"junktown" poems - Hello Poetry

clearly, the days slip past i nearly lasted, keeping track tags and descriptions, each one placed as if a benefit falls upon the lot for drawing connective lines god's dead, god's not dead, i'm god, the god of sand, ephemera at my command but what's it mean? these things take time, but not seriously, because the sun hits the wax on a paper cup and it blinds us from the bushes and so low, can't care so low, lone, done dead can't care for upsides but asides and sideways

0

Jul 17, 2019

Jul 17, 2019 at 6:15 PM UTC

Simillacrum

The Utter Dregs: Junktown

clearly, the days slip past i nearly lasted, keeping track tags and descriptions, each one placed as if a benefit falls upon the lot for drawing connective lines god's dead, god's not dead, i'm god, the god of sand, ephemera at my command but what's it mean? these things take time, but not seriously, because the sun hits the wax on a paper cup and it blinds us from the bushes and so low, can't care so low, lone, done dead can't care for upsides but asides and sideways

16

Hard Fall Dead Winter Soft Spring Suddenly Summer Rehash All the needles on the ground I found and cigarette butts Create the frame of this city-town and liberate us Liberate? Indenture Is a better descriptor Should you beat elitism Peace and Love? Progressive? Truth is lost to history Should you read you see schism From one bridge looking North I see at least five more bridges Westside and East split by a river This is a long, long division And it's not stopped

0

Jan 28, 2014

Jan 28, 2014 at 7:48 AM UTC

Tera-Shepherd

Junktown

Hard Fall Dead Winter Soft Spring Suddenly Summer Rehash All the needles on the ground I found and cigarette butts Create the frame of this city-town and liberate us Liberate? Indenture Is a better descriptor Should you beat elitism Peace and Love? Progressive? Truth is lost to history Should you read you see schism From one bridge looking North I see at least five more bridges Westside and East split by a river This is a long, long division And it's not stopped

22

The trees bare themselves for winter. While we barricade. It's time for the ***** snow and the drippy nose. Stressful dinners and hand-me-down clothes. Thanksgiving house-fires and Christmas suiciders. So bundle up! And arm yourself with holiday cheer. Because we'll be lucky to make it this year.

0

Nov 6, 2011

Nov 6, 2011 at 6:18 PM UTC

shanekwa

Holidays in Junktown.

The trees bare themselves for winter. While we barricade. It's time for the ***** snow and the drippy nose. Stressful dinners and hand-me-down clothes. Thanksgiving house-fires and Christmas suiciders. So bundle up! And arm yourself with holiday cheer. Because we'll be lucky to make it this year.

12

I thought you were my friend we shared herb and spirits with an addict in recovery I've never really left this town like you I broke my new tablet while watching ducks from rocks This ***** river bank This ***** city may Be the only ocean for me

0

Mar 25, 2017

Mar 25, 2017 at 2:09 PM UTC

ZeroNine

Junktown

I thought you were my friend we shared herb and spirits with an addict in recovery I've never really left this town like you I broke my new tablet while watching ducks from rocks This ***** river bank This ***** city may Be the only ocean for me

9

It was the anthem of an era – a short-lived era, and I think only those of us who lived there could have detected it at the time. **** you, I'm punk." There is constant reinvention, recreation, but I am sure it will never be the effortless –ism it once was. We are accessible now, but we were visible then. We were the spectrum, we were the speed, an onslaught of red Sunfires and green T-Birds. There were nights I could swear (to whatever God was to me then) that I had seen every last one of them trickle in or out, sometimes all at once. There were days I was a constant, an observer, terrified of missing whatever "it" wound up being. Most of the time, I was seemingly absent – maybe soulless, even. With coaxing, I would be brought back from stratospheric distances to a camaraderie that seems sacred now. None of us thought it so back then. The grip we thought we needed always seemed to elude us. What we did have was vital to us all, though we couldn't admit such vulnerability – our eyes bugging out and our hearts caving in. And now, knowing the future is destined to be wavy and unknown like the tracers leaving callous brushstrokes behind everything they see, I realize how the brick sidewalk was a sight for sore eyes if I ever stood staring at one, motionless.

0

Mar 31, 2016

Mar 31, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC

laureneliz

Junktown

It was the anthem of an era – a short-lived era, and I think only those of us who lived there could have detected it at the time. **** you, I'm punk." There is constant reinvention, recreation, but I am sure it will never be the effortless –ism it once was. We are accessible now, but we were visible then. We were the spectrum, we were the speed, an onslaught of red Sunfires and green T-Birds. There were nights I could swear (to whatever God was to me then) that I had seen every last one of them trickle in or out, sometimes all at once. There were days I was a constant, an observer, terrified of missing whatever "it" wound up being. Most of the time, I was seemingly absent – maybe soulless, even. With coaxing, I would be brought back from stratospheric distances to a camaraderie that seems sacred now. None of us thought it so back then. The grip we thought we needed always seemed to elude us. What we did have was vital to us all, though we couldn't admit such vulnerability – our eyes bugging out and our hearts caving in. And now, knowing the future is destined to be wavy and unknown like the tracers leaving callous brushstrokes behind everything they see, I realize how the brick sidewalk was a sight for sore eyes if I ever stood staring at one, motionless.

26