multicultural Planet Earth-- sleeping 'til the bell rang drinking coffee singing songs I said '**** the ******* educational system and **** me I'm so flatlined..' someday I felt things would really get better and lucky young me I was right.

A half-decade later, I am 21 and hoping, floating, free in the breeze as the wings I have grown keep on wishing the subsistence down. The girl, whoever-she-might-as-well-be, sits immediately vertical chatting frantically to boy with a bit of a cowlick slouching on-up over a bundle of colored paperwork. It seems late in the season for homework, and assume they may have some affiliation with a crazy-hep computer design group in the tradition of Nouevau Silicon Valley.... I sit at my laptop, inching a word a million cubic millimeters closer to God or Divinity or Crescendo or A Bunch More ******* You'll End Up Ignoring---

It's a sunny day, the rain having slathered-off into obscurity somewhere with the Monsoons when the Sun gave the Moon a Soft Slap and the poor purity white-kid went off whimpering, bleeding nose-- I sat, the other night, playing another Grand Strategy game as Tom divided his time between a vaulted and damaged lover, his labor, and his life (friends, food, video-games, vice)... Chai, old Chai the Thai Guy mentioned past his nose in previous iterations of Depictions sat and described his pins-and-needles upset at his bosses at one his three many jobs.. desperately firing text-messages into receiving-space-panel and reflect and back unto Tom's smartphone dash asking him to order a six-pack from a local delivery service cuz his adrenal was giving him heartpain with hurt, and Tom being Busy as All-Ways Tom Is wasn't able to decipher the scramble in-time to make contact before closure of the liquor stores.. poor not-so-poor Chai at first felt castrated at realization he would miss the 11 PM dot-time, but didn't mind as he rendezvoused with Tom and I at Willows Beach where Tom reminded him of a whiskey he'd bought sitting counter-wise at his place.. we kissed a few Mary Janes rightsideup, dragging our butts in the sand to discuss what was wrong (each of us had a problem that night, save for perhaps a less-vocal Tom, I describing my annoyance that a lazy consensus had erupted in my sorry-hometown between my sorta-friends and friends-of-friends that my writing and sharing my writing was arrogant and I an arrogant *** for sharing and I just confounded that they would find my passions so trivial-- perhaps jealousy, perhaps complacency and judgement-for-lack-of-anything-better-to-do and ah **** em all if they think like that, I'll write and be the arrogant me they think I am and share 'til I'm blue in the face and dead perhaps for outspoken intellectualism in their autocratic pointless-waste worldviews.. sad that I dislike them only on the basis they disliked me first..)

I had planned to stay late and leave early-morn (5 or 6 AM) to catch a first-off morning bus back home and sleep, hoping for most part to avoid the shattered-***-mess of a home I was living in.
About 2 days ago, give or take, a water-line for the laundry machine had erupted to soak our entirely-carpeted basement suite, forcing the poor new landlord (a sweetheart of a man named Ron having just taken possession of the house from previous owner on May 1st and, it seems, left 'holding the bag' as they'd call it in day-trading-investment-lingo) to tear out the entirely-soaked carpet and replace it with sensible laminate flooring and rendering the entire suite virtually unlivable for indefinite-few-days and so for me work and friends and especially writing become a welcome reprieve to I, a first world Refu-Jeez.. us, so terribly-off I sip a latte near sunny panorama windows-so-clear-they're-not-there overlooking the crosses of Yates and Blanshard with European church of Gothic architectural style poking heedlessly into empty-open blue.. ironically and strangely there is a liquor store quite literally right next door, and's one I shop at often for its decent prices (God is Dead or Just Drinking to Cope with Sartre and Kierkegaard's Ultimate Thesis) (Kierkegaard especially '*** Kierkegaard seems a good and long friend of God the Almighty) (...I talk with such Judaeo-Christian Catholic rhetoric it never ceases to amaze myself as it bleeds to page..) (stranger thing is, tho, there is no beginning, no middle, no end.. you read or you are bored and either/or is just fine..)

There is some hypothesized crescendo-bliss Tech Singularity on the way in the try-dition of Ray Kurzweil and William Burroughs.. Oscar Wilde to.. (see The Soul of Man Under Socialism in essay-collect book De Profundis).. one day we will all be eternal happiness expressed in song and dance and LED erected-projections of Imperfect Universe (Our Imperfect Earth) with lives stuck on infinite repeat.. our idea of Paradise.. and for those with ability to remain rushed to cortisol (stress-the-best hormone) it will be Hell on Earth, so DRAB and THE SAME all the TIME and it's READ and it's WRITE and it's RIGHT.. the world runs faster with every passing day so desperate to discover the Globe is Flat so we can Hop Off the Other Side into what one might assume to be The Better Place.. elusively picking-up speed thinking 'closer now definitely closer now' unaware (or, secretly aware and unwilling to admit for what will one do when one cannot run?) they are Running in Circles Over and Over and Over and Over and Over Again... cannot take the hint in the fact the Pacific (same Pacific) has been crossed a hugeillion times, nor the same McDonald's in the Azores of Atlantic Portugal is the Same ******* McDonald's stopped-thru on the then-trillionth time last year... and all whilst the International Space Station remains muted up-above crossing 'round and 'round 'til the Jehovah'n Day of Judgement (Chris Hadfield now below with advice for how to run a little faster even blinded in one eye..) then there are the dying Prophets Predicting Industrial Collapse who preach upon the Mount of Internet Sinai Eternal and state "the world is now unsalvageable and we are all about to die.. if ever you wished to find Buddhistic Nirvanic Peace, now is the time so start meditating and imagine Death as New Life and Geopolitics as Game".. forever and ever and ever and ever.

It is only natural to find existence to be 'weird..' layered with Who's That's and giant What The ***** everywhichway you turn.. did it start in a Big Bang, will it end in a Big Crunch, Big Freeze, Big Bang.. ? all questions once ignored for certain ignorance and resurrected as questions concerning the Nature of the What The ***** (also known as 'Science').. and if it did start in a Big Bang, did I start in a Big Bang..? and if it does end in a Big Crunch, will I end in a Big Crunch..? am I a sudden flash of REAL in a Universe that isn't me..? or am I an entire Universe.. perhaps even more than that...? the questions pulse in youth like bad words or bullets. I once stayed up all-night thinking of infinity with my head soaring space-wise forever and ever and ever and I stopped in sudden panic thinking: I could lie here up all night and all day 'til the towered age of 37 (I was 14 at the time) and still be no further on the Universal Map than from thumb-tip-middle to thumb-nail so I wrapped up the attempt with a mix of fear and incredulity, went to school next-day exhausted and tried to explain it all to friends.. they got it, I suppose, but we were all 14 and played basketball instead (I imagined infinite-spinning-basketball on thumb of Michael Jordan).

It's always best describing life in form of Disembodied Poetics.. sure some Philistines won't understand '*** their minds are made of Clockwork, Digits, and Blockthought.. but the general psychic underly implied in all with human faculty will ring-a-ding-ding! and remember all such ancient thoughts and feels as forgotten as a child, locked away until the Spirit rose-up from a rosey thorn prickle to flower straight-up into a Rose! or so I hope as a one-of-many writers-- all of which will write so-as to speak on your behalf.. all floaty and marking a purpose.
Amy Borton Feb 2019
Did you know that I hate you?
Every second you ignore me seeps into my skin like ink
Your words are a tattoo I can’t remove
I’ve spent months scrubbing my skin of your touch
The memory of it lingering
Between my fingers
Behind my ears
On my lips
Around my waist
An invisible hand-shaped scar on my cheek accompanied by
The sound of your voice between tears
“I want to do my best for you”
Unless your best is weakening me to the point I can’t get out of bed,
You’re a ******* liar for that
And so much more
I want to rip the memory of us from inside of you, you don’t deserve it
When I think of you I want to scream until my voice goes limp

And then you smile
And I remember you again
The goofy ******* who spends days making music
Lover of takis and neck kisses and bridges
I remember you holding me while I cried
And taking pictures while I laughed
Always knowing when I’m hungry or sad or anxious or tired
Jamming out to Inner Voices on a 20 hour road trip
Getting ****** and petting dogs
Snowball fights at 2 AM
Making out at stoplights
Taking an hour to say goodbye
The way you grinned so wide after we kissed
Every
Single
Time

You ******* ******* *******
Mari-Elle Dec 2014
If happy ever after
Weren't some desperate dumb attempt
To make us all believe that happiness
Is existent

Then I'd sit on some beach somewhere
Waiting for the moment
When happiness didn't feel so
******* important
Happiness is a state of mind
Anastasia C Mar 2017
When you love someone who doesn't love you back your world ends.

When you love someone who doesn't love you back you keep pumping love. You are so oblivious and eager that you give them so much love. No matter what they won’t give it back.

When you love someone who doesn't love you back. You feel nothing but absolute pain and sorrow. You feel like there nothing left except the love that won't be taken. Your love is so strong and there’s so much that it floods you.

When you love someone who doesn't love you back. You feel hopeless because of all the love you gave this person and how much you'd do for love in return. You'd give them all the time in the world, all the love in the world. You still do this relentlessly even though they wont give you five minutes when you need that five minutes.

Being in love with someone who doesn't love you back is a burning red pain. It's a pain like nothing else because no matter what you do, no matter what medicine or treatment you give to that pain it's still there. It's there when you see his face, hear his voice, remember his touch. It's always there.

When you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back, you don't have to worry too much about them intentionally hurting you. That's because everything small memory you've over analyzed hits you across the face over and over. You're constantly hating yourself because this one person was so important to you and now he's gone. “I should've done..” “Why was I so..” “No wonder he doesn't..” Those thoughts are toxic and seizes up your body.

When you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back, you get so ******* close to hating them. You hate that they've ripped you open, eaten you up and have left you to decay. You hate that they have let you hate yourself more than you could ever hate them. You hate them because of the things they gave you which weren't all good. And the things they stole. Like crying on their shoulders which they gave, but your pride they took.

When you're in love with someone for the first time and they don't love you back, you never want to fall in love again. You never want attachments with anyone because of this substantial pain that is constantly there. You never want to kiss with love, talk with love, witness love. You never want love unless, it's that one person you love. That's the only thing that matters. Love had a horrible reputation, it's either make it or ******* break it. Not take it.

When you're hurt by someone who can't feel pain, you wish you never fell in love. Never in lust, never started talking, never meeting. You wish you could erase their smell so you wouldn't ever have to think about why you remember it so well. You wish you can't vividly remember how their arms felt and how they were once so welcoming.

When you love someone who doesn't love you back, you are pathetic. You cry in bed while replaying your first kiss, first date, the time you fell asleep together. You can remember every feeling from the first time you felt love to the first time your heart skipped a beat because, well, it was ending. You remember the goosebumps running down your back when you last touched his hand as you left his car. That was the last time you'd be in his car. And that was the last time you touched his leathery skin that was wet from your tears. And that was the last time he would know how much you loved him.

You replay every memory over and over until they're worn out. And after they're worn out you can't ever get new ones. You love this person and you will for a long, long time. But they won't ever love you. They won’t get those stomach tickles when you hear their name. They wont miss having their chapped lips against your neck tickling you elegantly. Because to them that doesn't matter, they didn’t feel love.

When you're in love with someone who doesn't love you back, it's almost impossible to stop loving them. No matter what you do. No matter what they did. No matter how it hurts. No matter what, you will love them.

When you love someone who doesn’t love you back, you are incapable of stopping because you are paralyzed.
I am not feeling these things anymore, i wrote this after a breakup. This breakup was very hard for me, I never really felt worse in my life. The pain was horrible and I will never forget it. I hope to never feel this way towards someone again because as of right now, I don't want to love like this ever again. Theres so much emotion that goes into one person and it was so one ended for me. Ive grown from this and learned from this. l
neko Apr 2014
one time mary lambert told me that i am a ******* tree stump so i went outside to absorb the earth

always take time out of every day to go out without shoes on
feel the grass beneath your feet and between your toes
go out in public without shoes as well
do not be self-conscious
do not blush and curl in your toes when people stare
always remember that feet are weird anyway
always be proud of your weird parts

one time i did dxm and almost puked
laying in the cool dewy grass made me feel better though
i couldn't fathom how beautiful everything was in that moment
(i do not condone the use of drugs)

one time there was a time when i didn't need nicotine or drugs to feel better about myself
i miss that, that time in my life

i'm getting better though
i hope you are too
i hope you get completely naked before a shower and while the water's heating up i hope you look at yourself and touch all of you and i hope you slide your hands down your ribs and hips and think "******* i am one ****, fuckable *******"
because that's exactly what you are
i don't want this to be a cliche "u r beautiful" thing but i think that's what it's turning into

a cool thing about life is that when you cry your cheeks get stained with black but it always goes back to normal
your skin, that is
a cool thing about you is that you are like your skin
a cool thing about your skin is that it's always changing, always shedding, always growing
what i'm trying to say is that nothing is permanent
that you aren't always gonna be stuck in this **** hole
that you'll always find a way to resurface
that you aren't just a crack in the cement, you're the whole ******* city
haha, i love you you stupid head
a lot of people do
be kind to others because we're all just dumb beautiful walking flesh things
smile at every stranger and love like plants do
i don't care what you say, you are someone's sun
so shut up with all that "i'm worthless no one will ever love me" crap
be a conceded *******
love yourself
disregard rude remarks
basically be like kanye
u do u booboo

keep all of this in mind the next time you're afraid to go out in a certain outfit or to change your hair or to wear lots of makeup or no makeup or eat or any ******* nonsense you wanna do. please just do it. dont be a *****
Greg Berlin Aug 2013
I hope you know
I'm losing my ******* mind
slowly
steadily
--what's that they say
about the turtle
and that
******* rabbit?--
been racing too long
where's that finish line
where's that light
that one they say
ends the tunnel
I'm exhausted
I hear it in the back
that turtle
whispers
as he catches up
I hear it in the back
of my head
he's coming for
my sanity
he knows I know
we aren't *******
idiots
that madness is coming
he is coming
and he will not wait
he will not stop
free fall is great
oh the jump is a beautiful thing
but the rocks still hurt
and they look bigger
every *******
second

they're off on
the last lap
the young rabbit
far in the lead
but woah
there goes that
******* turtle
coming round the
final turn
catching up
and everyone knows
this isn't a race
I can win
Amanda Stoddard Oct 2015
I broke for the seventh time this month-
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I ask myself as I undress my thoughts in a mirror
as the tears stream steadily down the sides of my face
mascara stains my eyeballs and burns into my mind.
I can feel everything now.
The running of my makeup
causes a chain reaction
to me running toward the sink
to wash out what makes me feel okay.
After it is done-
and the makeup is cleared from my eyes
it seems I still don't see things clearly.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I saw him again today-
it seems I am seeing his face in everyone nowadays.
I don't think I'm actually over it
I don't think the experience will ever leave my mind
and every single man but a few seems to have his eyes-
the square shape of his head and the curve of his spine
that I don't think he actually has
because who needs a backbone
when you spend your youth
taking away someone else's.
Mine-
It was the seventh year of my life
and you took my backbone back then
in the black basement, blanketed with self-condemnation.
You see innocence is an antonym for guilt-
but what happens when you took away one
and caused the other?
What does that leave me with now-
Innocence means the opposite of guilt
which is to say childhood and you
do not share the same zip code
but somehow I let you invade my home
and seek out refuge inside my ribcage
now I find you in every corner,
encompassing the outline
of every male figure I encounter.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I saw you seven days ago-
in the face of the man at TGI friday's
then again in the face of a man waiting in line at the store
then again in the outline of a shadow
then again in the nightmares I keep waking up to.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I keep repeating to myself
until the sound of your voice fades to just background noise
until the soft hint of you breathing on my neck
doesn't seem familiar to me anymore
until I stop feeling ashamed of what you have made of me.

There once was a home inside of me
but now it is just a house fire-
burning down any memory of you here
you made it too hard to breath
although this smoke encases my lungs-
and these pills aren't the blanket
on the fire like I wanted them to be
they still seem to help ease the burns.
See you are nothing but ash and dust-
The lining on the inside of my throat
that keeps me from spilling your name.
Your shadow in the back of my mind
will become nothing
in the wreckage I have ensued upon my skull.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
Haven't you learned?
The most prized possessions are.
Crystal June Sep 2014
it's not easy being the superhero
in fact
it's hell
because while you're out there
saving the whole ******* world
who is going to save you?
nobody
those selfish ******* need you
but you need them more
and they'll never know
that
sometimes the superhero
needs saving too
JB Claywell Aug 2016
“Maybe if you wrote
like a cop when you’re
putting in service notes,
you wouldn’t waste
so much time.”
I’m told.

Maybe that’s right,
but it feels wrong
not to invest some
of what I’m good at
into these people’s
lives.

I’m good at telling stories.

And, I do tell their stories,
replacing words like ‘said’
and ‘told’ with dryer lint
like ‘stated’ or ‘observed’.

Regardless, an investment
is made, a story is told;
most days there’s not
enough story left for me.

Maybe, if I gave less
than a *******,
I’d have some *******
left for my own stories,
but the notebooks lay
empty,
my skull’s usual roar is
silent.

That silence deafens, depresses.
But, I care enough about the story in the
service notes to give more
than
a *******.

*
-JBClaywell

©P&ZPublications; 2016
A "social worker" poem.
Joshua Haines Feb 2014
I love reading poetry on this site.

The most common used word is love.
Well, actually ambiguous is used a lot. I guess it makes people feel smart about themselves.

Anyway, everyone uses the word 'love', but has anyone experienced it or are we all deluding ourselves?

Besides the point, I've learned that if you want to succeed in writing on this site, you have to make sure you write about how you 'fell' in love and then follow it with 'heartbreak'.

You can be dark, and probably get some 'acclaim' from the broody broods.
Or you can not be completely pretentious and write something genuine.
Good luck, though. They'll call it cliche or cheesy.
So you deal with that...
But first thing is first: You must get artistic.

                                                    ­                                                       Do this
                                                            ­                                        because
                                                                ­                              it some how
                                                                ­                 makes it look like
                                                                ­              you
                                             ­                                        know
                                                                ­                              what
                                                                ­                                      you're
                                                                ­                                               doing.

Make sure
you seem like you
DO THIS
for a l
          i love you more than i can take
            vicious words cause my heart to break
               in god we trust our love forever
                 never be gone from me, oh no, not ever!
                    good bye my love i'll cherish you... ambiguously


Now let's get wordy.
Let's use some words entirely too much like...
AMBIGUOUS
Then after that, it'll be time to crack open the thesaurus and write words that you're not entirely sure that you're using correctly.

The ambiguous alligator bit with a fervor as the metamorphosis of his analysis changed what he thought (DID YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE). He was chased by hunters, but was devoid of a cwtch (yeah, that's a word. Maybe he's a welsh alligator. I don't know. Parts of this poem are meant to be...wait for it...ambiguous).

the
     alligator's
                   father
                            died
                                   in
                                       the
                                            great
                                                    alligator wars of 1
                                                               ­               9
                                                ­                              7
                                 ­                                             2012 was an okay year, though.

what a tragedy it is to be abstentious at a buffet...(end it ambiguously)
                                                                ­                                              end

Then we have some depressing stuff on this site. Not that there's anything wrong with writing something depressing, but usually it's kind of stuff that you'd read at a seventh grade poetry slam sponsored by Hot Topic and Van's Warped Tour in partnership with AXE Body Spray and Monster Energy Drink.

We'll call this one....

'pain, pain, and more pain'

I knew this girl
name was elle
she rang my heart
like a ******* bell

i was fourteen
she was fine
we had assigned seats next to each other
but her seat was inside of my mind

we talked about deep stuff
like really deep
she told me she had nightmares
and i said i had them too
BUT NOT ALL OF THEM ARE IN MY SLEEP

the real nightmare was that
she had a boyfriend
he treated her really well
but he was a ******* FOOTBALL PLAYER
**** **** **** LOVE IS A ******* HELL

why not me
why the tool
i can play six songs on the guitar
and my parents own a pool

i could have given you everything
i could have given you my heart on a string
but you cut it with your knife
and ******* did it sting

my heart is black
my emotions in a whirl
i'll be like this for two weeks
AT LEAST
until i talk to another girl


I just love some of the poetry I read on this site, and I hope you like mine.

Thanks, guys!
hand slaps shoulder knee rhythmically that’s called hamming the bone sitting on a street curb singing making up lyrics i got a transitor sister loves cossack named jake he rides Cherokee chopper all he’s ever known is hate he’s going down underground where a man can be a man wrestle alligators live off the land ebb flow i don’t know racing chasing hair-pin turning at 150 miles per hour downshift to 3rd spread the word sweet sour naked flower touching skin deep within defies all sin with a grin speed speed speed all i need i’m getting off coming on you tawny scrawny bow-legged pigeon-toed knock-kneed Don Juan Ponce de Leon Aly Khan all wrapped up into one going to have ******* good time good time tonight i feel like an orphan mom and dad seem so far away tonight i feel like an orphan you make me feel this way hand slaps shoulder knee rhythmically hand bone hand bone

Odyseuss drifts job to job construction worker office assistant waiter whatever he does not understand how road to recognition works continues showing portfolio to art dealers but they react indifferently he does not know how to attain notice in art world begins to suspect there is no god watching over souls instead he imagines infinite force juggling light darkness creation destruction love hate Mom and Dad insist he can earn respectable income if only he will learn commodity futures like cousin Chris Mom says you can work down at the exchange and paint on the side a part of Odysseus wants desperately to please his parents he considers perhaps Mom is right for the time being maybe build up nest egg it seems like sensible plan he wonders why Dad and Mom never speak about money how to save manage they treat the subject as forbidden topic Odysseus has no idea what Dad or Mom earn or investment strategies Odysseus is about to make serious mistake the decision to get job working at commodity exchange needs deeper examination why is he giving in to his parents what attracts him to commodities trading is it Chris’s achievement and the money? does Odysseus honestly see himself as a winning trader or does it simply look like big party with lots of rich men pretty young girls is that where he wants to be why is he giving up on his dream to be a great artist does it seem too impossible to reach who makes him think that? is he going to give up on his true self? he halfheartedly follows his parent’s advice begins working as runner at Chicago Mercantile Exchange several friends including Calexpress disloyalty for entering straight world commodity markets are not exactly straight in 1978 clearing firms pay adequately hours are 8 AM to 2 PM over course of next 6 months Odysseus runs orders out to various trading pits cousin Chris rarely acknowledges Odysseus maybe Chris feels need to protect his image of success perhaps in front of his business associates Chris is embarrassed by Odysseus’s menial rank and goof-off attitude maybe Chris senses what a terrible mistake Odysseus has made

Chicago suffers harsh winter in February Roman Polanski skips bail in California flees to France in April President Carter postpones production of neutron bomb which kills people with radiation leaving buildings intact in October Yankees win World Series defeating Dodgers in November Jim Jones leads mass-****** suicide killing 918 people in Jonestown Guyana in December in San Francisco Dianne Feinstein succeeds murdered Mayor George Moscone in Chicago John Wayne Gacy is arrested

darkness descends upon Odysseus his heart is not into commodity business more accurately he hates it he loathes battleship gray color of greed envy he resents prevailing overcast of misogyny he meets many pretty girls yet most of them are only interested in catching a trader it is rumored numerous high rolling traders hire young girls for sole purpose of morning ******* remainder of day girls are free to mingle run trivial errands commodity traders typically trash females it is primitive hierarchy Odysseus bounces from one clearing firm to another then moves to Chicago Options Exchange then Chicago Board of Trade on foyer wall just outside trading floor hangs bronze plaque commemorating all men who served in World War 2 Uncle Karl’s name is on that plaque Daddy Pat bought his son seat hoping to set him up after war Uncle Karl’s new wife wanted to break away from Chicago persuaded him to sell seat move to California Uncle Karl bought car wash outside Los Angeles with Daddy Pat’s support Mom and Dad encourage assure Odysseus commodities business is right choice they promise to buy him full seat on exchange if he continues to learn markets they feel certain he can be saved from his artistic notions the markets are soaring in profits cousin Chris is riding waves a number of Chris’s friends are sons of parents who belong to same clubs dine at same restaurants as Mom and Dad Odysseus is not alpha-male like Chris Odysseus is a dreamer painter poet writer explorer experimenter unlike Chris who has connections Odysseus starts out as runner then gets job holding deck for yuppie brokers in Treasury Dollar trading pit Odysseus holds buy orders between index and middle fingers sell orders in last 2 fingers arranged by time stamp price size in other hand holds nervous pencil he stands step below boss in circular pit in room size of football field full of raised pits everything is traded cattle hogs pork bellies all currencies gold numbers flash change instantaneously in columns on three high walls fourth wall is glass with seats behind for spectators thousands of people rush around delivering orders on telephones flashing hand signals shouting offers quantities every moment every day calls come in frantically from all around world space is organized chaos sometimes not so organized fortunes switch hands in nano-seconds it is global fiscal battleground rallies to up side or breaks to down side send room into hollering pushing shoving hysteria central banks financial institutions kingpin mobsters with political clout daring entrepreneurs old thieves suburban rich kids beautiful people pretty young females abound big guns **** in same air stand next to low-ranking runners everyone flirts sweats sneezes knows inside they are each expendable Odysseus is spellbound by sheer force magnitude he feels immaterial only grip is his success with girls it is not conscious talent he grins girls grin back Chris’s trader friends recognize Odysseus’s ability they push him to introduce girls to them it is way for Odysseus to level playing field he has no money or high opinion of himself he simply knows how to hook up with girls

1979 January Steelers defeat Cowboys at Super Bowl Brenda Ann Spencer kills 2 faculty wounds 8 students responds to incident “i don't like Mondays” in February Khomeini seizes power in Iran in March Voyager space-probe photographs Jupiter’s rings a nuclear power plant accident occurs at Three Mile Island Pennsylvania in May Margaret Thatcher is elected Prime Minister in England in Chicago American Airlines flight 191 crashes killing 273 people in November Iran hostage crisis begins 90 hostages 53 of whom are American in December Soviet Union invades Afghanistan 1980 in November Ronald Reagan defeats Jimmy Carter one year since Iran hostage crisis began

he meets good-looking younger girl named Monica on subway heading home from work he has seen her running orders on trading floor she is tall slender with long dark brown hair in ponytail pointed nose wide mouth innocent face she confides her estranged father is famous Chicago mobster Odysseus recognizes his name they talk about how much they dislike markets arrant disparity of wealth between traders and themselves Odysseus says i hate feeling of being so disposable worthless Monica replies yeah me too he tells her if i was a girl i’d ******* myself to several handsome generous traders Monica acknowledges that’s an interesting idea but who? how? which traders? do you know? he answers yeah i know exactly who and how Monica says if you’re serious i’m in i have a girlfriend named Larissa who might also be interested i’ll call Larissa tonight following day Monica approaches Odysseus at work agrees to meet at his place after markets close that afternoon Monica and Larissa show up eager to learn more about Odysseus’s scheme Larissa is petite built like a gymnast giggly light brown hair younger than Monica he lays it all out for them cousin Chris and his buddies the money ******* both girls are quite lovely he suggests they rehearse with him he will coach them on situations settings techniques girls consent for 4 weeks every afternoon they meet at Odysseus’s place get naked play out different scenarios he shows girls how to pose demure at first then display themselves skillfully fingers delicately pulling open ***** spreading wide apart buns working hidden muscles he directs each to take up numerous positions tasks techniques then has them switch places he teaches them timing starting slow gradually building up rhythms stirring into passionate frenzy having two mouths four hands creates novel sets of possibilities one girl attends his front while other excites his rear he positions them side-by-side so he can penetrate any of all four holes he stacks them one on top of the other many other variations after reaching ****** several times making sure to reciprocally satisfy their eager needs Odysseus dismisses girls until following day finally after month of practice Monica and Larissa feel confident proficient primed Odysseus arranges for girls to meet with 2 traders through Chris most traders have nicknames Twist who is hosting event is notoriously wild insatiable on opening night Odysseus behaves like concerned father Larissa and Monica each bring several dresses and pairs of shoes Odysseus helps them choose suggests Monica ease up on make-up he styles Larissa’s hair instructs Monica to call him when they arrive again when they leave he requests they return directly to his place Monica wears hair pulled back in French twist pearl earrings sleek little black dress black stiletto heels she stands several inches above Odysseus Larissa wears braided pigtails pink low-scooped leotard brown plaid wool kilt just above knees brown suede cowboy boots he kisses each on lips then pats their butts warns them to be careful mindful Monica winks Larissa giggles more than an hour passes as Odysseus sits wondering why he has not heard from girls suddenly reality hits he does not want to be commodities trader and certainly not a **** this is not how he wants to be known or remembered Odysseus wants to be a painter and writer Monica and Larissa are good sweet girls whom he has misguided he calls Twist’s place Twist answers Odysseus asks to speak with Monica when she comes to phone he questions are you all right Monica answers yes we’re fine we’re having a fantastic time why are you calling what’s wrong he explains you were suppose to call me when you arrived i began to worry i think maybe this whole arrangement is a bad idea i want you to call it off and come back home i don’t want either of you to become prostitutes i love you both and don’t want to be associated with dishonoring you Monica says it’s a little late to call it off but we’ll see you when we’re done kissy kiss bye Odys another hour passes then another he frets wondering what they are doing after 4 hours as he is about to call Twist’s house again doorbell rings Monica and Larissa both giggling beaming Odysseus can spot they have a coke buzz Monica announces you should be proud of us Odys we got each of them off 2 times we left them stone-numb and tapped out the girls open their purses each slaps 5 hundred dollar bills unto table Monica says this is your cut Odys we both got a thousand for ourselves he replies i can’t touch that money we need to sit down and talk Monica demands no talking Odys take off your clothes he insists i’m serious Monica i’m never going to send you out again Larissa claims there’s no turning back for me i had too much fun Monica  pleads come on Odys we’ll be good we promise now take off your clothes Twist and his buddy never attended to our needs i’m ***** as hell Larissa where’s that little bottle of dust Twisty handed you

Chicago Monday night December 8 1980 Cal and Odysseus sit at North End they're on 4th round feeling buzz the place is lively adorned with holiday decorations Cal says you’ve changed Odysseus questions what do you mean? how? Cal says the commodity markets and your cousin and his friends they’ve changed you when was the last time you painted Odys? are you dealing coke Odysseus looks Cal in the eyes answers they’re so ******* rich Cal you can’t believe it one drives a black Corvette Stingray another a ******* Delorean anything they want they buy girls cars clothes condos boats yeah i’m dealing coke to Chris’s friends it’s my only leverage remember the Columbian dude Armando we met at tittie bar? i score from him and keep it clean Chris’s buddies pay up for the quality i don’t remember my last painting maybe the black painting i never finished after breaking up with Reiko Lee a girl falls off bar stool crashing to floor at other end of bar Cal says Odys, you better play it careful you’re messing with the devil got any blow on you suddenly bar grows quiet someone turns up TV volume they watch overhead as news anchorman speaks slow solemn camera pans splattered puddle of blood pieces of broken glass on steps to Dakota Building Cal looks to Odysseus John Lennon has been murdered Cal waits for Odysseus to say something tear rolls down cheek Cal glances away stares down at floor they drink in silence
Danny Adams Oct 2013
I don't know what to do with my life right now
I am an abstract thought fleeting from my mind
And every aspect of me is running away faster and faster each minute
Each second each hour each ******* day
I can feel myself slipping away
When you're a kid
You don't think about this type of ****
You just live
Life is life
C'est la vie
The French have a word for every ******* feeling
I swear it
If only I could speak French maybe
it'd make writing poetry a bit easier
But it will never get easier
Because poetry is life
And with each word you extend yourself
You extend the years to come with this poem
A single poem
A single stansa
A single
Word

And within that word a thought can sprout
But with water and time that thought can become work
And with work and effort you give birth
To a beatiful ******* poem
Filled to the brim with emotion
and strength
and power
and fear
and loss
and hope
and dreams
and pride
and envy
every sin in the **** book
written onto a blank white page
You dissected yourself before a crowd
And you open and pull your guts out to only have them shoved back in
by ungrateful
undeserving
undead
flesh eaters
because thoughts are the flesh of your brain
the meat
and the words are the substance
the minerals of this poem
the good
And they may taste bitter and they may come out hard
but when they sit in the stomach of your reader
and digest
and crumble and decay
and die again
and again
and again
you live
you become the eternal worm
you become the everlasting fruit
you become the demon that your parents and your pastors
and your lovers and your friends and your family
and your pets and your dreams and your ******* thoughts warned you about
because knowledge is power
and power corrupts
and thinking is evil
so be a villain in the most beautiful sense of the phrase
and live and please
please live
longer than this poem ever will
I hate this ******* world
With it's ******* people
And their ******* logic

So much pain and suffering
So much despair and anger

When can I escape it all
Even then it would be too late
Liz Oct 2015
i've tricked them once again
i made them believe that everything was fine.
******* I'm good,
even after all this time.

i'm too good at lying at lying to myself,
I'm too good at pushing away the pain.
and even tricking myself
into believing I'm okay.

you're telling me to breathe
but my throat keeps closing.
you tell me to sleep,
but every night is darkness without dreams.

how am i supposed to write,
without spilling blood on the page.
but this is my job now,
and i need a decent grade.

like forcing a bird to sing for food,
you're wringing me out.
my mind dripping to the floor,
i can't create beautiful things anymore.

i'm writing everything over again.
repeating
repeating
repeating myself.

what do you want me to say?
that everything will be okay?
you want me to make my own light,
give myself a nicholas sparks ending.  

because now I'm exposed,
I'm standing in front of you all.
and you can practically see the blood
dripping down my wrists.

with the world standing behind me,
its hard to keep my focus.
"make it pretty" she says,
"don't let them see you're already dead."

i can't turn tears to holy water,
or my own blood into wine.
i can't create beauty,
staring Darkness in the eyes.
jemma silvert May 2014
I think of you in colours that don't exist --
     that's not to say that I don't think of you at all,
          because, of course, technically every colour exists:
Even the ones we cannot imagine,
   Even the ones we cannot see.
Even the ones either side of the spectrum that light up the notes used for money, not music, because the notes used for money
   are
      not
         always
            real.
Even the ones either side of the spectrum that light up the heat of your body like your presence does the room
      and your eyes do my smile
           and your smile does my eyes;
You tell me that technically every colour exits,
   even if we cannot see it,
   even if we cannot imagine it –

For think of it now.
          Imagine in your head a colour that does not exist.
                    Now describe it to me.
Is it a splash of red with tints of a yellowy-blue?
Is it a pinky-purple hue,
    a hint of green, turquoise, maroon, sapphire, olive, violet?
Does it already exist in colours we already have names for,
      have we lived so long that every thought we think is no longer our own,
            every thought we think has been thought of before,
I think of you in colours that don’t exist
   but so has everyone else.

We cannot see it,
      we cannot imagine it.
But if we cannot imagine something that does not exist
   simply because we are confined to describing it
      in the words of an already existent language,
   what does that say about us?
We can imagine a waterfall of chocolate,
       a glass elevator bursting through the roof;
   shrinking potions and growing potions and talking rabbits.
We can imagine standing on the top of a building
      looking out over the greying city lights
            with lungs full of water
            a noose round our necks
            and the sole belief in our heads that we are jumping to fly
We can rewrite the future and make up the past
We can imagine wizards and witches and fairies and goblins
We have unicorns, ******* it,
     we have God.

And yet when I present to you a lover,
   an artist,
      standing in front of you now,
         yearning to make you his canvas,
You are too scared to fall in love,
              too scared to admit that you don’t have the words in your encapsulating little language to describe the things that you feel towards him.
For he does not need language,
   he does not need words.
He will stand here now,
   in front of you,
      and let you grace his collarbones with a diamond noose,
                          crown his withered corpse in a wreath of daisies,
                          dress his bones in slashes of rubies.
He will tear himself apart for you,
     for you,
     for you to watch galaxies flow out of his veins,
  velvet red blood screaming unwritten poetry,
  a torrent of unimagined colours pouring into him and out of him
          and with his one last remaining breath
              and a trembling hand,
he picks up his paintbrush
      and draws you into orbit,
  and like his fingers used to trace your shattered ribcage
    like the keys of an ivory piano,
he traces the outline of your lips.
And at last you draw breath,
         to whisper his name, to whisper your love, and all that remains
   is silence.
And you choke on the air and sound is still
         for all words exist so none can be spoken and suddenly everything
   is black.
And I think of you in colours that don’t exist
     like the wolf howls in lament of the side of the moon he will never see
          for all colours exist, and when I think of you,
there are none.

                                                      *-j.­s.
Sherry Juliet Jun 2017
after the brokenness
comes the dull ache
  the numbness...
so ******* numb
I'm done.
done with everything.
done with nothing.
and so I write these sonnets
because I need to remember what it feels like
  to feel
to laugh
to feel the sunshine warm my bones
get rid of this numbness
let these words flow
and eradicate
completely eradicate
...
.....this ******* numbness
to those who are numb: write.
Zach Hanlon Apr 2015
Being transgender is like this:
Everyday of your life, you have always wanted a dog.
For as long as you can remember--
even if you don't know to what extent--
you have wanted one.

You asked your parents, Santa, the easter bunny,
even the tooth fairy.
Then one day you get a dead cat for your birthday.
You say "This isn't a dog,"
But "You get what you get and don't get upset"
So you carry around and care for the dead carcass.

All sorts of people look at you,
unable to understand what you are doing.
So then one day you decide to try to make it look a bit nicer.
You wash it a bit, comb what little fur it has left,
cover the decrepit limbs.

But then you realize the futility in doing this all the time,
because you are still carrying around a dead animal.
So you continue to carry it around because you have to,
no matter how horrible it may be.

Although you are carrying around a dead and rotting cat,
you aren't a ******* cat owner;

You still want a ******* dog.
Jewel M C Oct 2014
I hardly remember
a ******* thing
about that day
before gazing into his eyes
once again, for the first time

rushing toward the exit
running from the baggage claim;
it was all a blur,
as walked through those doors
all I remember was the vastness
of the first sight,
stepping into the bright, unfamiliar place
& nothing else, but him

I scanned the crowd
the strange faces waiting
for loved ones
emotion thick enough to touch
in the air,
but just to my right
in the front
with his body pressed up against the metal bar,
I saw him

it was the first time I saw his face
not through a photo or webcam
in a time that was so long it ached
I think I lost my breath
did I leave my things behind when I ran?
I don't remember,
I just ran to him

it was too surreal
I can't remember a moment between
seeing his face, & kissing his lips
nor what kind of kiss it was
or how long it lasted
I just couldn't fathom it
I was really there
it was really him
& it didn't matter where we were
it was all a wonderland
to me, I was holding his hand again
everything was bright & new
it was magic, pure magic

— The End —