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Sketcher Nov 2018
I'm shaking with fear and I want to ****,
That unicorn I see that has all my pills,
Those pills that give me all the nice thrills,
From codeine to NyQuil to Advil,
People stare at me and shake and shiver,
Pulling out a knife while my hands quiver,
Stab it into some small child's liver,
Today I'm a mailman, a death deliverer,
That child's name was Jon,
I killed him while he was mowing a lawn,
He was Mexican and trying to get paid,
I guess I had to come around and make his day,
I said, "Yeet!" as I threw the kids body,
Down into the river and then I yelled, "Gotee!",
I'll feast on the rest of the child's flesh,
Jon was a nice meal, probably the best,
I didn't find my pills in Mr. Jon the unicorn,
I guess his mom gave birth to a ***** that was born,
Without the pill portal that he should've had,
Their family is terrible, all members must be bad,
Now I don't have my pills and I've just had a meal,
I guess the kids meat was a good enough appeal.
Two psychopaths made this poem.
Harry J Baxter Apr 2013
I met an old man today
I was trying to write in the sun
and was sitting downwind from him
and judgung by the smell
I thought he may have soiled himself
He was sitting with his wife
and they had about fifteen teeth between them
he heard me speak
and asked me If I was from England
yeah, I moved here seven years ago
we're from New York
that's cool, I've always wanted to go
Oh you have to,
There's no city like it in the world
So why are you in Richmond?
New York Is too **** expensive
I remember one time
I was held up by a .38
the poor ******* didn't know
I only had 75 cents in my pocket
Let me give you some advice, kid
If you ever go to New York
Never look up
only tourists look up
you gotta keep on looking forward
oh yeah
and if you have a ***** pack around your waist
and a camera around your neck
you might just get your *** kicked
oh and if you ever get lost In New York
all you gotta do is ask a mailman
they're like the kings of the city
they know everything
I wished him a nice day
told him It had been a pleasure talking to him
and walked home
only looking forward
because I'm no tourist
Jon Tobias May 2013
The doorknob to the closet
full of my skeletons is made of
funny-bone

But there are days
when honesty tugs a little too roughly and
I realize this isn't all that funny now
Is it?

As a writer
You learn presentation is key
In the bend of language
I create this man
I want you to believe me to be

And so I tell you these stories
like they are jokes
Like they are no big deal

Like the first time I got drunk
was with my friend's mom
who was a known child molester
She tried to order us ****
But couldn't work the cable

Or my friends and I used to travel our city
via the water drainage system
Near the mall
We got lost once
and while standing
in ankle high water
we saw at least 20 homeless people
sleeping on pallets
We called that place *** City
We had to get directions back out

There's a possibilty I have been an accessory to ******
Around the time in my life when I learned
How not to dwell

My body was a wishbone
My father meant to break
But every beating
left me the better half

I find so much of it funny

My brother's most recent suicide attempt
My mother's
My father's Alzheimer's

He once chased after our mailman
naked
Asking him about some letter
from some woman
I have never met before

I find laughter
and beauty
in the bend of language

When this chest becomes a broken radiator
and my heart grows cold
The metaphor mutates Campfire

Come here
I am lonely
and I have a story to tell you
Arisa Mar 2019
I bet that man,
he with his white cap,
smashed my box against the wall
as he so carelessly
dumped
my package on the doorstep.
A little aggravated at the state of my packages.
Descovia Aug 2022
I been on, and on, and on going at it.
Bring the metal, if you have it.
We can play it out.
I'm paranoid, indulge into the void.
I'm a black Savage, bad as Black Sabbath.
Set your ship, ****-deep,
Your last words, you better
assist with what we can salvage!
The other side of me, asked if you can manage!
I'll take us both out!
Go out. Goku and Raditz
Blasted into King Kait's World
Special Beam Canon.
None of this is common.
None of ths Canon.
I'm no Nick, we wildin' out
Flying high, disregard all by default
without a calculated LANDING.
KOBE!!! ****!  We miss you!
Repent for our sins. Cause we done ENOUGH DAMAGE!
I'm losing my patience and my cool
I'll be ****** if another fool
goes inside a school, with a gun
I'm no mailman. But I will bust out the package.
Go ham on the packet, take it out da plastic!
I'll road-rage-rampage, Laredo Heat
Blacked out Bandit. I am coming for answers!

No water, all Ice with fire.
Pray for help, if he's old enough
To game and gamble, then he can get scrabbled.... like eggs!
Then give him every sample to lead by example
I am not playing games, off with his head!
i am not soft with the dread.
Get ravaged and dismantled
act hard, then get HANDLED!!
Help me. Help me.  Help me....
White noise bringing the realization
from the brain's static
My mind's eye open, I'ma black man,
I know, I know, I know, I know, I
no **** with black magic!
Playing board games, got me bored with your tactics
Try me, you be in Monopoly, figuring why you're "Sorry"
The trouble is on it's way and Trouble is bringing damage
I got nothing else to lose,
My life more wasted than CJ on
highway drifting on xanax.
SKKKKKKKRRRRRRRRRTTT!!!!!!!
Awh ****. HERE WE GO AGAIN.

I will make the best out of my skills.
I am empowered by you all.
Thanks for believing and honoring me.
My decisions to help this world through
the power of words of wisdom and love
bobby burns Feb 2013
i've always wanted to apply for CSSSA,
but i'm too scared the rejection letter
will be the future shades of senior year
when i finally hear back from the mailman
who took my essays a year ago,
all bundled up in pre-approved envelopes,
stamped, addressed, received, thrown aside.
-
but that's not for two years,
so i don't know why i'm worried.
-
i've always wanted to do something,
not make something of myself,
even though the verb is the same in
spanish, with a reflexive difference.
-
in regard to this, a wise twenty-something (contradictory)
once told me to let myself feel instead of worrying so much:
"to put it less eloquently, feelings are like ****. FEEL 'EM."
-
apparently i haven't felt in eight months.
-
so maybe in compensation,
i will apply to CSSSA,
though the deadline is the 28th,
and the assigned portfolio demands
an utter lack of procrastination--
not my strong suit, you could say,
as a month of homework is still
sleeping in my bed.
-
****, it's all due tuesday.
-
also, while walking home
i saw a norse god namesake
on a balcony-asgard, wreathed
in the byproduct of his last smoke,
and somehow, despite my inability
to feel, that just made me so sad.
-
April McAuliffe Nov 2017
He isnt dressed in blue or white, but when he

lurks you'll notice the sight. His cloak is heavy

and so is his darkness. He isnt evil though,

so try to be fearless. He only takes and delivers

in between. He can either be seen as a close

friend, lover or even someone whom you've never

seen. I know one day I will be his next package,

and one day he'll approach me holding out his

bony hand. I'll say "Please mister.." I'll pause

with a tear. "I dont want to leave here.." He'll

nod feeling my grief and say "I give no commands

my child." He will sigh and say "Im just the mailman."
Zach Gomes Apr 2011
Oh, Progress!  We found you at the back of
The movie theater, spidered around a boy
And we watched.  Progress, couldn’t you
Wait til the previews were over?
At least we could tell he was gentle.

Which reminds me of the story of the father
Who beat his son until the son
Could beat back, and after the son
Killed his father he went cross country
Beating everyone on the way
Beating the mailman, the bar back, the students
He kept on traveling until he knew he was
Unbeatable
And he traveled more and went on beating
When he met his dad in down in Santa Fe
They sat down to drinks and talked
About beatings and beatings
Then they kept traveling West.

Yes, Progress you were a ***** girl
Ignoring whatever went up on the screen.
18 seconds of mutilated armies and a Noble Charmer’s
Ascent to the throne.
17 seconds of painstaking laughter and a fat man.
19 seconds of a young man’s rise to success
His defeats, resilience, his ceaseless winking
And his moral fiscal triumph in the end.
16 seconds of naughty men in suits drinking highballs.

For a movie theater, the chandelier was immense.
Dangling, finely cut glass
Suspended over the audience, crystals tapering
Down to rows of translucent points.
Elise Chou Jan 2013
in winter we rubbed off our skin with bitter yellow soap
& danced across the murky floor of our brains.
ankle-deep in ambien, our toes scraped urchins & palms of anemone.

we built shelters in the living room
from moss-green blankets & coffee tables,
our fingers making furtive wishes in the quivering dark.
we picked small hairs & pennies out of the carpet.

when i grew hungry you offered me your left thigh
like an unwrapped christmas present.
under the aquatic quake of the fluorescent light
you fat seemed to boil
& your bed turned into a small, cold island.

we opened checking accounts under fake names
& you started to worry about your gently doming stomach.
when the mailman came, we cowered in the closet.

each year the temperature of our livers
rose a few degrees.

spring brought us flowers that smelled like DDT.

––Appears in the Spring 2013 issue of The Columbia Review.
MV Blake Mar 2015
Bus
Faces lost in blank expression

Wait in stasis for their stop,

Shuttled from one potential

To the next like letters

In a mailman’s bag.

The sounds and smells of strangers,

The uncomfortable touches,

The squeezing in spaces,

The jerking rhythm of the ride,

The pram queens who sag

Against the railing

While their kids twist and turn

And scream at the lack of fun

In the faces of blank expression,

While couples tongues quietly wag.

Youthful monsters sit at the back

Playing tunes for the irritation

Of the old school music hacks,

While grandma dozes against the glass,

Shopping drawn up like a wall

To protect her from her past.

Father and daughter

Playing a game,

Sitting next to two lovers

Who are doing the same.  

The tickling natter of friends,

The glare of phones,

The lying dog’s stare.

Life on the buses,

A slice of people

For the cost of a fare.
jalalium Feb 2013
John's morning are failed evasions
Life busted him again, shortened vacation
Nights are for him the perfect occasions
To hide from life for a certain duration

John plays hide and seek with people
So their happiness does not find his pain
Because negatives are not good multiples
His sufferance is permanent, any help is in vain

John likes to eat when he remembers
That a full stomach enjoys cigarettes better
He is one of lung cancer's  club members
The mailman recently handed him the letter

John brings cigarette butts in contact with his skin
And presses them to feel, a verb he is usually lacking
He has no fear but the fear of happiness
It is a ghost of very persuasive nastiness

John counts days, sees them running and wishes they flew
Death is imminent, death is around the corner, death is at his pursue
Death, for john is the clue
Does John need rescue?
Kevin Mann Jul 2010
It's November again.

Old men mount bicycles,
wobble down cobblestone,
shift weight
as they pass the churchyard.

Early evening. Cold rain.
The trees are stripped  of their pages.
In the morning:
the scurrying of confetti.

The mailman smiles--
smells old smells.

The children sit in a circle,
mill dead leaves, build a mound
of tree dust between them.

It's November again.

Small boys mount bicycles,
wobble down cobblestone,
shift weight
as they pass the schoolyard.


                                                          K.D. Mann
Kelly Lloyd Mar 2012
A melancholy house
Weeping at the sight
Of a mailman
Turning around.
December 7, 2009.
JS Clark May 2017
Pure winds
Beautiful prairie

Tall grass
Kissing the dew

Mighty fork
Winding tributary

Escorted by grass, fescue

Aged trees
Standing in groves

Greet the fowl of dawn

Talking bison
Muffled tone

Still awaken the merry prairie dog

Lone rider
Haulin' mail across the plains

Headin' west, for Sacramento

Indian fighter
On plains self-same

Will insure this mailman sees no tomorrow
Someone left me a *** of marigolds

on my white porch floor

Afraid to pick them up

I left them near the door

The paper boy knocked them over

dirt spilled out on the wood

The mailman stepped in the dirt

and smeared it as he should

I righted the *** and saw it was dry

then left it in the afternoon sun

and the vermilion sky

Days went by and the preacher called

He asked about the plant

I shrugged my shoulders and took

his pamphlets fast

No one ever told me where those

marigolds came from

I assumed it was the devil

as he was the only one

Who knew I killed my husband

and I would go to jail

A trial would condemn me

they would hang me

by a nail

If you receive such a ***

know your time has come

Leave the marigolds where

they are to die

Giving you time to just go on.....
KMC@2011 All Rights Reserved
Angie Acuña Jan 2014
To the boy with the saxophone skills,
I miss you.
I never said it and now I see that it was bad.
I hope I see you again.

To the girl who ******* me over,
******* ❤️

To my old youth leaders from church,
You left and so did I.
You might come back, but I won't.

To my sister,
Yes, I'm still *******.
I had to call 911 for you.
I'm glad you're okay.

To my first crush,
Was I too much?

To my cat,
You only like me because I feed you.
That's okay.

To the girl who is quieter than I am,
Speak up, honey.
They won't see your brilliance so make them hear it.

To the homeless man on Jackson Road,
Where are the shoes my mother bought you?

To my other sister,
You are a whirlwind of emotions.
You are amazing.
You are unstoppable.
Grow up and be unconquerable.

To the mailman,
I'm sorry that we're always ordering so many things online.
I'm sorry that they were big packages.

To the cute boy at HEB,
I know you work there.
Yes, I look for you every time.

To my cousin Denisse on my mothers side,
You're annoying.
Shut up.

To Denisse's older sister, Monica,
I'm sorry about your sister.
I'm sure you've hit her.

To my "father",
It's been years since I last saw you.
It's been years since you last stopped calling.

To my friends,
I know I'm an idiot.
I know I'm sarcastic.
I know I can be mean, but trust me, I don't mean it.
Please forgive me.

To the man at the post office,
Get over it.
It's your job.

To my 7th grade Texas history teacher,
You taught me the meaning of sarcasm.
I have yet to perfect it.

To my 9th grade history teacher,
You were the sweetest teacher I have ever had.
You taught me the meaning of procrastination.

To my best friend,
You are my soul mate and will always be my better, whiter half.

To my brother,
You might think that I hate you, but trust me.
I don't.

To my stepfather (the second one),
You were always my favorite one.

To the stray cat that attacks mine,
Go away.

To the missing sock that always stays lost,
Where have you gone and how can I find you?

To my UIL Ready Writing sponsor,
I enjoyed spending those Saturdays with you.
You taught me where the word "*******" came from.
Thank you.

To the boy that my best friend dated for a while,
She did like you, I promise.
Her love was just too strong and burned way too fast.
Better luck next time.

To the computer-programming textbook that I've had under my bed for a year,
I don't regret that decision.

To my mother,
I love you.
Thank you for raising me the way you did.

To the kids who skipped and smoked at school,
How I wish I could join you.

To the Bowery Poetry Club in New York City,
One day I will go back and you will be open and I will perform.

To the boy I love,
I hope that one day you find someone that you love as much as I love you.
*I hope it's me.
I've had this for a while, aging like cheese and wine.
The Unknown Aug 2014
Lost in the bitterness
Free because I’m found
Surrounded by silence
I hear the intense sound
I got a one way ticket
I’ll go there, back and around
this is the complication
of travelling to where I’m bound
Climbing a mountain
while the path doesn’t bend
ripping up a letter
that the mailman still will send
Drinking constantly
but my thirst will not amend
this is the frustration
that my life won't cease to lend
Miles, countries away
but still you’re at my side
Just when you disobey me
you do start to abide
Of course I’ll tell no one
but in you I can confide
This is my pleasure
when the pain will not subside
John Alex Mar 2018
I can write letters
for the dead
I can articulate paragraphs
that goes through
lofty clouds,
or deep,
hard bedrock

they don't write back
though
they can't
they won't

so I'm stuck here
writing letters for the dead
because admit it
or not;
someday,
we'll
all
want
mail
too
raingirlpoet Sep 2014
“I need to write a poem”
Were the first words out of my mouth when my mother told me about
The Letters

One letter arrived one day, postmarked July 1st, 2014
I don’t know when it arrived, but that day
I guess that day her soul earned it’s wings
That day, that one day
My soul crumbled as hers rose to the heavens, with that piece of paper
that had Apology scrawled all over it in that handwriting of hers that
Didn’t change one bit

I was watching my family extra closely as my mother read the letter out loud
I didn’t want to see any of us hurt anymore even though I knew in my heart
We would get through this
We’re Zelinskis, strong and forgiving
We open our hearts to perfect strangers and welcome them into our home with hugs and laughter and game nights that don’t end at midnight
We are one in suffering and one in rejoicing
We wear the teachings of the bible on our shirtsleeves and kindness drip drops from our eyes
My dad says
We’re all children of christ

But Children still get hurt
My sister, she chose Laughter
My brother, his face was a blank canvas as I rubbed and rubbed, trying to see through the white blanket of paint that masked his emotions
My sister in law told me the Truth
My brother, I don’t know, I just hope he listens to his heart this time
My sister, she has a wedding to plan
Me,
Maybe I’m the only one who wanted to be angry
Maybe I’m the only one who sees their pain even though they can’t
Or maybe I’m delusional and no one’s really affected by the Letter

We’re still children
I’m still bouncing around the house, following the older kids around like a lost puppy
My sisters are still my heroes and my brothers
Are still my knights, my Protectors, the ones I could sass and make fun of because they
Did the same to me but with much more force than my small voice could carry
We’re still children
I know nothing of The Letters
Instead, I’m welcoming Her into our home again with a tray full of Grandma’s famous chocolate chip cookies and the goofy grin of a six year old
I’m meeting Her eyes again
Only this time
I know she’ll leave
This time, I know how much time I have

So I’ll write my letter now
And instead of remorse and anger
I’ll fill it with good times and Remember Whens
I’ll put it in the mailbox, swipe the red flag up
And wish on the mailman that you’ll get it
Calli Kirra Apr 2013
That boy has friends just like you
That girl hates her parents, too
The mailman has to feed his kids
His wife is dead
He has no bed
That girl was at a party last night
That's why her hairs a mess
She's in three different fights
And see those circles under her eyes?
Jack Daniels did that to her too
That woman has a therapist
Her husband won't give her a kiss
And all these people need something too
They're all living
Just like you
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Sometimes words
cease to be a joy
and become a burden.
Sometimes you
must set them down
and take a rest.
The poet is a mailman
lugging a load of life,
carrying bundles
that most people
don't even want
to think about:
heavy thoughts
on weighty subjects.
Occasionally, even a
metaphorical mailman
needs a holiday.
  - mce
The mad hatter Feb 2011
Crazy
Enraged
Vicious
Disgruntled
Murderous
******
Insane
.......­...............
GUESS WHO?
Its the mailman
BOOM!
Darren Brown Apr 2015
Yeah but he doesn't look like a normal mailman.
Why does he wear that robe?
Does he scheme? Is his life not limited to the docile act of dropping off letters into the boxes of the innocent?
He has ulterior motive, his aura is acidic.
I've already called the neighbors.
Just watch him, that robe, his intentions are not of predictability, his agenda curls like smoke from home to home.
Keep an eye on that mailman.
Chelsea Corcoran Nov 2011
What does a person do?

In a funk.

All full of funk.

You just feel funky..

And not funky fresh..

And no I'm not from funky town.

But in a funk..like funk, my mind, apartment, winona, mn, usa

Long address..

I would ask you to send me a letter,

And ask the funk to leave my head..

But I'm sure the mailman will be confused.

But I hope you all know,

What kind of funk I am in?

It's a pretty funky one.

I can't even get my head out of the funk.
Helen Mar 2013
Dearest Tommy
I think of you every night
I lay awake listening to the thunder
and the lightening, and the rain
on the old tin roof
(which is leaking again by the way)
but during the day
I can't hear it, I'm so busy staying sane
Just want you to know, even though
it's only been 2 months I'm thinking
of you, again

My Heart, Melissa
I'm thinking of you out in the desert
there are 50 million stars
and several stray bullet tracers
but they can never mar the beauty
of the night sky, from where I lie
thinking of you and maybe...
our babe? Don't leave my hanging
sweetheart, give me a hint
to make my darkest day

I LOVE U!

Dear Tommy
The mailman came again today
with no news from you, I can't pretend
that it didn't light a fuse beneath my temper
but I understand you are busy and it is September
Autumn months where life lies fallow
I'm not trying to be shallow
I'm just trying to plug up the leaks
there is no babe, I'm sorry (I'm not)
but it's cold and life is bleak
without you

Darling Melissa
I'm hearing you cry out to me
I'm getting your letters but you're
not seeing me? How can that be?
I want you to know that each grain
of sand that I pour out of my boots at night
I count as minutes spent away from you
and I'm seeing you beyond sight
when I close my eyes under stars
that don't shine for you in your universe
and I'm sorry for that
but under each shining light, I pretend
that your looking up at the same star
and you are whispering what we rehearsed...
No matter where you are, you are my star.
Remember?

Love your Tommy

Dear Tom
The leak was fixed last week by Steven Treadle
remember him from High School
He played football for a little while
and then he decided college football wasn't for him
so he decided on a trade and now he's a roofer
He wanted to be a soldier but his injury prevented him
He's doing well, here in Suburbia...

and with me...
I'm so sorry, sorry, sorry, so sorry
but he's here for me...
I'm so sorry
but Tommy

I Loved you
and the idea of you and me
but Tommy
I need someone by me...

Sorry

the last response Melissa received
was not a letter
from Tommy
but an Official
Sorry*
from the Military
but it was never
as sorry
as Melissa felt
that Tommy
may have
(or may have not)
received her last
Sorry
or the Hell
it may have spelt
Mitchell Aug 2013
Strange
How when all is going
According to
Plan

The record stops in spin
Clouds turn to black
And the round back straightens

I'm awake here
Seeing bare
Attending to cares
But unfulfilled

There is a liar amongst us
She smells of raw fibs
I run my palm
Across my bare chest
Feeling ribs

We are bones
And meat
With a mind we can never fully

Control

A mystery
To myself

Born again
Dying again

Re-living
Nothing

Attending
To
No one

There's a white envelope on the nightstand
With a sum of unmentionable dreams and desires
The shelf stands *****, but I am crooked
Burning a candle in the twilight of midnight
Reminds me that a gift is also fire

And then there is the fact of movement
Evolutions only prime device
There are no tricks
There are no riddles
There is nowhere you can tinker or fiddle

Overtime, we only get better

Move her
Admit him
See that I
Am inside every syllable
Etching a private universe
To perfection so whomever
May choose to enter
May re-live and experience

Matters of Heaven and Hell

Closed off
Sending smoke signals
To
Irritable Gods

Bunk beds with religion
We amass our hatred
For one another

Then play chess with jazz playing in the background

Red oyster shell wrapped around
A ghost white finger
Music tiptoes under my doorway
And the mailman is late with my paycheck

When I worked
As a paperboy
I enjoyed
Riding the bus to school

Because of late night snacking
I now have anxiety
About free breakfast luncheons

A next step for mankind
Seems like a lot of work
And very little pay off for the rest of us

Why are buses designed so poorly
And have no Maximum Occupancy?

Say goodbye to late night friendship
With snapskypefaceinternaboutfacecreditreport.com

She moved her hand
Over her eyes to block out
The sun. The brightness
Comforted her, but, being
An only child, she disapproved
Of anything resembling comfort.

A new noon is upon us
I speak for anyone with a pulse
A new moon has arisen
Any speakers of tongues shows false

Anonymous fortunes
Have arisen between the black and white
Bed sheets are randomly bursting into flames
And grandma weeps regularly

When love dissolves
Like the first fog of dusk,
The sun burning through
Mists futile efforts to shroud we dead men,
Put your ear to the ground
Hold to not make a sound

Witness the frost break
As the business men cut their steaks
See the poor out on the gutter
The addict trip and sputter
Change is not around the corner
The lies are as thin as the coroners smile

This kind of place
Smells of dry skin and regret
Dead brush and a unforgiving sun
Love takes off
Its always on the run

Sometimes
I don't know the difference
Between me and you
Sometimes
You try to tell me something
That I know just isn't true

White cut on the hem of her dress
She says something to me
But I can already tell that she's in distress

"Let me in your taxi," she squealed,
The bangs of her hair bouncing over her face,
"I'll tell yah something. I'll show yah' some lace."
I opened the door with a stone hand
And as she sat next to me I looked over
To see she was holding a beat up tomato paste can

Whispers of truths only turn into bigger lies
A butler coughs as he adjusts his tie
"The body needs to be washed up around the thigh,"
It explained, a shadow under each of the mans eyes
"There is no instrument man can trust to rely,
Other then that of God and his belief in the upside."

A road
Dispelled

A life
Cut short

A boat
Drfiting
Into Port

At last the fog has burned away
So we can decide
Whether you go or you stay
eileen mcgreevy Feb 2010
Your boss, the bank teller, the flower lady too,
I'm consumed with such rejection, because they can touch you.
The mailman, the baker, the cars that pass by,
The gift they recieve when they look in your eyes.
I would give up the world, just to feel your face once,
But fate ignores me. she must be out to lunch
jeffrey conyers Dec 2013
No regret, on the way I was raised.
Even if back in the day spanking was the thing.
It stopped me from trying to get my way.

My parents was firm.
My parents was stern.
And that discipline made me, who I am today.

Yes, I have no regrets to regret about my youth.
I did the usual stupid things that most kids still do today.

Except, we probably was more creative and imaginable then.
Especially when playing cowboys and Indians.
Just to hear one of your friends claim, they are Superman.
Which ruin everything.

Or tearing apart a good tricycle just to make your own go cart.
Or locating old doors to make your own tree house.

Computer games to us, was simply using your brain.
And having teachers really teach school skills to us.
Not giving you books and turning you on your own.
And not comprehending the subjects matter at hand.

In my youth, we mostly knew all the neighbors by name.
Even the mailman, as they  was called then.
Even the neighborhood assigned police officer.

We knew not to create disturbance at school.
This was one of the vital parent's golden rule.
Then many parents was friends of the teachers.
And all they had to do was called.

Just maybe, this is what's so similar today?
Some kids, with modern parents still don't get their way.
Yes, no regret I have.

Respect and manners was, what you're judged by?
It simply was a representation of your parents too.
Many knew this as the God living truth.

Who doesn't remember saying your prayers on your knees as night?
You was taught God plays a very priority in your life.
No regret, I have.

If they was living today.
I still select to be raise that way.
Friends would do the same thing too.
Our parents was much respected by our friends.

Even if many was free babysitters.
Blake Watson Feb 2010
This is the story of Old Man Jenkins
Old, yes, but he never felt that way

If being young meant being corrupt, he’d have no part
Stubborn, he wouldn’t change his ways

He would simply avoid this new perverse world
To keep himself in the good ol’ days

The days when neighbors looked out for each other
When you knew your mailman’s name

When men held the door for ladies
And success didn’t have to mean fame

He reminisced of days when a living was honest
When families had a father and a mother

When talking in person was the best was to talk
And one shirt was as good as another

But oh how they teased him,
They’d say “He’s just an old man”

And they’d compare his brain
To a lone grain of sand

They said he wasn’t modern or up with the times
They said he was ignorant and out of his mind

They would try to make him angry
Hounding him over and over again

But Old Man Jenkins was the gentlest of souls
And returned only a wrinkled grin

You see, he wasn’t mad or crazy
And he minded not their scorn

He had been storing up a better treasure
Since the very day he was born

After he left this world, they realized
They saw how bad they were wrong

They longed to tell him they were sorry
But the time for that had come and gone

It may be myth, but one once said
And others have repeated it since then

That the gentle soul of Old Man Jenkins
Smiled on them with a wrinkled grin.
Notes: Inspired by my grandfather and the generation that grew up in the Great Depression and fought in the second World War.
her Dec 2011
She’s not me, I’m nothing like her.

****, she’s gorgeous.

You’re so in love with her. It’s beautiful, really.

I watch myself in the background of my mind, and comfort me as I cry. I deserve that love.

I deserve you.

I run into you again some odd months later.

I smile in your face and congratulate you on your new found happiness.

You tell me that you’ve never met anyone like her.

Yeah, I’m sure you haven’t.

You tell me how deep in love you are and I smile from ear to ear. Hearing the happiness that lingers in your voice always makes me smile.

You give me a tight hug and thank me for my well wishes upon you two’s new found relationship and say you’ve got to run.

I nodded my head, said goodbye and walked off in the opposite direction. My heart racing, your hugs always had the ability to do that… I continued walking, and ignored your scent that found a way to make itself cozy on my clothes and soon after, in my nose.

I fought away the tears as I continued trekking along to where I was going. I couldn’t let the city see me cry.

A few years later, on my day off, as I’m sitting on near the windowsill reading the daily newspaper with my slight after noon cup of tea, I got this nervous feeling in my gut.

Then a thought of you.

Pulling myself together, I shook away the thought and quickly found something to focus on.

I look out of the front window of my lonely home and hear the faint tires of the mailman driving away from my mailbox.

I gather myself and I walk rather swiftly down the steaming hot driveway and up to the mailbox to gather todays bills and some of yesterdays payments.

Shuffling through the envelopes, bill..bill..bill..

Your name?

Her name?

Official seal?

My heart races and all I can think about is the word “no”.

I feel my hot tea resurfacing as though it didn’t like its place in my stomach. And almost as if it was right on cue, a tear rolls down my cheek..

Still.. I continue to open the letter.

My hands are trembling and I’m biting my bottom lip clinging onto it with my top teeth as though my life depended on it.

“The honor of your noble presence has been requested at the marriage of… “

I dropped everything. I couldn’t read anymore.

My heart burst into flames and my body emitted a tiny involuntary whimper.

I walked inside, this time unaware of the heat rising from the pavement.

I sat down in the middle of the floor in my house of loneliness, and I cried.

Tear after tear, sob after sob, sniffle after sniffle. I cried.

Unable to move..unable to speak. I just.. cried.

I thought of what we could’ve been and the time that we shared.  

The time that obviously meant nothing.

The time that I should’ve never cherished.

The least that you could do is stay out of my dreams.

I should’ve seen it coming. Lord knows I should have. But I didn’t. And now I’m stuck in the shadow of her perfection as you bind yourself in unity before G-d and the congregation.

She’s perfect.

I’m jealous.

She has you.

I deserve you.
Maybe this is more like a short story. I hope you enjoy it non the less.
Micheal Wolf Apr 2013
Boston for me was Cheers on TV
A mailman who was loveless
A shrink who was mad
It was history at school
A tea party of fools
The founding of a nation
Now it's an image of pain
The western world see on TV
Akin to Syria and Afghanistan
But now it's not a remote story
It isn't in a foreign field
It is not detached
It is now Real
On home soil
It is abhorrent
Sarah Foster Feb 2019
You are far from anyone. Miles, hours, large measurements of distance and time. You live by yourself in what you and most people call the middle of nowhere. You love being alone. You were born for it. But the mailman comes. He knows you by name. You are one of few on his daily drive. He knows you receive weekly letters from Tracy, and has even learned some other names too. Do you think he knows that every letter begs for your return? He finds you in your garden on Monday mornings. He cares about your produce. He knocks when it rains. He is one of many that care, that pay attention. The people of work refer to you by name, the customers do the same. There is never anyone new. You know what they are there for. They search for corn, cabbage, rice and you. You cannot beg them not to care. Do you think they care? They ask about your cat. Questions are traps. You ride your bike for miles until you reach the safety of your large, lonely home. The ringing in your ears does not let you forget. They are talking about you. They know not to eat your apples but they will continue to buy them. You wish you could stop selling apples, or maybe that you would stop poisoning them. Why must you poison them? Is the phone ringing or is that your ears again? What's the difference? They are thinking about you either way. You gave up inventing something to erase yourself from their minds when you moved here. You need it more than ever. The grass grows long, weeds consume your garden. The mailman still knocks. Your ears ring when you avoid the windows. He knows you're there because you still read the letters. The grass is long but the pile does not grow.

You are surrounded by people.  They rush past you while you sit on a bench that has grown very attached to you. It does not know you by name. You cannot remember the last time you heard your name. You give them a new one every time you order a cappuccino at your usual coffee shop. Everyone is too busy looking at everyone else. No one looks at you. You walk fast, tall, confidentially. You are completely invisible. You were born to be. You are yourself because you can be. You hide in the skyscrapers shadows. They have always been there for you. Your friends are benches and birds. They think you are gentle. You hide behind your computer screen forty hours a week. You do not mind when it looks at you. Does it mind that you look at it? Your mattress is on the floor. You are grounded fourteen floors above the ground. The guard does not make your ears ring so you do not mind him smiling. No day is like the last. Nothing is predictable. You hear everything with the lack of a ring. You are here. You are you. You are alone and you are happy. The mailman does not knock when he leaves bills in your box. He does not care about your produce. He does not remember your name. What is your name again? No one's ears ring because of me. My thoughts are taken up by the way the sky looks between buildings. There is no grass, there is no pile.
Love.  Some say that it is the sole reason to be alive.  Some say that love makes waking up in the morning just a little easier.  However, I find that hard to believe, nothing can make this torture any better.  I rolled to the edge of my bed and flopped onto the ground.  Hi, my name is Jack, Jack Jefferson.  You may be asking yourself, why is this guy such a ******?  Well first of all, this isn’t the nineteen hundreds, what’s with “******”?  Secondly, I am not being a ******, I just don’t see a point in going after something that never lasts and only leaves a nasty **** filled scar.
My life is pretty average I would say.  I was born in the most suburban place on the planet, no siblings and parents are divorced.  I’m not athletic or exceptionally smart.  I’m not artistic or deep in any way.  To top that long list of amazing attributes, I am viewed as weird and not normal because I don’t see all the fuss is about love.
I crawled to my bathroom and propped myself up on the shower door.  I disrobed and turned on the water.  I turned it to the hottest temperature at let the steaming water pierce my skin.  I stayed under the warm comfort of the water until I couldn’t remember what my skin looked like when it wasn’t wrinkled.  I got dressed and decided that I don’t need my breakfast.  I walked outside my one story house that was falling apart in every way imaginable, the paint was pealing, the driveway desperately needed to be repaved, and my mailbox was lying on the ground, it has been knocked over so many times that there would have to be a miracle for it to stand back up.  I just caught my bus and I was on to the prison for teenagers, John Tyler High School.
I went to my first few classes and just got bored so I hung out by my locker.  I sat at the base of the locker and plugged into my phone to listen to my music.  I probably would have stayed in my dazed state until some girl kicked my foot.  I looked up at her, figured that she would go away and then I continued to listen to my music.  She was being a pain though; she kicked me again and motioned for me to take off my headphones.  I sighed as I complied and she just stared at me.
“Can I help you?” I asked her trying to get her to understand that I wasn’t in the mood to talk.
“Yeah, you are kind of in front of my locker,” she answered as she pointed to the locker behind me.  I looked up and examined it.
“This isn’t your locker,” I informed her.
“I think it is, one twenty-six,” she said showing me a slip of paper with her locker information.
“Listen you must be new here, this isn’t your locker, it isn’t anyone’s locker, this busted up thing won’t even lock,” I told her trying to get back to my music.
“Well, yeah, I am new here, I’m Rachael Robinson,” she stretched out her hand as if she wanted a handshake, what are we, forty?  I grabbed her hand and shook it reluctantly.  “So what’s your name?” she asked in that kind of tone that implies that I forgot something.  I hate that, maybe I don’t want you to know my name!
“Jack,” I said trying to give her as little information about myself as possible.
“Jack what?” she now made her way next to me and sat next to me.  I felt incredible uncomfortable with her so close so I got up as fast as I could.
“listen, one twenty-six, your nice in all but I don’t wanna talk, here I’ll let you go to your locker and then we can both be on our way,” I said fed up with the fact that she wasn’t getting any of my hints.  She looked at with me with what looked like disappointment as she slid up and put her combination into the locker.  I put back on my headphones and began to try to forget all about her.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her organize her books in specific ways.  She then tried shutting the door.  It ended up bouncing right open and she looked to me for help.  I just shut my eyes and hoped that she got the hint.  Judging by the fact that she shut the locker as much as she could and walked away without a word.  My mind started going and I instantly felt guilty, I she was new here and she probably just wanted a friend.  I turned up my music and told myself that she was better off not being associated with me.
The rest of the day went by slow and the thought of that girl was still in my head, especially the fact that I couldn’t remember her name.  I decided to just file that as something strange in my head that makes me not forget certain people, like the old guy with the goatee at Wal-Mart, or the little girl scout outside of my bank, no matter who they are I can’t seem to forget them but one thing always stays the same, I never see them again for the rest of my life it seems like.
There was one thing I didn’t factor into this, her locker was one twenty-six, and mine is one twenty-three, so I’ll probably be forced to see her every day for at least the rest of the school year.  Well does it really matter, I mean she must have gotten the message by now.
The next day I didn’t even bother going to any of my classes, I just wondered the halls making sure to avoid any teachers.  When the bell rang for lunch I went to my locker to see if I could scrape up enough money for lunch.  When I reached the hallway that my locker was in, I peered around the corner and I saw someone sitting at my locker.  It took me a couple seconds but I soon realized that it was that girl!
“You know I can see you, right?”  She said before I was able to turn around, walk away, and forget about lunch.
I decided that it was no use hiding anymore so I slowly started walking to her, “Um, listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but can you stop stalking me?”  I asked her trying to be as polite as I can.
“I’m not stalking you, idiot.  I’m eating my lunch at my locker,” she exclaimed.
“Why?” I asked, “You do know that there is a lunch room, with real seats and even a table, I know its new, not a lot of schools have them but I guess we are pretty lucky.”
“Ha ha,” she said sarcastically, “I know about the lunch room, I… I just prefer eating alone.”
“Okay, can I get to my locker?” I asked trying to subtlety motion for her to slide over.  She slid her stuff over and both of us avoided eye contact.  The time it took me to open my locker and push around some books were the longest fifteen seconds of my life.  The worst part is, I didn’t even get any money.  I awkwardly walked away and I didn’t look back.  I felt bad that she was eating alone, don’t get me wrong, but think about it, if I sat with her what kind of message would that send?  I am trying to separate myself from her, not become best friends.
The day went on until my least favorite time of all, time to go home.  Any chance I get I will leave school but even school is better than my home.  I took the bus home, hoping that each speed bump was the bus breaking down.  The bus ended up at my stop in one piece and I reluctantly stepped off.  I checked my mailbox before going into my house.  The mailman is nice enough to still put the mail in the mailbox even though it is on the ground.  I’ve learned to ignore all of the late notices and only focus on the final notice ones.  Turns out they all were final notices this time around so that’s something to look forward to.  I walked inside and plopped on my couch.  I live with my mother for two main reasons.  The first is because of my father’s anger issues is something I just can’t handle anymore.  The second is because I have no idea where he actually is.  After my parents split he left the house, the town, the state, and possibly even the country.  I knew I had the house to myself because it was a weekday, and on those days, my mother works her two part time jobs.  On the weekend she tries to pick up any more shifts that she can.  I’m probably just gonna drop out of school so I can help Mom with the money.  I mean what kind of son I would be if I let my mother literally work herself to death.  She thinks I can’t see it by it is clear what the lack of sleep and the endless stress is doing to her.
I popped some left over pizza into the microwave, sat on my couch, and waited for them to hear that ding.  While I was sitting, I started fighting to stay awake.  Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore and I gave in.  It was one of the worst dreams I’ve had in my entire life.  It started with me riding my bike to the elementary school to see if I can find some lost tennis ***** to try to sell.  Once I got there, it was eerily quiet.  I set down my bike and began to get to work.  As I was walking to the tennis court, something in the distance caught my eye.  I ended up walking passed the court’s entrance because my curiosity got the best of me.  As I was investigating the shimmer of light in the distance, my surroundings began to change.  I was no longer at the elementary school; I was now walking down the hall towards my locker.  I knew where this was leading but for some reason I couldn’t stop moving towards my locker.  Sure enough, she was there, but she was waiting for me, like me seeing her isn’t a coincidence.  She didn’t speak, all she did is smile at me and her body started swaying.  I felt myself start smiling too, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t force myself to stop.  This was no longer my dream.  I was watching two people see each other and I wasn’t either one of them.  My pizza being done awaked me.  I know that that doesn’t mean what I think I know what it means, ya know?  I do not like that girl in any way.  One Twenty-Six can jump off of aa bridge for all I care.  I ended up just throwing out the pizza because I lost my appetite and I just went to bed for the night.  While I was lying in bed I tried desperately to not fall asleep.  One nightmare was enough for one night.
I ending up losing the fight against sleep once again and I was out like a light.  Luckily I didn’t dream that time so when I woke up I was actually a little happy.  I went to school immediately saw her at her locker.  She had a set of tools on the ground next to her and she was doing something to her locker.  I tried walking passed her and to not make any eye contact and I guess it- was a little too obvious that I was trying to ignore her because she immediately stopped what she was doing.
“Look, I know you don’t like me, I don’t know what I did but I know that you for some reason hate me.  So please let’s just accept it because you are making this very uncomfortable,” she said waving a hammer at me.  I was blown away.  This girl is accusing me of making in ‘uncomfortable.’
“I’m the one who’s doing it? Ha, that’s funny.  You’re the one who keeps trying to talk to me when I clearly want to be alone,” I retaliated.
“I talk to you because I know firsthand, sometimes you want to be alone but you hate to be lonely,” She said now dropping the hammer and walking towards me.
“You think you know me, don’t you?” I asked now putting my finger on her chest, “You have no idea who I am or anything about me, so get that through your thick skull One Twenty-Six,” I said with a push.
“And I bet you think you know me, you think I’m some girl who just picks up some piece of trash and tries to become friends with it and make its life better,” she said putting her hand to her chest.  I would never admit it but she was right, I thought she was going to make me her little project.  It was clear that I was losing this fight and so I had to turn the tables to let me win and quick.
“That’s the thing, I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you.  How would that benefit me to know some new girl?” I said off the cuff.  I felt proud of myself for thinking on my feet but then I noticed what my words had done.  I could see tears forming in her eyes but it was clear that she was using all of her strength to hold them back.  My mind immediately went to the idea that this was part of her plan, to make me feel bad so she could get the rewards of winning.  I stared at her blankly until she turned around without a word and just picked up her hammer again.
“So, uh, what are you doing?” I asked and I immediately regretted the words I chose, I was never good at small talk.
“Trying to fix my locker, you were right, it doesn’t lock,” she had the voice of someone who was about to break down crying.  That just breaks my heart, and on top of that I knew that it was my fault.
“Can’t you, like, call the school or something and ask them to fix it?” I asked putting my hands in my pocket and putting my head down.
I could tell that she already started to put our little conversation behind us, “I already did, and there is not enough money in the budget, so they said that until they get afford s replacement I would have to deal with the problem, so I’m dealing with it.”
“Well do you need a hand, like have you ever done something like this before?” I asked hoping that if I help it’ll excuse me from the guilt.
“Not from you, and no, I have not, but what else am I supposed to do?” she asked.  I feel like even though she asked in a sarcastic tone she was still wanting my help.  I started racking my head for something I could say that would help and then I got an awful idea.
“Hey, uh… since our lockers are so close together, it probably won’t affect you to much if we shared mine, I mean we can share my locker if that’s a solution your…okay with,” my voice trailed off in the end because I really wanted her to say no and I could be in the clear because I made an effort, but I wasn’t going to fight her to do this.
“Sure,” she said, I couldn’t believe how fast she answered.  Was she planning for me to ask, then again she probably was trying to think of all of her choices.  But who does that, I mean I’m not saying she was, but I would have thought that she didn’t want to sound desperate.
“Okay, umm when did you want to move your stuff?” I asked a little taken back of this entire evening.
“Well I got a lot of stuff, why don’t you give me your combo, cause I can do it while you’re in class,” she answered.
“C’mon, you know I don’t go to class,” I reminded her.
“Well why don’t you?” she asked as I took out a piece of paper and wrote down my locker combination.
“Well let’s just say that once I turn sixteen in a couple months, you can have that locker for yourself,” I told her, making sure I avoided eye contact.  You know how that subject is with some people, they take it so personally like you’re making them drop out too.
“You do know that you have to get parent consent at sixteen, it’s not until you are eighteen that you are able to leave without anyone’s permission,” she informed me, as if I hadn’t already looked into it.
“It’s called forging my Mom’s signature,” I told her.
“Wouldn’t your parents make you go?” she asked, so innocently I couldn’t be mad at her ignorance.
“First off, you mean parent, my father skipped town before I could remember.  And secondly, my Mom needs my help, once I leave I can get a job and we will be able to pay the bills,” I explained.
“Okay,” she said.  That’s all she said.  Why would that be all she said? ‘Okay,’ really?  That’s all you have to say.  I’ve been lectured day in and day out on how I’m not running my life, but all she says is ‘Okay.’
“Is that it?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, what else would there be?” she a
Elizabeth Jul 2018
Her
There is something about the way we danced along the sidewalk that August night that kept me coming back for more. The way she waved at passing cars and pet kittens so small, atop windowsill's and perched on steps only revealed a tiny bit of her love for animals. The way she smiled at the mailman on 78th street and the way she dreamt of things so big- so beautiful made me realize I had been missing out all along. There was something about her need for adventure that made everything a thrill. Her imagination was so pure. I go home at night lonely only wishing I could be like her. I wish I could sleep only a few hours but feel good as new day by day. I can only wish I’d asked for the boy on the subways name. Something about how she rambled on saying books were her favorite thing made me wish I could be just like her...
This one goes to my great friend
JJ Hutton Sep 2010
...
I'm afraid the bombs will never fall,
the summer girls will never return my calls.

I'm afraid I won't claim any kills,
I'm afraid I won't ask when they hand out the pills.

I'm afraid there will be no couplet,
to satisfy the end rhyme.

I'm afraid our movement
is as meaningful as an ellipsis...


All we know is the suburbs,
the mailman,
couches,
Thursday night tv.

All we know is settling down,
settling on a wife,
settling for whatever's on sale,
whatever won't send us to hell.

I'm afraid no one wants me dead,
I'll be alone in a queen-size bed.

I'm afraid Jesus won't come from the sky,
I'm afraid when she can't love me, I'll still try.

I'm afraid every rule was a crime,
all the freedom ends with the end rhyme.

I'm afraid I will drive an SUV,
I will buy my headstone, while still alive...

All we know is the pattern,
work at 9,
Coffee with Cara at 5,
in bed, sleeping pill in head.

All we know is all we know,
a flood of morals,
a cancer spat upon,
by all the greatests that went on before...
Copyright 2010 by Joshua J. Hutton

— The End —