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Advent Oct 2014
coffees are my one-way ticket to contemplation–
to realizations and dramas
it shapes my eyes
to view life like a panorama

coffee makes me think
about the world,
the people
and both combined

coffee connects me to the crowd
to their lives,
mishaps
sometimes shared with mine

coffee gates to different events and realities
it awakens wishful thinking
and kicks curiosities

coffee, summed up
is a friend
of all those who've got their heads in their *****

it is a guru of life
love,
and other life experiences


                                                   ­       a.t.
English Jam May 2018
Boredom on a Sunday is inescapable
I try to hide it behind playing my musical instrument
Trumpeting with my trumpet - blowing my own horn -
I'm praying no one interprets that last sentence as an innuendo
Anyway, I'm nodding off, signing out of reality
The world goes hazy in a second
And I'm ****** into the vortex of a dream

Weird how when a dream begins, we immediately understand the situation
For this scene, I'm spewing blood from my spleen like a bottle of sauce squeezed too hard
It stains the leather of my vehicle
My foot is pressing the pedal to the floor, and the speedometer is twinged in half from all the pressure
The monolith of a highway I'm speeding on shakes as though giants stomp upon it
And the wail of a siren drives me into a frenzy as I try to escape the inevitable
Their polychromatic lights dance at the edges of my eyes, spurring rhythm into action
Even though they must be aeons behind, my heart melodramatically pumps in my chest as though the police are in the backseat
Blood bursting through my temple, thoughts wheezing by like someone's let go of hundreds of balloons  
Up ahead, the road twists itself into a knot of nothingness
My hands are wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly, I fear I might never be able to release them
It's a slight movement: right hand goes down, left goes up, but it kicks the vehicle sideways
My body slams into the car with a satisfying crunch and my mind spirals to spaghetti strands
Oddly enough, the world becomes rinsed with blue wash and I'm underwater

My train of thought becomes peaceful, melodic
I float about, running on the inverse of the waves
Here, even a scream is joyous as it sounds all bubbly and childish
Suddenly, a red streak runs across the ocean, chilling me to the bone and erasing all my bubbles
The sea becomes glittered with red and blue streaks, a warning
Bullets stab at my spleen, reminding me of the pain that was, and still is
And my body gears into a full 360, concluding my return to the real world
Or is it the dream world?
Oh well
Either way, I'm back in my car
Carelessly freefalling from nowhere
Weapons, glass, blood droplets, pocket change, pedestrians...all breeze around slowly
Pleading with me to wake up
Then

Everything crumbles, and I smack my **** head against the window, splattering my brains everywhere
My car flew from the sudden turn and I crashed, I think
Now I lay, grasping onto consciousness while pedagogues staple me to the ground
The Lawman towers over me, grinning madly at my defeat
The most barbaric insult, however, comes from the radio, still magically working
"I fought the law and the law won," The Clash idly sing
One of my favourite songs turned into dark irony
The last I remember before blacking out is the scarlet and marine lights clashing forevermore

When I wake up, I'm face-down on the stony and icy floor
The cold burns me enough to wake me from la la land
The iron grip of the handcuffs feels very real
Words are forced into my head, not by my own design, but sort of like they've been placed there
An argument as to whether existence has a meaning is taking place in my head, and I can't stop it
Sort of like how in a dream, you can't control your thoughts or actions
Wait
This is still a dream, right?
Right?
Advent Oct 2014
when the clock ticks at 12,
another minute has passed and another day has been renewed.
it replenishes an entire moment that separates yesterday from today.

when the clock ticks at 12,
a part of me has left something for good.
something that could only be retrieved by the nostalgia
of the passing hours that gives a pang of discomfort and dismay.

when the clock ticks at 12,
a fairy godmother is there waiting for me to move past everything and start fresh,
like nothing has ever happened from yesterday

but when the clock ticks at 3,
my emotions are scattered,
eating me alive.
it kicks me out of the zone - exposing me to a world of nothing but things to hide.
it haunts my core, dwells with my demons,
building up emotions that don't seem to collide

and at 3, I find you - once again with all the sublime images we’ve captured
and grand words we’ve uttered.
i find you, drowning from the roots
of my memoirs... and there I see how midnights took parts of me

because at 3, I’ll always remember how I grew with thee


a.t.
Rahul Luthra Aug 2018
Isolated, but not alone
Seeking revenge
All on his own
But not against someone
But more like
All those
Who've directly
Or indirectly
Made him feel
This feeling
Of isolation
Isolation here
Doesn't mean lonely
Or friendless
It's more like
A complete lack of understanding
By the society
Towards you
And
Towards us all
'Us' being
The younger generation
;
Not everyone from this
Younger generation
Generally stand up
Or fight
Maybe because
We're all isolated
Together
Similar minds
But unable to read
For we've never learnt
How to
But maybe he
Like a few others
Has the courage
And motivation
To fight through
The invisible barriers
Of this isolation
On his own, though
Because that's what we've learnt
Or been told
To live for yourself
But at the same time
For the future
Of the unborn
;
So he's going to pump up his kicks
And use this shield of isolation
To his strength
Creating an outer wall
As sturdy as bricks
And fight through the barriers
That society has created
This isn't a huge war
That everyone will soon
Know about
Nor will he be called or titled
Some hero
And I'm glad he isn't
Because fame infects
Even the most ambitious
So watch him silently
But powerfully
Slice the walls
Created by us
In his own way
It won't be easy
But at least
He,
Unlike many others,
Will know at the end
That his life
And his actions
Did have
Meaning
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

and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders

under the shadow of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Prabhat Chhetri Feb 2018
Pretty girl living a nightmare

Pied Piper'd her twisted mind

to Einstein her nightly sheep

and white flag her past behind


The B-side to rainy songs are pedalled by callous kicks

They alz-heimed-her faded toys with a ******'s overkill

Now hard work is wasted time when cool cars have vacant seats

and the sky is but a snapback on a highway with receding trees.
petalsofhope Nov 2013
people watching in a coffee shop
is one of the simple pleasures in life
the bizarre satisfaction you get
when you sit by the window
solving crossword puzzles
or probably sipping your cup of hot latte
immediately tilting your head up
when someone enters
analyzing, wondering,
as they pass by your table
what kind of person they are?
what coffee do they drink?
what do they do in the coffee shop?
where were they from?
who are they with?
thoughts by thoughts
questions by questions
curiosity kicks in
eventually clouding your mind
as you nibble your chapped lip
finally finding a solution
to the crosswords
also your futile thoughts
without hesitation
you give those people in the shop
every single one of them
a life
based on their coffee
just some random thoughts of mine
Penelope Winter May 2017
It took sixteen years to become acquainted with my old self.

The self that:

Could not write on crumpled papers,
Or sleep in untucked sheets,
Played her scales robotically,
Left no word incomplete.
Labelled all the cupboards,
Books were organized by name,
This was the life I led.
I never knew that it would change.

it took 4 weeks to fall in love with my new self

the
self
tha
t

writes on ollld receipts,
   kicks the covers        off the bed
     ~lets my fingers play freely~
         not every sentence has an en-
            stores shoes with coffee mugs!!
               writes in mArGiNs to save time
                  not all rules need to be   f o l l o w e d
                    not all poems need to

                        sound the same

who knew that little pill
would teach me how to live
not erase the 'me' that showed
but bring out the 'me' that hid
16 years of worry
of obsessive, anxious thoughts
who knew that little pill
would change me
I,
for one,
did not
.

- p. winter
Racquel Davis Jul 2014
Imagine you are walking
Imagine
Imagine a place
A desert place
Where the heat steals your energy
This endless sea of sand ***** you in

You are imagining a place
Imagine
Gentle grassland
The full moon is enough to keep you sane
The wind whispers your name with a cool and warm voice

Imagine you are falling
Imagine
Barren sand in your mouth
Your face meets the horizon and it kicks you in the eyes as you sink
Your screams are heard by no other except the hand that saves you
And once more you are walking in the desert place again

©Copyright 2006 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
This is an old poem I wrote in high school. It has been edited many times.
Bants RJ Jul 2018
I’m alone, with smoke and bottles.
With an itch around my neck,
my feet kicks off the bench.

Surrounded by darkness,
a figure has come to jest.
“Did you do your best?”

Feeling hypoxic,
I try to shake my head “No.”
I look at him whilst my feet kick, longing for the ground.

Lighter by the second,
darkening complexion,
I silently scream, “No. No. No.”

With knowing eyes,
the angel sighed,
raised his scythe, ready to chastise.

Although red, my eyes see the light.
But wait, this doesn’t feel right.
Mr. Reaper had nothing to do with me tonight.

My back felt the cold of the floor.
I’m dying no more.
The ancient one cut my rope.

“Don’t.” he says to me.
“Promise me, try to live.”
But I see him nightly.
L B Dec 2017
from a dream*

...My student's name is Ari
and he's dying...

“No serious talk today!” he warns
He wants to laugh –
and so we do

He wants the Patriarchs and Prophets
on this tropical island
He names them doing something funny
and I pick up where he leaves off--
with the second line:

      “Elijah, with his ravens on a blow-up raft...”
     “...Ascends with ham sandwich, sipping wine!”

    “Jeremiah throwing mud *****...”
    “...at Zedekiah's white garage!”

We rewrite the Old Testament
laughing till we cry

“Now that's what I'm talkin' about!”
He's pumped
and kicks that rebel trashcan 'cross the room
...and suddenly shouts out--

“For everything there is a season...!”

I do not finish this one....

“I'll tell Solomon you said Hi”
____

...and in that moment half aware...

_____

I'm wearing a grass skirt
in someone else's dream

I'm on Instagram
and I don't know how I got there

I have coconut halves for my ****
but for the life of me –
can't figure
how to keep them on

So I let them sway with my grasses
to the languid freedom of marimba music
toes clutching warmth of sand
No one here to see
but Instagram?

Nagging in the background:
How did I ever get here?

Dreaming like this... right?
Thanks to Anon for the suggestion to switch the order of the two pieces to this dream.  Yes, definitely makes it more sensible.

These two different dreams just somehow blended together.

I have never been to the tropics, but it's nice to dream, seein' as how it'll be
3 degrees here tonight.  I've worked with kids and as a teacher in public schools, so I guess that's where the rest comes from--that, and I've read the Old Testament.
it's been a day
since we last let our love seep through,
since you held me close
in that moment, now long gone.

then you shoved me away
once you'd had enough
of my then-green heart;
it's been a day.

your punches and kicks
have turned my heart black;
i will no longer feel.
i won't let myself.

"that didn't count,"
your worried soul insisted
never venturing beyond
your delicate bubble.

go after her then.
Leave me here,
a sinful
nothing.

go after her then.
go be
your father's
son.

love
is simply too elusive.
so you may as well
get comfortable.
Stephanie Irvin Aug 2013
#1
Blonde and skanky
Red and cranky

No sleep
No need
No guilt
To feed

She sticks
She licks
She’s got
Her kicks

****** city
Kind of pretty

My girl
My girl
Rock and whirl
She is
She is
Hard to miss
life is a competition,
but no one really wins.
we overachieve.
set our goals too high.
and after all the effort,
end up farther back than square one.
we pile work upon work for ourselves.
we fake it till we make it,
but do we ever make it?

once the lights go out,
black envelops the machine that never stops.
not even when we sleep.
tears put out the electric fire that burned the socket.
and within the blackness that is my mind,
you can hear a sizzling sound,
until the backup generator kicks in
and we begin to run again.
heavily influenced by my mental breakdown only after 3 days of school. this was also written in class
Christian Ek Sep 2014
Skeleton bones in the closet, no, not I, I got live bodies locked in chains. In the spirit of Halloween, I'll wear a hockey mask and be that obsessed killer. Teenage kicks, listen close for the screams. ****** from neglect, ****** because of reject, ****** brought on by me always feeling depressed. You called me names, you tortured my spirit, you ****** me like the idols you worship. I've worsen since i started feeding on your hate. This is my manifesto. Are you scared? You should be. Because I won't take the ranting rambling bigotry you speak. This will be something straight out of a horror scene. The plot thickens, foreshadow what's next. If you think this story is fiction well it's not because we live in a cold world and I'm only giving you a description, a depiction of what words can do, I use mine for assistance, I learned to listen, I hope you do too, because you can create a monster with the powerful words you decide to use.
Neo Aug 2018
The other night
I spent all of my tears & paid all my prayers,
I had hoped it would end it all.

My pillows
cashed in the huge streaming check
from every drop my eyes spilled.
My blanket held me down
while both thought took turns
throwing hard punches & kicks
at every square-inch on my body.

Then
my bones crunched
with every attempt
to fully drain the hope-
-ful air in my lungs.
I could only lay there.
Twitching out breathless cries,
rubbing blood out of my eyes
& taking it all in for the whole night.

The following day
I brought these thugs to work  
but no one else seemed to notice.
My doctor tried to numb me with pills,
& I must admit
although they did work at giving it all the cold shoulder,
it didn't take long
before I struggled to use my shoulder
With their knives & spears steaked into my skin.

Every night now, I sleep to their stories
& their bullying,
eyes-wide,
cut-throat,
focused on breathing all night.
I thought I could fake my way through it all
but now
these noices have started making sense
& I
don't know why I'm breathing anymore.
Allison Nov 2017
Unmoved by your arrival from the west coast,
ten thousand little things are different.

It’s October and the trees are on fire:
a forge that you won't notice, 'til you're gold.

Your Kicks don’t leave footprints on these cobbled streets;
even the children have old, leathery hands.

Try to paddle-board the Eno and the bass go belly-up:
that river’s for scattering ashes and making moonshine.

All they sell at Aldi is ethnic shampoo,
so now your hair twists like the roots you’ve lacked

'til now, because all you’ll ever need is two hands:
for prayer, and work.

Life moves on like a cigarette’s drag,
while somewhere Hope’s fiddle strums;

Take off your headphones and
go put your ear to an oak.
zebra Aug 2017
a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein

he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms

dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
inspiring
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded ***** and cash

trouser trout fish,    
undulant
sexed up
tape worms for love
pulse the night
egging on bunny **** pom poms
devout finger puppets of Eros
for
shimmering ****** lipstick twilled vibratos

sequined tassel spinning areolas
and lavish come **** me dance girls
bring down the house in flames
making hearts apostate
clamoring
and melt men like steaming everglades

the bat
hangs from the chandelier
licks his black lips
and looks on to panorama of hieroglyphics
hearing music
a thunderous nonsense  

witnessing visions
of
flies, tasty white winged moths
and the thrill of screams
while biting the head off of another bat
in a claret stained red velvet cabaret
JaxSpade Mar 13
Traveling down that ghost town
Tumbling through the weeds
I'm nothing like a cowboy
And I haven't a gun to sling


I'm just an old man lost
In what's left of sanity


I'm wearing old kicks
On a dusty road ghost town
I've got a crack in my lips
From the sun beaten on down

I need a place to rest
But no one is around
I cannot find a bed
So I'll settle for a campground


I'm just an old man lost
In what's left of sanity


I found an old saloon
With a ghost serving whiskey
And he dared to impugn
Why I was so thirsty

He kept pouring more rounds
At my requests to hurt me
I was the only one in town
And like me it was emptied


I'm just an old man lost
In what's left of sanity



Drunken in walk
I fell into my cot
My fire burned out
So I laid in the dark

Staring at the stars
I was the loneliest scar
Lost in a ghost town
With vacant bazaars


I'm just an old old man
Lost
In what's left
       Of Sanity
patty m Jun 2014
Move the cobwebs ever softly

peer inside the poor girl's head

see the wheels turning ever

see the heartache see the dread.


Step into the parlor fancy

see the teacups and the cake

no matter she's not calm but antsy

fragile, with supposed strength fake

See her vision and desire

see her patience start to shred

bathed in fleas she's ever stirring

never sleeps but yearns for bed


years of torture years of caring

when she sits she's sadly staring

her patience wants to scream and shout

is this what life is all about?


where's the love that lights the stars

kisses sweet as chocolate bars

where is one who'll treasure her

lift spirit with their warmth and care.


delve inside the secret place

see the worry on her face

truth is cringing in the dark

while lies bare teeth like hungry sharks


see the constant urge for ***
avoid the brew and  wicked hex

anger feral in her brain
calmly sits and grows insane


lightning strikes the wishing well

the frontal lobe goes to hell
gray matter quickly scatters

as she sits and simply blathers  

cortex, reflex and sensory receptor
ate the knowledge that kept there

her mind is now a ticking bomb
sensory message sent pon to pon

medulla oblongata sticks, adheres
the brain on empty disappears

pupils go from bright to dim
reflexes stall and life looks grim

imagination kicks to high
she's floating in a pure blue sky
no horrors of the daily grind
she likes her body without a mind

yet fate steps in with evil grin
spouting poetry by the line

some sublime or sometimes crass
it knocks the girl  on her ***
soon stimuli kites, and neurons light
and the brain begins to reunite

no giving in without a fight
thus reality must ensue
as the grim and sin rush in
what's a girl to do?

Now you've seen it all
I hope you're not appalled

though it may seem senseless and ratty
so works the brain however inane
of our overworked addled Patty
WITCHES IN THE LITTLE SMALL TOWN

Dark Angel lurks around the old wet grounds, soon alerted him to the witches,
where they all do hold in their souls bleeding lies to give words of true deceptive capabilities, where they give wary predictions to come. There would be poets writing out their famous lines of witches scaring the small little town. Casting spells all over the place. Since Dark Angel, is part of their evil darkness, He couldn't be misled by them. But he wanted them to help him win people's confidence.
So they started telling stories of little truth, in order to mislead who all believes the words they speak even in darken dreams. Betrayal is the head game the key of many things, that truly cause so many pains. You can see how they would stand out late at night while the blood moon shines.
Oh, how they love to trick innocent people, with their gentle language or phrases. But late at night, they are crying out in riddles of true agony. The little town has grown weary. Oh, how the witches looked so scary. If only they had listened closely to the words they were saying, It may have saved them from all the blindness of what is soon to come, In their language are that they speak seriously.
Oh, the consequences will be hard, that is when true reality kicks on in. But so many ignore the signs while they rest in their bed. How ironic are the masterminds? They walk around with smiles on their faces like they're ‘'innocent flowers, ''that can charm a very big crowd. But what they really hold in their hearts, true darkness, where ‘'serpents''play all the time on their minds.
Their method is to use charm and somewhat little truth to feed on innocent souls. It would be impossible for them to be set free once they are under the witches spells. Just like what the words of ‘'Shakespeare, '' ‘'Where our desire is got without content; 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.''
"Here we stand! ", the witches cried out among themselves, saying to the stars that are shinning in the heavens. "Let all eyes not see what lies within, Let them only see what we ask of them to see. And that would be our outward appearance. where the smile can charm those innocent hearts."
"Let them hear with their ears the words that we speak, let each word dig deep. Where imagination plays the game upon their minds. That cast out true emotions of all times. Imagery and appearance conceal what is of truth."Sometimes the witches use those nice little skills even upon themselves.
Oh, don't they know by the looks in their eyes, that they're not nice? They even ask the stars to extinguish their light so they couldn't see the ***** deeds they were doing.

Dark Angel walks around in hunger saying out loud, ''Oh, this little small town doesn't know what is truly out to get them.''

Poetic Judy Emery © 1980.
Copyright © Judy Emery| Year Posted 1980.
I have a working life Monday to Friday.
When the weekend comes I’m going to do it my way.
I get focus as put on NBA 2K.
I’m going to start my career today.
On this game my player will reach fame.
Wishing I was him...a star.
Not sure when in reality I will do the same.
Imagine me with fresh kicks, fresh clothes, and a chain.
Carry more paper bills than I do change.
I’ll switch the game and not complain
Time to relax and kick my feet back.
Turn on GTA try to raise up them stacks.
Run up the streets and prepare to attack.
This is my therapy I don’t need no feedback.
I mostly like open world games...
At the moment I play The Division 2.
When my best friend is home.
We look for enemies we have to shoot.
Finding items for protection even boots.
I guess what attracts me is the high tech gadgets.
I need them on those high level.
Very intense action my lady comes I ignore her distraction.
I take my headset off and have her repeat what she was asking.
I may be a Gamer but My Lady still come first.
CK Baker Nov 2018
Covenant park central
parallel, east-side west
waiting on the
print defender
(and Lichaten queen)
he appears randomly
and distorted
(with a broken smile)
shuffling down
the Smithright trail
in his Mac Tack
and cinnamon shades
(sun bags and thrift ware
stacked three high
on a rusted rat trap)

An open ended
panel van
crashes the curb
as a long-boarder
dodges the tail
and kicks up some dirt ~
the plumb tree
and sunbeam double wide
hold steady in the fish eye
as the warehouse carny
and tire-less 510
shine brilliantly
on the dull
dripping scene
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