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Kinara Apr 2014
hoodies and sweaters, hoodies and sweaters
even in the summer, nobody questions it
a couple of times she's been caught bare armed
a couple of people have seen her scars
her secret is safe but when will it end?
when will she be able to wear short sleeves and swim?
she knows she cant keep living her life like this
but shes addicted to the beautiful pain razors give
she loves the blood, she loves the scars
she loves the pain that comes from tearing her skin apart
she loves the fresh pink scars that are new
she loves the old faded brown ones too
most people would never understand
if the knew they would think she's an alien
this is one of my most favorite poems that i've ever wrote even tho it is very negative
ioan pearce Feb 2010
we'm from the valleys,
high in wales,
dull  as donkeys,
hard as nails.

torvaen town,blaenavon gwent,
council caves,that some pay rent.
black and white tellys,
run on gas,
houses wiv lectric,is upper class.

we shoplift in winter,
cos summers no good,
you  can't wear coats,
you can't wear hoods.

we once mined coal,
made steel and iron,
honest hardmen,
pittance relied on.

now thats all gone,
thro government bullies,
now hoodies steal goodies,
from tesco and woolies.

valley boy logic,
philosophy real,
all good fings come.
....to those who steal.
judy smith Jul 2016
The 9.6 million followers who tune in to watch Miranda Kerr having her hair done on Instagram — for this is how models spend most of their time — were treated to a rather more interesting sight last Thursday: a black and white photograph of a whacking great diamond ring.

Across it was the caption “Marry me!” and a twee animation of the tech mogul Evan Spiegel on bended knee. Underneath Kerr had typed “I said yes!!!” and an explosion of heart emojis.

A spokesman for Spiegel, founder of the Snapchat mobile app, who is 26 to Kerr’s 33 and worth $US 2.1 billion to her $US 42.5 million , revealed “they are very happy”.

At first, the marriage seems an unlikely combination: a man so bright he founded Snapchat while still at Stanford University, becoming one of the world’s youngest self-made billionaires by 22, and a Victoria’s Secret model who was previously married to the Pirates of the Caribbean star Orlando Bloom (she allegedly had a fling with pop brat Justin Bieber, leading Bloom to punch Beebs in a posh Ibiza restaurant).

Perhaps the union indicates that there is more to Kerr than we thought. More likely, it reveals something about Spiegel — and the way the social status of “geeks” has changed.

Since Steve Jobs made computers cool and Millennials started living online, nerds are king. Even coding is **** enough for the model Karlie Kloss, singer will.i.am and actor Ashton Kutcher to learn it. Silicon Valley has become the new Hollywood, as moguls and social media barons take over from film stars and sportsmen not just on rich lists, but as alpha men.

Being a co-founder of a company is this decade’s equivalent to being a rock star or a chef. And, if their attractiveness to models and actresses proves anything, then being a Twag — tech wife or girlfriend — is a “thing”. Sources tell me Twags are also known as “founder-hounders” because they like to date the creators of start-up companies.

Actress Talulah Riley was an early adopter. She started dating the PayPal founder Elon Musk in 2008. Riley, then fresh from starring in the St Trinian’s film, met Musk in London’s Whisky Mist nightclub after he had delivered a lecture at the Royal Aeronautical Society. I interviewed her shortly afterwards and she told me they had spent the evening talking about “quantum physics”. A month later they were engaged. Their on-again-off-again marriage lasted six years before she filed for divorce again in March. Currently Musk, worth an estimated $US 12.7 billion and focused on Tesla cars, is said to be “spending a lot of time” with Johnny Depp’s estranged wife, Amber Heard.

Model Lily Cole dated the Twitter founder Jack Dorsey in 2013. Later she had a son with Kwame Ferreira, founder of the digital innovation agency Kwamecorp. Actress Emma Watson is going out with William Knight, an “adventurer” who has an incredibly boringly sounding job as a senior manager at Medallia, a software company. Allison Williams, Marnie in the HBO television show Girls, is married to Ricky Van Veen, co-founder of College Humor website.

Could it be that these women are onto something? Dating a bro certainly has its appeal. They are innovative: how else would they invent apps that deliver cheese toasties or match singles based on their haircuts? They are risk-takers who must be charismatic enough to inspire investors and attract crowd-funding. They may not be gym-fit, but they are mathletes who can do your tax bill. They are animal lovers: every start-up is dog friendly. And they are fun: who would not want to date somebody with a ball pool in their office?

There is a saying about dating in Silicon Valley: the odds are good but the goods are odd. Nerds are notorious for peculiar chat-up lines and normcore clothes. Still, if geeks can be awkward, that is part of their charm. Keira Knightley, complaining that Silicon Valley was all men in hoodies and Crocs, described how one gave her his card, saying she should get in touch if she wanted to see a spaceship.

One Vogue writer recalled a Silicon Valley man messaging her via a dating app, in which he noted: “In 50 per cent of your photos you’re holding an iPhone. It may interest you to find out that I invented the iPhone. More accurately I was an engineer on the original iPhone . . .”

Most promisingly, some guys are astoundingly rich. It is suggested Kerr’s engagement ring is a 2.5-carat diamond worth around dollars 55,000. She has already moved into Spiegel’s dollars 12m LA pad. Between his money and her Victoria’s Secrets bridesmaids, no wonder sources claim they are planning an “extravagant wedding”.

It might rival even the Napster founder Sean Parker’s $US10m performance-art bash. He married songwriter Alexandra Lenas in a canopy among Big Sur’s redwoods decorated to look like an enchanted forest. Some 350 guests wore Tolkienesque costumes created by The Lord of the Rings costume designer Ngila Dickson. They sat on white fur rugs and were given bunnies to pet. Presumably rabbit babysitters were on hand when the disco started.

If such fantasies inspire you to become a Twag, the great news is you do not have to be a supermodel to be in with a chance. Such is the dearth of single women in Silicon Valley that one dating site, Dating Ring, crowdfunded a plane to fly single women to Palo Alto from New York.

Be warned, though: guys are single because they are married to the job.

No wonder most meet their partners at college or work — the Facebook chief executive Mark Zuckerberg met his wife, Priscilla Chan, at Harvard.

The Instagram co-founder Kevin Systrom met girlfriend Nicole Schuetz at Stanford. Melinda met Bill Gates when, in 1987, they sat next to each other at an Expo trade-fair dinner. “He was funnier than I expected him to be,” she said.

Kerr began dating Spiegel in 2014 after meeting him at a Louis Vuitton dinner in New York. You can bet he was networking. Shortly after Louis Vuitton showcased their cruise collection in a Snapchat story. Last season Snapchat went on to become the biggest new name at NY fashion week.

If you want to meet tech guys, you might catch them at Silicon Valley parties, which is how the Uber chief executive Travis Kalanick met his partner, Gabi Holzwarth, a violinist hired to play. Or they might be schmoozing clients downtown in a swanky Noe Valley club in San Francisco or a boring Union Square hotel in New York. In London you find them around Old Street, aka Silicon Roundabout, in bars, at hackathons, or start-up meet-ups. In the day they are coding at Google Campus or practising their pitching in a co-working space.

Some tech boys date the old-fashioned way: on Tinder. Airbnb founder Brian Chesky met his girlfriend of three years, Elissa Patel, through the app. When I interviewed Instagram co-founder Systrom he admitted that when he had been single he had signed up.

Dating agency Linx — presumably a play on operating system Linux — is dedicated to making Silicon Valley matches. Amy Andersen set it up in 2003 after moving to Palo Alto and being “flabbergasted” by the number of eligible men. She claims her clients are “extremely dynamic and successful individuals’’: tech founders, tech chief executives, financier founding partners of large institutions and “tons of entrepreneurs”.

Andersen says tech guys make “fabulous partners”. Romantic and chivalrous, they write love letters, plan dates, “even proposing on Snapchat!” If you want to marry a tech billionaire, she says, “you need to bring your A game.” Her clients look “for women who are equally, if not more, dynamic and interesting than he is!”

There are drawbacks to dating tech guys. Before Google buys your amore’s business, he will be living on *** Noodles waiting for the next round of funding — and workaholics are dull.

Kerr says Spiegel is “25, but he acts like he’s 50. He’s not out partying. He goes to work in Venice [Beach], he comes home. We don’t go out. We’d rather be at home and have dinner, go to bed early.” Which might suit Kerr, but is not my idea of a fun.

You had also better be prepared to share your life. When Priscilla Chan miscarried three times, Mark Zuckerberg wrote about it on Facebook, while Chesky used a romantic trip with his girlfriend to promote Airbnb - uploading a picture of her in bed, with a note saying “f* hotels”. Besides all of which is the notorious issue of Silicon Valley sexism.

It has a chief exec-bro culture that puts pick-up artist/comedian Dapper Laughs to shame. Ninety per cent of women working in the Valley say they have witnessed sexist behaviour, 60 per cent have experienced unwanted ****** advances at work, two thirds of them from their boss. Whitney Wolfe, a co-founder of Tinder, took Justin Mateen to court for ****** harassment. Her lawsuit against the company alleged that Mateen, her former partner, sent text messages calling her a “*****”.

Spiegel has tech bro form. He apologised after emails from his days at Stanford emerged: missives about stripper poles, getting black-out drunk, shooting lasers at “fat chicks”, and promising to “roll a blunt for whoever sees the most **** tonight (Sunday)”. After one fraternity Hawaiian luau party, he signed off emails “f*
bitchesgetleid”.

No wonder some women are not inspired to become Twags. Especially when you could be a tech billionaire yourself. Would you not rather be Sheryl Sandberg, chief operating officer of Facebook, than married to the boss?Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
And the hoodies huddle together,
because society scares them back.
Part of the fast spreading 10 word poem craze.
r Jan 2015
An Oklahoma politician
wants to outlaw hoodies
in the hood

It's true, it must be
I read it in Fox News  :)

I'd sooner be in Missouri or Cleveland
or New York City where you don't have to
wear a hoody or raise your hands to get shot


There are other things more pressing
than hoodies in the hood
that don't need ironing

like hoods in suits
and the elephant in the room
that needs shooting.
r ~ 1/6/15
Antino Art Apr 2018
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows

cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak
We grow here

with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation

seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march

downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They move in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing,
Moving
wearing the city on our minds
like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet,

We'll wear their dreams at night
like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking

and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders

under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
I like the way your laugh, and when your wear my hoodies.
I like the jokes we have, and when you sneak up on me.
And when the kids take all our time, and we don't even have a dime,
sit back, relax, and close your eyes.
Meet me in my dreams.
Romance is a ****.
Priya Devi May 2015
First things first
I'd like to apologise

I'm sorry I'm not the good Indian girl I was bred to be
I'm sorry I don't make round rotis
I'm sorry that the tongue I use to speak punjabi is broken and hides in my mouth unused until desperately needed
I'm sorry that I don't cook and clean efficiently enough to be wifey material
Sorry that I love who I love and don't hate who I was told to
Sorry that I can't follow gods blindly and not try to sneak back stage to see their shining gold adornments and blue body paints and multiple arms in full and bare glory and scandal

I'm sorry that I'm actually not sorry for any of this
I'm sorry that these are false and empty apologies

I am unapologetically whole
A human not just a race
A female not a trust fund or business transaction

I filter out the good parts of the culture I'm from and the ones I identify with
I'll wear docs under my saari no apologies
I'll grind on dancefloors and do the best Bhangra dance you'll ever see unashamedly

Hareems and hoodies
Bindies and pin up eyeliner
Hedonism and head in the clouds

My ambition is Ambedkar untouchable
My drive is a salt march surging silently non violently through cities
My hometown pride is built in concrete and rickshaw dust,
Prejudice and Bollywood lust
More of a rant than a poem
Daniel James Mar 2011
Shrouded in secrets
The men from F-Branch
Recite the techniques
Undiscussed in advance
Of Democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
Democracy's Dance with Terror.

Outside the port of Umm-Qasr
Hundreds of men
Hooded in the dark
Of the midday sun
Kneeling on the run
From Democracy's Dance with Terror.

Suspected by students
Back home and online
Theories get conspired
Petitions get signed
"Stop Democracy's Dance!
Stop Democracy's Dance!
Stop Democracy's Dance with Terror!"

The attorney general
Is called for advice.
A solemn exchange
Top down bottom line.
His argument is
"If it's nice it's all right."

Ministers from Ministries
Are detained and questioned
By the goggles of a press
Suffering sleep deprivation.
It's like a game of touch rugby
Outside downing street
With a twist on the rules of 'Just a minute'.

And outside the port of Umm-Qasr
Democracy doggedly dances her dance.

But the rhythms of the dance
The stress of white noise
Peaked
And escaped on the wind
Blowing through the forgotten kindness
Of confused hearts and minds
Escaping through the drafty guilt
Of hung up uniforms
Dancing on the mumbling lips
Of sleeping soldiers
With wives, partners, families, friends
Back home
Who don't know what it's like
They don't understand the drill
They can't do the moves
They don't know what it's like.

But the dance did not stop
It did what every bad vibration does
And moved elsewhere
And was henceforth known
By an unpronounceable acronym:
JFIT!

And now we join James
Young musclebound man
With a drink in hand
Back from tour of duty
It's a Saturday night
And the Weston women like a soldier,
A real man.
The fact that he
Has been doing his duty.
"Do you mind if I ask..." Asked Deborah
Showing more than necessary of her bra
"Where was you based, your base in Iraq-
Your third base, in particular?"
"I'll tell you," Said James
And the ladies came quick
Putty in his hands
Just like a joystick.
Said James, with the gravitas
Or some silverscreen star,
"While out in Iraq,
I was stationed
At a British logistics base in Shaiba.
It's outside Basra.
Basra in Iraq.
Iraq?
You have heard of Iraq?"
But by then,
Deborah and her bra and her friends
Were talking to another group of men
Who worked in property development
And apparently, Deborah, they're neighbours
Or something, because that one said
They've got seventeen houses between them.

But what James hadn't told them is this
The exact meaning of words in English
Like British Logistics camp is
Not always what you think that it is.

Oh did I say camp?
I meant base.
Please delete any mention of camp
From the record.

It was not long before
That James' routine
Had been... very different
To say the least.

Indeed soon after crossing the border
And re-invading his parents' home again
He'd been watching Jeremy Vine when
He spotted a pattern of systematic abuse
On the curtains
Whenever he muted the telly.

James decided to get out of the house
And to help him get a grip
He decided to go shopping
But when he looked down at his list
It said:

59 hoodies
11 Electric plugs
52 Alarm clocks
122 pairs of earmuffs
160 torches
117 blackened goggles
132 stress positions
39 enforced nakednesses

And by this stage he realised
That perhaps he ought to see someone.
But instead of seeing a journalist
Or the Swedish King of wikileaks
He went and saw a military psychiatrist
Who charged him a lot to let him speak
On a one-off profit plus! contract
James ended asking the same question
Week after week -
Do you think I'm crazy?
What does all this mean?
The doctor replied:
"Of course you're not crazy,
It's just your mind is very ill,
I'll tell one part of it to ignore another part -
Here - take one of these little pills
They're only one pound ten each
And if you take one
Every three hours
Every day
For the rest of your life
(Or until you die,
Whichever is longer)
You'll be fine.

Meanwhile,
The dance continued to be taught
Like capoeira on a foreign-office team-building course
On the art of interrogation
The alpha-tango
Aimed at prisoners of war.
But the footsteps of karma
Where circling once more
And the base back at Shaiba
(Near Basra. In Iraq?)
Was once more withdrawn
This time to the airport
Along with other UK forces.

Now relatives of the victims
Both at home and abroad
And those most susceptible
To empathy's ill-considered force
Were planning to divert the dance -
Divert the Dance!
Divert the Dance
with Demo Dances,
Demo Dances!
Demo Dances!

Then it was the turn of the politicians
To work their magic of popular logisticians
By answering the questions no one has asked
Like are we human or are we just dancers?
We are just humans
Doing democracy's dance
Democracy's Dance
Democracy's dance with
(cough, cough).

And the news reporters
With their sleep-deprived goggles
Reported in such detail
As to make one's mind boggle
Each step, each move and each deliberate error
Of democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
With Terror.

(To be Continued... on the BBC)
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
a poem I didn’t plan: but a foot upon my shoulder
gave me no choice

if perfection came along regularly
we would not take note of this August Sunday

the breeze looks steady, blowing a firm few knots
making the waves rulers of the bay
without the necessity of troublesome whitecap shoutouts,
the sailboats muttering ‘thankee’

the kids dock jumping into the water so warm
they shiver running in the chill of a warm summer day, 
 to home, where they do the coverup thing
with hoodies and their Great Aunts white haired cozy blankets
which appear in untold numbers,
one for everyone and don’t drip the cherry frozen sticks
stains from your tongue and lips!

the sun temp modulated and moderate, a summer kiss farewell,
after weekend of thunderstorms and house shakings, it is sad for now
we recount the costly lost days unretrievable and
sky watching
for  naught

the waters inviting again come walk-upon me Island Poet,
to  see my new sea bottom treasures that the heavens,
abetted by foolish men and children
have added to my storehouses of grains and pains

decline and recline for
Oh! have I not got one more weekend, to
close out that Melville tale^
and that is something one need not rush to complete

let me clarify -
!I am a Summer Man!^^
and the summers sunsetting
is a ring around my chest that sings ever louder
nearer my god than thee;
now at the age where one only counts down to zero at double time
marching, eye straight

in this place where we - god and me -
have sung and battled together
like good friend and peer,^^^
college roommate permanent enemies,
he keeps his teary rains in abeyance to remind
that the coming of his schooner is
inevitable and to pack my poems in
plastic for the journey
finale

Oh! how can perfect be so saddening but it is...

my perfection days are minimizing and should not complain
for wrote many poems to day, unable to refuse my traveling muses
who summer with me, one upon each shoulder
until god kicks them off, with a bossy look of
he’s more mine than yours

to make sure his presence acknowledged he
makes Pandora play Billie Holiday singing:
“I'll be seeing you
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way

I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you”


subtle, right?

but who am I to complain
the razor thin difference tween
blessings and curses so thin
sometimes are they not the same thing

ne sont-ils pas les mêmes?


an unplanned poem
naturally

part of the plan
Michelle Quick Nov 2010
He struts through the street
With an arrogant stride
A staffy at his feet
Fills him with pride
Baseball cap on his head
Peak points in the air
Yea blood I'm hard
And I don't seem to care
Trackies and hoodies
Are the code of his dress
Big golden chains
Hang low on his chest
Sock's pulled up high
Above his designer boots
I'm a council house chav
So proud of me roots
I'm hard and I know it
And I'll rob ya of bread
Don't mess with me
Or you'll end up dead
His attitude stinks
Filth falls from his gob
With a chip on his shoulder
He don't want a job
But under the bravado
He's as quiet as a mouse
Living his life
From his council house
His mum is on drugs
His dad is long gone
No wonder this bloke
Turned out to be wrong
So show him some kindness
Just a friendly word
Might just be the the thing
That stops him doing bird
I somehow much doubt it
But its worth a try
Cause deep underneath
He's a friendly guy
Michelle Quick copyright 2010
Bor ehgit Sep 2016
The wind glides across the table,
Stiff fall leafs take flight.
On their way to a different destination,
Twirling up and down.
Yellow and orange flicker against the sunlight,
Looks like glowing ambers dancing.
They settle along the cornfields and scarecrows,
October is rounding the corner again.
Makenzie Marie Jul 2015
Don't date a girl like her.
Because she giggles too much and trusts too fast and it's all because she's been brokenhearted too many times for things that never shoulda or coulda lasted and learned that life is so much better when you laugh things off and have faith in your surroundings-- including the people.
You'll find that she's rainbows, sunshine, and cotton candy. And much like a day at the carnival you might turn some corners to find all sorts of surprises. And some of them will be dark and scary and some will be taste tries of churros and your favorite sweets that you can't find anywhere else in the world.
She's like a carnival because you'll never find her staying in one place too long, but the things you love most about her-- the thrill rides and the people watching and the sponteneity-- it'll always stay the same.
She'll "borrow" your hoodies and your sweats and you'll probably let her keep them because she looks so cute in them while she's all cuddled up next to you. She'll give you massages after a long hard day as long as she can trust that you'll give them back.
She'll sing along to all the songs she doesn't know but be patient and love her shy confidence because she can only sort of carry a tune and she belts it out anyway. If you compliment her laugh and call it cute she'll smile about it for days because she knows it's obnoxious and she's insecure.
And she's insecure about a lot. She's learning. She's learning to love herself and she's trying. But when you compliment her, and when you remind her that she is good enough, it helps her see that she is worthy of trying to fall in love with.
She's trying to fall in love with herself. She's trying to be the kind of person that she even wants to love. And she's not there yet. But maybe you can help her.
Maybe your fearless singing and your confidence and your faith can help her to become herself. Maybe you can bring her our of her shell. Maybe if you let her steal your hoodies and let her tuck her feet under your thighs because she's cold and let her be open about her life..... maybe then, by those small and simple things, you'll become yourselves together.
And on second thought...Maybe... just probably... you should date her.
@ the boy who will never see this.
Saleem Ahmed Jan 2010
they disappear,
tip-toeing past bedtime,
out into the cozy darkness
protected by the full moon shadows,
and fading high school hoodies.
both carrying a blanket,
a pillow, and a future

they climb,
step-by-step,
towards their favorite hole to the sky,
next to the old brick chimney,
weathered black shingles,
and forgotten leaves from
past seasons.

they lay,
hand-in-hand,
whispering valuable nonsense
and counting the asterisks,
until they slowly fall asleep
only minutes before the sun
begins to rise in the east.
Lexi Cairns Dec 2015
You have been told that rapists were men in black hoodies
hidden in twisting shadows and dark alleyways.
****** offenders were always leering old men in rags;
never blonde haired and blue eyed and always smiling-
not once did you think to question the intentions
of his warm and familiar fingertips.
When you find yourself locked in his claws
and he tells you
that you must want it
don’t be a tease.
Look at what you’re wearing.
A sliver of skin mistaken for an invitation.
Do not be surprised when your mother
also asks you what you were wearing-
but do not forget.
Remember this for the next time.
You will also try to convince yourself that you asked him to,
but the scars on your sister
and the tribe of women with cut out tongues and pleading eyes
who stare back at you from your reflection
tell another story.
Tell your mother that no matter how many flowers she throws over the mass grave
she cannot hide the stench of rotting corpses,
do not pretend that you are okay when you feel all the lights inside of you begin to shut off
because your body has grown tired of sounding alarms and raising knives
against intruders who wield toxic gas and atomic bombs.
You have been taught to hold your tongue and to smile like nothing is wrong
but now your mouth is filled with your own bite marks and it is hard to hide the blood.
You should not have to.
Your words can crumble empires
and redeem centuries of trauma embedded in bleeding wombs.
It is time you used them to stand up for yourself.
This is a poem I wrote for my creative writing course at school and is a revised version of one of the spoken word pieces I posted here previously.
she leaned on my shoulder once and in that
moment i knew we loved each other more
than those around us could perceive.  but that
is often the way it should be.  i think

i gave her that hoodie in an attempt
to hug her even when i'm not there. and
although i fear the world may be too cold,
i will not stop trying to keep her warm.
Waverly Feb 2012
I've seen cops
way too many times,
too many times
to go through my ****
ripping apart pillows
with switches
and against my better judgment
I did nothing
as I heard the glass of
my grandmother's picture
being tossed around
in the back.

Too many times
asking me questions
about this
and that?
Him or her?
If you help us out,
we'll help you out,
understand?
in their rooms
where no love is grown
and no help is on the way,
their eyes were filled with the fire,
they were finally
gonna get this ******,
make him pay
for crimes he didn't commit.

Too many times
when i was asleep
in some old sewer,
and rolling up
asking me if i was on drugs
or drunk,
and if i didn't leave
they were gonna shove
a nightstick up my ***;
get me used to it.

Too many times have they slowed down
at a light
and turned slowly,
keeping their eyes on me
like I was a wolf,
when they had blood in their eyes
and teeth
in their holsters.

"Where you going tonight?"
as they surrounded me,
another inmate
inside the bounded
bars of an external prison.

Cops never helped me,
never asked
how I was doing,
or why I was doing it,
or why I felt trapped
inside my own body;
all they saw
was another ******
making problems
for the civilized people.

God will remember them,
just as I can't forget.

And most of the time,
it was other black men,
some fruit bred strong in them,
to hate them bottom-rung *******
because they had escaped
and remade themselves,
apparently.

In truth,
I have killed many of them
in my sleep,
but when I step back,
I see that they are a product
of the same system
that says the guns, drugs, and violence
are part of the ****** condition,
that only shows a ****** on tv
when he's *****, or killed somebody,
another mugshot for you to put in your
scrapbook of fear.


So, no I don't hate them,
I hate seeing people that look like me
getting killed
before they come to fruition.

I hate that
:"black"
is used as a term
meant to engender
fear.

I hate that I walk down the street,
and a white girl
walks ahead
turning around
to
check for me.

I hate that when me
and some of the homies
walk down the street,
our hoodies pulled over our heads,
people look behind us
for the grim reaper.

There is hope,
but without
it being fostered,
The fruits
die on the vine,
noosed up
in a new way
as they drop.
no real structure, it's just as the title implies. I'm not some angry **** either, I've just seen too many times where cops do more harm than good, where they don't serve and protect, they're not watching out for me, they're watching for me. and "me" being a blanket term for a lot of young black males who fit the bill.
i wanna be in your arms

in your hoodie

snuggled up tight with you by my side


cuddling


small i love yous before we fall asleep


in each other’s arm



is that too much to ask?
anr, sh, ld
if you can’t tell, i’m sad lonely gay and single
lmvm Jan 2016
One.** When you see her for the first time, you'll want to steal a glance at her, but you can't beat her at her own game. She's been a professional heart jacker since the seventh grade, so when she steals a glance from you, don't ever expect to find the composer she robs from your voice.

Two. You'll never need to go to a corner store again. Her purse is a walking pharmacy full of all the things nobody needs more than once in their lifetime. She says that she has stolen so much useless ****, that to her there is no difference between losing everything and losing nothing.

Three. When she stays over for the first time and you're cuddling in bed, cling to the covers for dear life, cause she will yank that **** away from you the second you fall asleep.

Four. Don't get too attached to any of your hoodies. Everything she snatches, she owns indefinitely. Whether it's the hoodie from H&M;, the candle stick from your parents' house, or the guitar she borrowed from the last boy she broke into.

Five. You're best of trying to blur the lines between theft, and sacrifice. So, give her your time when she wants it. Offer her your tongue when her skin is hungry. Give up your sleep, when she rather give you tongue lashings. Give her your Sundays and Mondays, maybe even you Mondays through Sundays. Let her cradle your world in her palms until it is small enough to run away with.

Six. When you stop keeping an eye on your grades, don't be surprised when they go missing.

Seven. When your mother ask why you don't write anymore. Tell her you can't think about poetry when your partner has the keys to your inspiration. Don't worry, she borrowed them a year ago. And you haven't seen them since.

Eight. She will pick pocket your self-esteem. Send you from fearless to feeble the second you leave your secrets on the table.

Nine. I wonder if she's the reason airports ask there passengers not to leave baggage unattended.

Ten. You are baggage she will leave unattended.

Eleven Your skin won't look thicker when it heals.

Twelve. Don't bother retracing your steps to try to find yourself. I promise, there's no point in searching for yourself in a break up, or a break down, or an orange bottle.

Thirteen. I'm starting to realize that love is the most sinister kind of robbery there is. Love is a slow motion stick up you can not get insurance against. Worst part about dating a thief is realizing that after they clean you out., you will never get yourself back.

Fourteen. One day she emerged from 7/11 concealing a bag of erasers, a sponge, and 12 packs of Splenda.
I ask her, "how do you even choose what to steal?".
She said when you're not sure what to take, just take everything.
tucker bryant
17 hoodies all in a line
a teenage girl wears one at a time
when it gets hot she rolls up a side
not the other because there's something she hides

she wakes up on a monday with a tear-stained face
and runs to the bathroom with quickened pace
so as to not let her parents see her mind
she hides from others because her emotions blind

she goes to school
walks though the gates but no one notices her not her mates
all else ignores her but she stays calm
as her emotions will pour from her palms

she need to be rescued from her own hands
but no one no where understands
crimson tears fall from my arms my life seems worthless so i self harm
Emelia Ruth Jun 2013
The land flooded,
the sky was dark and wet.
I had reached the bottom of my jar
and there was no glory.
It was all drained away and swallowed up by careless mouths.

A pool had formed
in the flooded land
and in it sat two boys;
young like adolescences
yet humble and mature with knowledge.

I felt like I should know them,
but their faces were masked by their black hoodies.
And their voices matched everyone's
and they matched no one's.

One beckoned me to swim to them.
They were familiar
in a welcoming stranger way.
So I submerged into the comforting warm water,
and I slowly swam next to the boy.

The one who beckoned asked me,
"What is your story?"
and
just as easily as unzipping a jacket,
I spilled out my worries
he soaked up my loneliness and aches,
and I found myself
curled up in his arms.

He took my empty jar
and filled it with a glowing light.
The land surrounding
was still cold and dark
but the light inside was the one thing that brought me
warmth and renewal
and undying hope and joy.

He was the holy man.
Who welcomes everyone
and forgives everyone.
He is equal.
He is greater.
He is the one who sat in the flooded land
and waited for me
so that he could give me
a wholesome warmth
that I've never felt until now.
Mia Lee Mar 2016
Spy Kids (the original)
A 5 dollar matinee with your mom
A box of Bunch A Crunch
Or a plastic sack of
Dip N Dots

Ninja Turtle walkie talkies
Flare denim cargo pants
Bobby Jack zip up hoodies
With blue Fla-Vor-Ice stains
And hide and seek

Now That’s What I Call Music
Volume 17
Playing from a 10in x 10in
Silver box TV
And high frequency noise
To accompany
Akon’s latest bass line

A razor scooter
The foot powered kind
When the Preacher’s Daughter
Has a shiny blue one with a motor

Weeping to Secondhand Serenade
Because your mom won’t let you have
A Wii
And your crush checked “no” on the
Note you gave them last week

Detention after pre algebra
From shooting a girl two seats over
At “close range”
With a hornet
And she was unfamiliar with the school wide
NO SNITCHIN’
policy

The words
Beastly
And epic
Used to describe what your
8th grade field trip is gonna be like

A phone call from your best friend
About finally finding Ben Franklin
In Tony Hawk’s Underground 2

Now
The OK symbol is your most used emoji
There are too many guys with long hair
And beards
White girls all have a weird obsession
With house plants
We’re all at least 50 thousand dollars  in debt
And I think we all
Just really hope Donald Trump
Isn’t our next president
Redshift Dec 2013
superstar of the lowest level of the food chain
they marvel at my wondrous acts
i am enticing, raucous, too loud
the prima donna of the freakshow ballet
they would pay
to be seen with me
the perpetrator of chaos

hoodies with spikes on them
batman tshirts
and too tight
skinny jeans
tired pink sneaks
from my wandering days
i am the queen of misfits
i've graduated
Abraham Esang Oct 2017
Death showed me how to dress.

it says "not that one, these shoes rather, somewhat less dynamic and somewhat more meek, more

modesty, less certainty."

Death showed me not to wear hoodies, to keep my head revealed, to wear light hues

rather than dull in light of the fact that I am sufficiently dim as of now

to purchase a belt for some jeans I possess, even better, to not wear pants,

death showed me how to do my hair, it says "less curl, more typical, straighter, longer,

more slender," it consumes my scalp and gives me a brush and says "isn't it decent to run your

fingers through it now,"

Death showed me who to like, what music to tune in to, how to keep individuals agreeable,

instructions to walk; "don't limp, straight shoulders, however remain littler than them,"

it showed me my vocabulary, the majority of the enormous words that gain me honors, for example, 'verbalize,'

'dislike whatever remains of them,' 'a great one,'

Death is continually instructing me to be less, less American, more African , an appreciated expansion, a

token, to reveal myself and strip myself of any weapons, any dangers

Death is a x-beam machine, and says in the event that I do anything incorrectly, it will come

as though I'm not kicking the bucket to myself as of now

Death says "what an opportunity to be alive."

since in this nation, Black is imperceptible
Zemyachis Mar 2016
silhouettes running down brick walls like

flashfloods clinging to ***** mascara
where starstruck children run in mud
call me the eve of original sin
for the things I have seen and the places I've been

for ridges of ink etched in landscapes of skin
for heartbeats in hoodies saying lest we forget

in the valley of the shadow of death
they rest with hands crossed over their chests
Chuck Jan 2013
Do not utter a syllable
For the reaper lurks at the door
Dim the lights as our eyes are widened  
Sit in a desperate, huddled mass
Feel the shivering, helpless creature on the left
Hear my traitorous lungs exhaling, surrendering my position
My heart pounding, screaming at my body
Ordering me to run, to fight, to ****
"Do not go gentle into that good night,"
As Dylan Thomas so elegantly stated
Yet it is not a time for romantic visions of heroism
Beowulf's idealism will not save us here
Sobbing, shivering, ***** stained American Eagle
Sweat drenched Under Amour Tees and hoodies
Feet ironically quivering in red and orange Nike Shocks
A 243 pound lineman blubbering under his breath
He wants his mother, his daddy, his pillow, to go home
Another boy, Darrel, clenches his fists, readies for attack
Cassidy sits silently, emotionless, statuesque, frozen in time
And I . . . What do I do? . . . What do I do?
Do I flinch like Sir Gawain in the face of death?
Or do I . . . . . . What do I do?
God, may I never discover the answer to this evil query
God help us stop the violence consuming innocent children
Render CODE RED obsolete
Yet, CODE RED will parish not
For society feeds on fictional fame
Fifteen minutes that Warhol never could have painted
Now it will be duplicated like so many Campbell's Soup cans
CODE RED    CODE RED    CODE RED   CODE RED  
And . . . What will I do?
What will I do?
Upon practicing safety drills in a high school
Mims Oct 2018
There's things that I don't say
In between kisses
And bowls of ramen noodles
On weeknights

There's a quiet sadness settled behind the couch and on the inside of my ribcage during our twilight marathons
On the weekends

Things left
To hopefully be forgotten under the bleachers at your soccer games
I go to whenever I can

It hangs with your hoodies in my closet
In the pit of my stomach
It's small but I can't stop it
And it takes me out for days at a time

I see you every day
But sometimes I am distant
In a different way

It's been done to me
And I'm sorry I'm doing it to you
I'm trying to phase the disappointment that has nothing to do with you
Out of my life like cycles of the moon...

The stars are ours
And that is true
I've never felt like I do when I'm with you
But I tried to tell you
I don't think
You completely understood
You have never felt
Such a sadness before.
.
.
.
.


"What's wrong?"
"Is something wrong?"
"You would tell me if something was bothering you,

Right?"


...
Listen to, in my mind by, dynoro while reading this. for the full effect
putiira Nov 2021
Ran around in the pouring rain
in a hoodie and holes in my sneakers
I think hoodies have super powers
Elaenor Aisling Nov 2013
17
I was 17,
when we discussed workout routines in gym,
thin legs branching from ruby-red shorts,
skin pale and dappled in winter air.
I described my workout of 200's.
200 crunches, 200 sit-ups, etc. etc. etc.
"You make me feel fat,"
my model- built friend complained.

I stared down at my shrinking thighs,
wondering how fat she would feel,
with hollow spaces beneath her skin,
numbed by the gnawing of metabolism on muscle.
If she could feel her labored breaths circulate
through drained limbs,
and saw the stars and sparks in the haze of exhaustion,
that perpetuated around me.
If she shivered
walking home in without a coat in December
simply because
Cold burned more calories than warm.  

At 17, I learned
Electric blankets were invented for asylum patients
so they wouldn't freeze when they were lain outside
to get fresh air.
I shivered under mine in a warm house--
strangled by three layers of hoodies,
a morbidly comical scene-- the skeletal inmate cowering
in masses of cotton
and still cold.

The skeleton in the mirror had no eyes,
Only its bloated stomach stared back at me.
Forget the thigh-gap,
the stomach was the only thing that mattered.
It should be as flat as the unleavened bread
I refused at communion:
I didn't know how many calories it had.

I was 17,
when the word "beauty" fell from my vocabulary.  
Lank, unwashed hair hung limp to hide the
Inflamed scratches on my face: feeble efforts to eradicate
the hatred, guilt, over two extra bites,
and what I had become.
Here I was, in all my gollum-like, two by four perfection:
except the stomach.
That ****** bloated *****
I wished I could tear it from my body,
Throw it aside to rot on the heap
of moulding high-school dreams
I kept in the corner of my room.

But it remained, day after day,
the stubborn thing stayed on,
even when filled with saltwater,
to force it to give up the last bit of its contents.
Three mugs, and several tablespoons later
it finally relinquished,
in the emergency room,
as my mother stood
holding my hair and crying.
I still thought she was over-reacting.

I looked up at the ER doctor,
middle aged and blonde,
her eyes were sympathetic, but annoyed,
As she asked me if I was trying to **** myself.
"No," I said. Not Yet I thought,
I heard my dry throat crack with the words,
"I have an eating disorder."
Thanks to rehab and prozac this is all behind me.
thatdreadedpoet Jul 2013
on july 13th, 2013: George Zimmerman
a florida native with a history of violence
was found not guilty for the ****** of unarmed 17 year old African American boy Trayvon Martin claiming self defense

on may 8th, 2012 African American, Marissa Alexander:
a florida native with no history of violence
was sentenced to 20 years in prison for discharging a warning shot out of self defense from the wrath of her abusive ex- husband

marissa,
i often wonder how you felt on july 13th when you heard the Trayvon Martin verdict
did you feel the heaviness of invisible shackles weighing your hands and feet down like you had stepped into the 1600s?
did you feel a surge of anger burn through your throat like i did for you?

did you ask yourself if you should’ve continued letting your husband play picasso on you?
Letting your body be his work of art as he splattered blotches of black and blue making a tie-dyed canvas out of you?
because the jury treated the bruises you wore as if they were the plague
saying beware of a black woman who protects herself
it takes 20 years of solitary confinement to cure her of this disease

marissa,
are you afraid of the skin of bullseyes your two children were born into
knowing that society will use them for target practice every day like they did for you?

can you not sleep at night out of fear anytime your child pulls a hood over his head
that he is marking himself as sacrifical lambs to our legal system?

did you tell your mother the next day to burn your babies black hoodies
because on July 13th it was made known
being black and wearing a hood means danger
that being black and wearing a hood means you have a hunger for ******
that being black and wearing a hood means you have cosigned to a persecution?
and yet…we all seem to forget the ones in white that fit the same description

marissa,
i hope you’re starting to see America has OCD
wanting to color within the same lines, with the same two colors
segregating black and white
neglecting to realize that blood and blood shed never bleed out in the same two colors
just look at the crime scenes of Trayvon Martin and your ex-husband

marissa,
from now on when you bite your tongue while eating
don’t spit the blood out
leave it, let it settle, then swallow
and let it be a reminder of all the trayvon martins, all the emmett tills, all the james birds, and all the little black boys who died for standing their ground like you tried to

marissa,
i know you feel like god abadoned you
as if he stabbed you into the back and sent you on a suicide mission
but please
know you are my symbol of hope
you are my hero
the woman i wish to emulate and be
you are the one i pray for at sunday night dinners while holding the one hand of my black mother and the other hand of my white father
hoping one day america can sing free at last and actually mean that
hoping one day america can be blended and still be considered alright
hoping america will stop painting pictures in only black and white
Robyn Dec 2013
Reasons Why You're The Best and I Love You
1. You introduced me to Streetlight, Be Your Own Pet, Squirrel Nut Zippers and dozens of others
2. You checked me out so hard you ran into a car
3. You brought Chisomo into my life. He stole my heart.
4. Introducing me to Jim and Timmy. They're knuckleheads and I love em.
5. Accepting my guitar player fetish and yet still limited knowledge of guitars
6. You're a guitar player
7. Your hoodies. They make you so warm and cuddly and I love stealing em
8. Your smell. That probably sounds creepy but you always smell sooooooo awesome and it's one many things about that just makes me feel better
9. Your dorky little smile. It's just a little crooked but it's huge and adorable. Everytime I kiss you, it shows up on your face and you look a little dazed and intoxicated
10. You're so smart. It's ******* awesome
11. You love Thai food, and it's silly but it makes me happy, cause it's my favorite food
12. Always being so happy. I mean, I know you get sad sometimes but I'm almost always sad, so your optimism is kinda . . . really nice.
13. Dupont Teflon
14. Being freinds with Lexi. She's my best freind and you're my other half so I really need you two to get along
15. Loving 80's movies and chick flicks
16. That little thing you do with your eyes, where you'll look at me and they'll get really wide and then get smaller again
17. I love your handwriting, it's silly, sue me
18. For buying me a copy of Looking for Alaska just cause you knew I was 132nd on the list for it at the library
19. Loving me even though I'm an "I love you" ****
20. Liking when I act like an idiot
21. Being an idiot with me
22 Waiting months to become my boyfriend and sticking with it when no one else did
23. Introducing me to Rocky Horror
24. Understanding my introverted-ness
25. Accepting my struggle with depression
26. Writing me a beautiful poem and kissing me in Jenning's Park
27. Considering a real future with me
28. Those times when you kiss my forehead, or my cheeks, or my nose or my hand. I LOVE every single one
29. Sending me pictures because they make me so freakin happy
30. Coming to my concert and sitting through your least favorite genres of music just to see me
31. Encouraging me to write
32. Not judging me too harshly beause I used to make really bad decisions
33. You **** at video games just as much as I do
34. Nerd Ropes
35. For kissing me when I was sick even though you knew you would and did get sick too
36. Wanting to make me happy and not understand that you already and always do
37. Trying really really hard to like Doctor Who, just for me
38. Loving to read just as much as I do
39. Wanting to help me sleep because you know I hardly can
40. Holding my face or head when you kiss me
41. Telling me you love me everyday
42. Loving me at all
43. Waiting **** patiently while I slowly add more things to this list, because there will be many, many more
Taylor Apr 2014
yes, i have other things to hold me together.

like poems that are dripping with you, and a small, shy cat who was once a stray like myself.

along with a ghostly stoner boy, who renames the colors of the rainbow and who speaks nonsense phrases, even when he's sober.

and a candle-flame girl who is covered in scars and who hides her pain in too-big hoodies, who hugs too tight and bleeds too easily and who doesn't know what a mistake falling for me will turn out to be, who draws me pictures and writes me love notes and cries into the night because she can tell that i ache for you still.

yes, you smartmouthed fool, i have other things to hold me together. but none of them are you.
Babydoll, I am so sorry. But I know myself far too well.
Jane Tricky Mar 2013
March 3, 2004**

It was a cool night. We sat bundled up sweat pants and hoodies. She lived in a trailer (a mobile home for those who dislike such terminology) on the outskirts of town, on a farm to market road that many blunts had been smoked on. One of our favorite activities was piling into my four door compact car and rolling up delicious strawberry Phillies or Swishers filled with half brown, half green **** of the earth bud. But that’s a different story…
Her parents and sisters were gone for the evening. The porch swing was situated in the backyard just outside the sliding door, beside the riding lawn mower, ratty trampoline which had been bounced on one million and one times (she even broke her tailbone on that stupid recreation device), and the newly constructed chicken coop. The swing creaked every time we swung, but we didn’t mind. I’m sure a small spritz of WD-40 would have cleared it right up but our teenage minds were incapable of such logical decision making.
It was not the first time we had partaken in such events and it certainly would not be the last. The canister was plastic, red, and a familiar sight for most. Anyone who uses a combustible engine fueled by such a horrific liquid knows what I speak of. However, when you’re sixteen and too broke to buy *** and too young to purchase alcohol and cigarettes, sometimes your options are limited. But we must have a vice. It’s a requirement for all humans, regardless of what some might say. Being the reckless young woman I was at the time, I had many of them, and honestly, I still do today. On this particular evening, the heavenly aroma of gasoline was both our friend and our savior. We would inhale and then pass the canister to one another, over and over again. Between the intense sessions of déjà vu and cat naps, our night was a blur. Incessant giggling and talks of silly adolescent affairs was all that occurred. The feeling of being somewhere you’ve been before a thousand times in a row is overwhelming and really makes one question the concept of time and experience. How can I be somewhere now and have been in the exact same position before? How can I experience something that has potentially never occurred because of the inhalation of a substance? It is quite boggling really. After exploring the realm of drugs extensively, it is quite odd to look back at a night in question like this and wonder how a substance can do what it did.
My best friend and I sat there for hours on end, inhaling and chatting. We would occasionally salvage a blunt roach to smoke on or steal a cigarette from her older sister or father. They were never my choice in brands but it’s difficult to be picky when you’re a thief. Up until this point in time, I had always enjoyed the aroma emitted from gasoline. However, this night would mark a change in perception.
The majority of what occurred is not only uninteresting but extremely hard to remember. Gasoline has a way of doing that… expelling memories from your brain in a whirlwind of déjà vu and uncontrollable nap taking. But, at some point in time we decided to take our little private party inside; perhaps because of the weather but more likely because of a lack of clear reasoning.
All I can vividly remember is that we both woke up to her father beating on the window of her bedroom to let him inside the house. We were both so startled by this event occurring that she knocked over the canister filled with the petroleum based product. Quickly scrambling to resolve the issue, we hid the gas can in her closet. We then looked at each other in pure disbelief over the situation. Not only was it scary but it was also quite amusing. The situations we would put ourselves in were always quite delightful, even when they were horrific beyond belief. We tried to muster up a plan of action but it was no use.
She then ran to unlock the door to let her dad in. The first thing he asked upon entrance into the house was, “Why does it smell like gasoline in here?” Obviously we did not have an adequate answer for him other than, “We don’t know, we were wondering the same thing,” The best part is that he never even questioned us. Why would he? We were just sweet teenage girls with smiles plastered across our faces because we had been huffing gasoline all ******* night.
On a night not too far in the future, we would partake in the same type of inhalation but because there was not a canister at my house, we would huff it straight from my grandma’s van. Our neighbor saw us doing it and called the police. For the rest of my grandmother’s life (six short months) she passionately believed that people in our neighborhood were trying to siphon gas from her Chevy Astro. She made me go to an auto parts store to purchase a gas tank lock to deter such activities. That marked the end of our gas huffing days.
judy smith Jun 2016
I’m never quite sure which activity I prefer at a fashion show - spending time backstage or watching the actual show.

Watching a beautiful show is a wonderful, sometimes even uplifting experience but being where all the action is, being able to get up close and personal with all the looks and different pieces, it really does get my adrenaline juices flowing.

At Paris Men’s Fashion Week, I was invited backstage by Mac Cosmetics to two brilliant and colourful shows - Kenzo and Paul Smith.

At Kenzo, both women and men collections were presented, the men’s was the standard spring/summer 2017 collection whilst the women’s was the pre-collection.

The general feel of both collections was a 90s throwback nightlife experience with lots of colourful, eclectic designs. The vibe really did hark back to those 90s clubbing days - the same style of clothes one wore out partying with their friends back then.

Think windbreakers, hoodies, biker jackets, baggy pants and visible male underwear pieces all mixed in with some super bright details. The palette as a general theme was bright but not overly bright - it was a mix of bright blues and greens mixed in with greys and whites and acid yellow but then there were bright details.

There were, for instance, glittery bright pink platform boots and matching little bags which were definite eye catchers. Eye motifs have become an iconic symbol of Kenzo and in fact eyes were once again worked into these pieces - a long-lashed version.

The makeup look for the men by Mac Cosmetics was kept clean and **** but with some shine used to exemplify the out-all-night partying vibe.

The women’s look was an ultra bright look with one look based around bright green and the other bright cyan blue. Again, the party-all-night vibe was present here too.

At Paul Smith, true to his nature, bright colours reigned supreme in his collection which felt like a harmony of retro and bohemian inspirations. Clubbing was a source of inspiration here too but this time the 1960s decade.

Candy stripe shirts, sportswear-themed bright tops and bright striped socks and shoes were all there. This was mixed perfectly with some more conservative, tailored suits.

Backstage, the happy mood was infectious with models dancing along to Bob Marley and the entire team carrying a big smile on their faces as they prepared for the show.

The makeup team again by Mac Cosmetics had an energetic and happy team whose main focus was on getting the male models catwalk and camera ready but without the makeup being in any way obvious.

As one of the makeup artists mentioned, it takes skill to make makeup appear invisible. There was also quite a range of different skin tones present across the different models although curly hair seemed to have been quite a priority during the model selection process.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses
judy smith Oct 2016
At any given moment, it seems there is a fashion week happening somewhere in the world - be it Sydney, Istanbul, Dubai, Seoul, Moscow, Toronto, Copenhagen or Lagos (to name a few).

But the latest entrant may be the most surprising: Silicon Valley.

Or, as the organisers style it: Silicon Valley Fashion Week?!.

The punctuation marks as part of the title are a self-aware nod to the incongruity of marrying the location, known for its allegiance to hoodies, Tevas and T-shirts, to a fashion event.

But that does not mean they are any less serious about its potential.

The three-day annual event, which finished its second turn over the weekend in San Francisco, bills itself as "part fashion show, part variety show, part trade show" and is open to the public, unlike the usual fashion industry events. This year, about 30 brands were featured and tickets, at US$20 (S$28), sold out, with about 500 people attending each day.

It was staged by Betabrand, a San Francisco company that builds its clothing catalogue by crowdsourcing design ideas and, after seeing which take off, crowdfunding the production of the prototypes to see which ones people will actually want to buy. Examples include a "mind the gap" blouse that stretches to fit the body's contours and a dress that uses a trademarked reflective material.

The event exists at the nexus of Burning Man, wearable technology and the Maker Movement, home of inventors, designers and other do-it-yourself types. Pebble Smartwatch presented a Smarthole Hoodie, a standard hoodie design with sleeves that extend over the thumbs and have a movable panel around the wrist to make gaining access to the company's device easier; and Tinsel offered headphones that can be worn as a necklace.

Alison Lewis, who holds a design and technology master's degree from Parsons School of Design in New York, showed three items: a lambskin leather handbag embedded with LED bulbs that can be rearranged in different patterns with an app; a T-shirt that does the same; and a dress with lights that undulate with the wearer's heartbeat.

"Technology is a tool. It's how we use it that's really exciting," she said. "We could have less clothing in our closets and have pieces that change and work with our moods and personalities on a daily basis."

Lewis has not had a chance to present her work in other fashion shows and, so far, she has not been able to mass-produce her items. She commended the fashion week as a place to experiment.

She was not the only designer struggling with the challenge of manufacturing what she displayed.

However, as wearables increasingly enter mainstream fashion, with designers from Ralph Lauren to Zac Posen dipping their creative toes into technology, the idea of clothing patterns controlled by apps, of drone delivery, and of customisation that allows - maybe even asks - its wearers to make a choice each and every day, seems less far-fetched and more like fashion's possible future.

Which, unlikely as it may be, puts the Silicon Valley event on the style front line.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses
matilda shaye Sep 2014
on my good days I am floating, there's background noise and the faint smell of desire, but I move like a needle pushing through skin; deliberate, with purpose. whether I'm the vaccine trying to prevent the disease or the cure hoping to alleviate some of your pain, I don't know. I think I might be a weird mixture of both, but the story is only in its rough draft, so there's no telling on if I work or if I'm just a waste of time.

on my bad days I'm only a silhouette, more background noise, the faint smell of gasoline, the sound of sirens, shady looking men walking down the street in hoodies and smoke in the air from a fire down the street, I am the stray dog, the road ****, the broken down bus and the stars completely covered by smog. if you close your eyes, I'm still there. I think on these days there are people trying to run from me, I know I'm one of them, but we can't get away. red light after red light, 13 miles with a cop on your tail and tags that expired last week, rest assured your shadow always follows you, and so does my silhouette.

on both of these days, I love you. on both of these days I long for you, and on both of these days I am running in an attempt to get ahead of time because it's running out, and I'm not finished yet. I'm not ready to become someone who was, I know that I said I would be okay as long as at some point you remember me as someone who played a part but I am not ready to throw in the cards and become a past tense, not yet, maybe not ever.

I'll be 900 miles away driving away from the smog just so I can look at the moon and know you're standing underneath the same one, I'll be 900 miles away with different background noise then this with my hand in the air wondering how in the hell we're supposed to keep in touch if I can't manage to touch you. you say it's not that far, that I won't fall off the grid, that the months will fly by and I will pick up where I left off.
you say a lot of things.
I whispered that I loved you quiet enough for you not to hear and we hung up.

everything's falling, breaking, the seams are ripping, the hinges are stuck, the car won't ******* start again and I think the locks jammed too with my **** keys inside- and then there's the background noise. it's still all just background noise.
Thomas Harper Oct 2014
people -- blue jeans -- t-shirts -- volleyball -- sparklers -- *** its -- stone bridge -- pine trees -- new trees -- old trees -- fireworks -- grass -- sonic boom -- picnic chairs -- bicycles -- oak trees -- bare neck -- tickles -- sneezing -- bless you -- slight chill -- cloud cover -- police cars -- policemen -- uniforms -- night sticks -- sweat pants -- baby strollers -- skull & crossbones -- muscle shirt -- sweat shirt -- baseball caps -- fountains of sparks -- greenery -- dandelions -- yellow weeds -- wafting smoke -- black man in white shirt -- white man in black shirt -- SUV -- Boxer dog -- red wagon -- smoke stacks -- asian couple -- running shorts -- acrid smoke -- ice cream truck -- double trees -- pony tail -- mosquitos -- fishing hat -- yellow truck -- handlebar mustache -- bad *** attitude -- shaved head -- balloon -- barbeque -- sunset -- affro -- tennis shoes -- multi-colored hair -- canoe -- golden purse -- playing band -- American flag -- folding chair -- name badge -- red, white, & blue -- skipping rocks -- cargo shorts -- matching couple -- bike path -- hippie hair -- low rider -- peace sign -- golden chains -- waning moon -- waxed legs -- hoodies -- striped shirt -- victory dance -- short shorts -- cigar smoke -- watermelon -- Viking's bag -- leopard skin jacket -- skooter -- digital camera -- creepy stalker dude -- tent building -- horeshoes -- personal space invaders -- glow sticks -- picnic basket -- cooler -- smoke bombs -- plaid skirt -- 77 sweats -- interracial couples -- motorcycle -- orange vest -- plastic ball -- face paint -- cops in two different uniforms -- split tree -- pregnant lady -- trash talking horeshoe player -- street lamps -- playing tag -- large blue cooler -- bright green pants -- humorless boy

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