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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 Nash Square 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 sprint toward their cars on work week mornings in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing
On the shoulders of this giant collective, we hold our heads high

to see that this is home now.
We cross into the unfamiliar
at the walk signal's cue,
breaking new ground, gazes meeting one another
as their counter-culture
coffee kicks in
to add this defiant bounce to each step
this rhythm to hop over puddles as they appear

We don't mind the way rain lands here
and its baptismal effect
We like how its capable of reinventing itself mid-fall into weightless snowflakes, then taking flight
We walk without umbrellas to see it

wearing the greyest pieces of their winter sky 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, mumbling last-mimute prayers for our salvation under our breath
We'll wear their dreams

at night, the moment the streetlights flicker 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

past the lights of apartment windows as they dim behind us
the doors storefronts closed for the day
the paid parking meters as they clock out and become free
We'll wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders and we'll walk while they sleep

under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Mikey Barnes Oct 2018
i have decided i no longer want my jacket back.
the one with no sleeves and the handmade back patch
that i liked to wear over hoodies -
you can keep it.

not that i don't miss my jacket,
because i do.
the louis theroux patch with iron-on backing...
the only somewhat ironic high school musical pin...
the hand-stitched ***** division pink triangle...
it was a ******* cool jacket.
but i no longer want it back.

when i left my jacket hanging on your wardrobe door
we both thought i'd see you soon,
but that was last june
and november's creeping round.
you're a college kid now.
your family packed up and left,
and i guess i'm fine with that
because i no longer want my jacket back.

i will no longer send you passive-agressive messages on facebook, kik, or whatsapp
asking for my jacket back.
when my friends offer to send you vaguely threatening emojis
conveying that they may or may not be willing to throw hands for my jacket,
i will say no.

sometimes i fantasise about what might have happened to my jacket.
i imagine your mother, pragmatic as always,
throwing away every trace of me remaining post-break up.
i picture you in a fit of rage
hacking my hard work to pieces.
i doubt that you took it to new york with you,
but somehow that's the scenario i like the least.

sometimes i think how if i had never met you
i would now own 25% more jackets.
had i never met you,
i would also own 30% fewer pyjama shirts,
several less ****** hang-ups,
and 2 fewer stamps in my passport.

what i'm saying is
no matter what you did with it,
i forgive you
for not mailing it when you promised to.
and i forgive me
for leaving it in the first place.
i no longer want my jacket back,
because it probably wouldn't be the same anyway.
i have been moaning about my ex not returning my jacket to me for over a year now. i guess writing a poem means i'm finally over it?
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,


Listen to, in my mind by, dynoro while reading this. for the full effect
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 on a warm summer day, 
 to home, where they do the coverup thing with hoodies and their Great Aunts white haired cozies 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

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 ***
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
part of the plan
There's a bunch of small things about you that most wouldn't notice,
That I just happen to love.

Like the star-like pattern of little golden flecks in your beautiful brown eyes,
Or remembering how soft your lips were against mine.
Or that goofy smile you give whenever someone actually makes you laugh.
It's different from your usual, kind of faked smile.

I doubt anyone but me and you
Remember the fact that, well,
You called James Madison a little *****.
Or that my running joke with you is 'smonk the wed.'

I doubt anyone really sees the way a few of your teeth are just a little bit crooked,
Or the way your eyes and nose crinkle up sometimes if you smile wide enough.

I doubt anyone remembers that time you wore my cat ears to comicon,
Or, really, the fact that you still have them- somewhere.
Or the goofy way you called me out on instagram for not liking pickles.

I still remember feeling your hand in mine.
I still remember stealing your definitely too small for me hoodies,
I still remember being in theatre with you.

I still remember admiring your eyes,
And the way your hair curled into ringlets when it got down to your ears,
And the way it felt between my fingers.

I still remember the way your voice calmed me down,
Or the day before thanksgiving when you called me, crying,
Begging me to stay on the Earth just a little bit longer.

I still remember you next to me.
I still remember all the little things, too.
I saw this as a prompt for NPM like two years ago?? but I got *** Inspired so I wrote this about a boy I fell in love with last year
The temperature is dropping
While the leave turn,
Red like stop lights,
Yellow like wilting daisies,
Orange like when I close my eyes in the sun
Everyday you wear hoodies from basic
Sweaters made of grey cotten
White puff of frozen air escape from
Their mouths as they walk down streets
Six thousand six hundred and sixty seven miles away
It must be so beautiful
To see it all happen before your very eyes
Fall, autumn, summer to winter
My leaves are still green
But it’s cold knowing you’re nowhere near
Halloween is approaching
But you won’t see my costume
You won’t hold my hand
As we get lost in a corn maze
You won’t wrap an arm around me
As we ride through the pumpkin field
You won’t get to hold me close enough
Where I can hear your heart beat like drums
When we watch Tim Burton films
Not while you are over there and
I am over here
You are missing it all
I am missing it all
We are missing it all
Athanasius Jan 19
chest skipping a beat
butterflies in stomach
scalp massage
smell of crying
falling in a dream
memorable dreams
familiar smells
fall into a song
lay on a cold bed
blanket burrito
good small easy to chew ice
cracking knuckles
coffee on a rainy day
smell of rain
jumping for joy
closing 20 research tabs
warm hoodies
smelling food cooking
rap poetry
reading a good book
rewatching a good movie
feel-good games
puzzling movies
bubble wrap
smell of matches
thick milkshakes
navigating foreign subways
freezing outside to warm room
hot outside to cool room
peaceful nature
crying alone
nice socks
rolling down a hill
staring at space
afternoon naps
soft stuffed toys
hot showers
shouting yeet
infatuation over someone
smooth rocks
stacking things
writing sentiments
i can still feel therefore i am still alive
Damon Beckemeyer Aug 2018
She used to smile for all the right reasons
But now it's not only at the irony
When another thousand pound straw is laid across her back
And another unspoken slight wipes it off her face

Her eyes used to sparkle
But that green has faded to gray
Up close you can see it
She's not the same anymore

She smiled and her whole face lit up
Now it's a faint turn at the corner of her mouth

She straightened her hair every day

Now it’s pony-tailing seven step and half-kids to school

Now it’s sitting at home
She was bullied into “place”
He’s losing his shape
And everyone is going crazy

Everyone is fading into Mom-jeans and pullover hoodies
Silent tables

This was never what eating dinner as a family was supposed to look like.

She doesn’t like cooking
But she learned **** quick.
A glance at their marriage makes her stomach turn sick

He started smoking again

Food on the table
*** in bed
She’s saving her money
And getting ready to leave

But this time...
Tailing half as many kids behind
Hidden Glace Dec 2018
When did I forget who wanted to be?
Maybe it was when I found out that a ring doesn't mean forever;
when closed doors flew open and tore my home apart.
Maybe it was when I found out that mistakes had consequences;
Something I regret to this day and can't ever amend.
Maybe it was when I toured that school 810 miles away.
closing one chapter and opening another, with new characters.

Maybe it was when I thought I had nothing left to live for.
Maybe it was that day when a handful of pills poured out
Maybe it was that day when I hurt her again, saying it was her fault.
Maybe it was the three days I spent regretting not just swallowing those pills.
Maybe it was when I opened my veins while friends and family watched.
Maybe it was when I gathered everything I treasured, including but not limited to:

A black 3DS, which would go to my little brother.
A blue Nintendo Gameboy, which would go to my best friend.
A musical script, flipped to my favorite song, a song of goodbyes.
A foam stick, going to a friend who could use it.
My bow, recently given to me by my father;
(I wish I used it with him more)
A beaten up black hoodie, her favorite. She wouldn't take it, I'm sure, but it's only for her.
A few simple notes, detailing who gets what and why I did so.
Me, in a dress suit I knew I'd never grow out of.
Me, in a tie and belt.
Me, almost hanging there.
and a mess of memories that stopped me.

When did I forget who I wanted to be?
I suppose it was the day when I realized the person I wanted to be
no longer was a person I wanted to be.
I'll be honest, I'm still suicidal.
I make jokes, I can be happy, but at the end of the day, I just feel tired.

\Then my phone rings//
I know why I'm not the person I wanted to be.
I can't say I changed for you, or that I changed to be a "better man"
I don't need someone who's fixed.
I know I'm broken.
I don't need someone fake, wearing makeup and spending hours on looking "pretty"
I don't like that.
I need someone I can cry with
someone I can stay up late with
someone I can hold
someone I can comfort
someone I can be there for
someone I love
someone to wear that black beaten hoodie.
someone like you, Love.
thank you
Every time.
Kind of a poem, more of a poor attempt to express a complicated feeling. Wait a second, I think that's what poetry is for.
This was written very late at night and I am tired.
I love her very much <3
Thomas Bodoh Nov 2018
Thank you for asking all the hard questions
that I tried to answer but you never believed me

Thank you for that ring you dropped into my bag
the golden one with the intertwined hearts

Thank you for making me love the wrong way
each glance like someone that doesn't hug back

Thank you for darkening the sky over my head
with your horrible grinning and coaxing and breathing

Thank you for begging me to tell you what's wrong
so I can fashion a fantasy of black hoodies and grief

Thank you for letting my lie to your face
slipping through my teeth under lips with a smile

Thank you for making my poetry crumble and
become rambling lines about love

and other awful things
that kind of don't
matter when
it gets

— The End —