"jaywalk" poems
Birthday a celebration
Of anticipation
Of being born
Not yet alive
Every New Years
A resolution
“This will be the year of my birth”
Step off a moving bus
Jaywalk
Speed
A lover
With unrequited love
Hair color green
Drink blood
In anticipation of being born
Tattoo the skin
Put a red cross
In the middle.
Along the spine
Endless riddles
Shave all hair
A **** for the tongue
Do a million lines
Call it fun
In anticipation of being born
Be apathetic
Pretend you are free
No responsibilities
Claim “I will always be me”
Watch others live
Not believing in death
Obsessed with rebirth
Waste time
lots of ***
In anticipation of being born
Pine away in depression
Get bullied
Slit wrists
Drink a bottle of ***
Bleed out in the tub
Death
In anticipation of being born
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
*we used to jaywalk on the streets and
play hide and seek in the rain
we would laugh about first kisses in
Central Park
and mimic people as they walked by
and the entire time it was you*
I know that I am not beautiful
I know that when other people see me
they see the girl with the thin-and-very-awkward frame with
glasses that always seem to fall
I had just somehow convinced myself that
you saw more than that
When people ask me about you
I like to say that I don't know about you and that
it had been awhile since we talked
because it had
and
when they ask me if I'm okay
I smile and say of course
because I am
I should be
I'm not
tell me
am I now apart of your forgotten club
that is shoved to the back of you mind
will you tell your new friends about me
and will you say that you miss me and
will you make it seem inevitable
will you create a blank canvas of loneliness for
the next girl to find and try to paint on
will you whisper my name to her as if talking about
a shadow that shouldn't have existed
sometimes I find myself wondering if you were just some cruel
nightmare that my mind had conjured up to torture me but then I remember that
my imagination isn't creative nor beautiful enough to create someone like you
and now it rains like hurricanes but when I hide, I don't try to find myself, it's better that way
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
We're from a city where we hear sirens when we're in bed sleeping. Where some go to sleep happy while others go to sleep weeping. Home to the nicest people, and the worst criminals. Where we get messages, both clear and subliminal. The city of wind even on a warm summer day. Where it randomly rains or it snows, but after all it's okay. The town where people leave and promise to return. Where roads lead to success and everything we have is earned. A place so beautiful we wouldn't trade it for the world. A location of joy, for all boys and girls. The home of the Bulls, Cubs, Sox, Bears and Hawks. The city where no one crosses at lights, they just jaywalk. Where we hop on our bikes and ride to lake shore. And as the time passes, we wish we had more. Where we've made memories and friends for a lifetime. Where we can go back and trace every event on our timeline. Where we feel free as a bird often, and then trapped as if we were in a dome. A city named Chicago is what we call home.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Jaywalk with me
On the search of
what we are and
what we need.
We will travel to
Rosy gardens and
Religious mountains.
Lost will feel right
With you.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
*I jaywalk,
Hoping a car will hit me.
I take one extra painkiller,
Hoping to overdose.
I shave my legs a little too hard,
Hoping to get cut.
I sit in the front seat,
Hoping to be the victim of a car crash.
I wish for city riots,
Hoping to get shot.
I try getting sick,
Hoping to end up in the hospital.
I use electrical appliances with wet hands,
Hoping to get electrocuted.
I pray for an earthquake,
Hoping to get caught under the rubble.
I want to get dumped,
Hoping to die of heartbreak.
I hope for all of this,
So when I say it was an accident,
I won't be lying.*
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Down the block
You coerced with sweet talk
Steady like a hawk
Taking your time as you walk
It’s past 1 on the clock
You knock
Wish I could say I’m shocked
My hearts blocked
Lost somewhere along the boardwalk
I’d jaywalk but I see the night hawk
It creates a road block
I’m stuck on the sidewalk
(C)
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 12:08 AM UTC
when my words don't start as twelve point font
they tend to come out all wrong.
you said you're no good at words but you’re a liar
you said you’re no good at words, i'm no good at saying them.
the air was always heavy between my heart and my mouth.
and sick to say, i’m coughing up a confession
i pretend every poem you’ve ever written is about me
and i know it’s not.
but you make every line i write make sense, every clumsy lyric
in my head into a symphony
while i still feel like cacophony of contradictions:
i like liquor that doesn’t taste like liquor
and love that doesn’t love like love,
i am scared of love and i am obsessed with it.
i think i could have everything i ever wanted
and it still wouldn't mean **** without you.
now my head is so cluttered, gutted out from missing you
and when i said give me something to remember i didn't mean a scar.
but i could never hate you
how could you hate somebody who bared their soul to you,
told your 2 AM confessions to?
i ran out of way to write you down poetically,
and now when i talk about you it’s just pathetically.
always kissed me hello like you were saying goodbye
and this poem is not about love, this poem about leaving.
go on, jaywalk your way right out of my heart.
because poets don’t know how
say i love you and writing is remembering
but living is forgetting.
so brand it in my memory, poetry is always cheaper than therapy.
all my friends took psychology, rooted around in their heads,
but i took anatomy; cut myself up and open.
some people pick scabs and some people buy band-aids.
guess which one i am?
i am terrible, i do not want a love that’s good for me.
i want a love that takes me over
and turns me inside out.
i want you even when you want nothing to do with me.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
A Lazarus body litters the sidewalk
outside a well-lit, desolate lobby.
On the left is a mexican restaurant,
with a line reaching to the
entrance. They should stamp
the grey and scratched up
plexiglass with a light and
dark purple neon:
Welcome To America.
It would be reinforced
by every delicious crunch
one hears on the way out as
cheap crumbs garnish concrete.
On the right, there’s a bar
alive on a Friday night.
Friends share hearty laughs
and pats on the back.
The bitter and the perishing
pretend they want this
when they should be
somewhere or someone else.
And mingling singles look for
compliments and numbers,
or maybe just someone to
take back and **** the **** out of.
But in the midst sits
a throne for ghosts.
Ceiling fluorescent reflects
off porcelain, paler than a farmer tan.
There are no other colors besides
the receptionist, bored to death,
leaning on the wall behind
the porcelain reception desk,
reading a copy of Ebony.
No ottomans or chesterfields
or benches. No consoles or cocktail
tables. Nothing adorning the walls.
Not even a stain.
Just a white hole, a bright
***** in an otherwise colorful
street on gray canvas.
I rise from my slumber
and mosey on out the lobby
in my purple linen suit.
The impoverished scrag,
his dog lapping his sores, asks
if I’d spare some change.
“Sorry, I only have card tonight.”
“That’s alright, sir. God bless.”
And I walk on, aware of the
Abrahams rubbing up against
a ****** in my wallet. I take a sip
of whiskey hidden in my empty
can of a drink that can never
satiate me. I wait for traffic to pass,
and then I jaywalk across Sticks St.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 5:47 PM UTC
i thought you were my star in the sky
but apparently
you were just an amber traffic light
and you’ve turned red
and I can’t even jaywalk.
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 9:04 AM UTC
Little silver button,
Placebo for impatience
In the cross walk waiting room,
You are every negative coping mechanism
For every season that can’t go fast enough.
I’ll jaywalk this time.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 4:05 AM UTC
the cold melts the face
upward moving sands drip
the hammer strikes a chord
time awakens
gushing bouches de lavage
a hanging pendant light illuminates in anticipation
the trestled bust turns
light cast, cradles the shadows
an emerging voice speaks
the damp muslin curtain falls
fingers mould by the voice
clay splashes bare feet
piercing eyes meet their masters
the nose is the same
affectionate motions scrawl aged lines
the voice is his own
the curtain comes down
blanketed whitened feet now a horizon
a dawn chorus arrives
the dream starts to avalanche
buried in sleep
time stops
strong coffee to see the world
toasted stale baguette to absorb the bitters
a Gauloises to feed the soul
water to quench the thirst
lengthening shadows are a curse
an African mask looks on
one easel offers up an oil
a palette languishes in adoration
brushes sprout from a beer glass
overflowing ashtrays furbish the easel
the spatula jumps from one pile of pigmented oil to another
a new eruption pours out of the glassy mantel
pryoclastic flows seal the canvas
seams of creation ***** forth
the point moves in space
one aspect becomes two
lightness creates
darkness celebrates
three aspects evolve
an intensity pulls the hand deeper
the day is transformed
a creature of the night bites
the table transforms
skies below solidify
flowers swim for safety
sombreroed fish jaywalk
a weary smoke film stagnates in layers
the soul is transfixed
the painting is bewitched
the artist is enslaved
amusement for some
misery for the few
enlightenment for less
in fine it... a dream is laid bare
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 5:57 AM UTC