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if the ocean would carry me
it'll collapse under the weight of my bones
made with cement and steel
and the burden each brick owns

witness the waves howler and scream
just like the heart caged in my chest
blood bubbling around the muscle
surging with every beat and protest

the bottom of the sea may be quiet
like my tongue folded neatly in my mouth
though feral beasts deep within
choke with pressure more than i can count

the ocean and i are seperate
both flowers from different gardens
one ephemeral, one wilting before your eyes
but both's head tilting up to the heavens

sorrowful eyes, swirling, storm awakening
chaos mingling betwixt water and blood
ravid souls in dire need of feeding
cursed and blessed by god

i wonder if i could carry the ocean
within just the corners of my palm
i and the ocean - we are one
a catastrophe after the calm
i love the ocean. it makes you feel a lot of things.
Catrina Sparrow Dec 2012
we broke the wishbone
you got the wish
i got a splinter

that's how it goes

fare faced grinning fool
     oh, how easy it'd be
for me to be jealous of you, brother
the boy who couldn't be stopped
the man that the wind whispers to

you are magic
you are busy lights on an empty stretch of I80
the swell of drum beats over silence
the giggle-fit tear stains on the universe's cheek

baby boy
wide eyed man-cub

the world tried to steal you
once
all those years ago
and you
you defiant son-of-a-gun
refused to bow to even death
     the laugh lines at the end of a blank heart rate

thanks for never leaving me behind

you take nothing seriously
except dreams and funerals
and the call of the moon

"no matter where you are in life
no matter how noisy it gets
or how badly it hurts
you have to throw on the brakes now and then
just slow down
and turn your eyes to the sky
and howl
like a ravid coyote
howl at the moon"

"remind existence that you won't go quietly"

when i was six
dad told me that he and mom
had made us out of stardust
and magic
and beer caps
and fossils
     that they made us out of treasure

you're my treasure
and the temple of my dreams
you're my map
my back pack
my adventure hat
and the voice in my head that laughs
and calls me a *******

we are not human beings on a spiritual endeavor
but spiritual beings
bound to a human medium

how very thankful i am to be tethered to you
for my little brother, kyle. a year and one half younger than i, and still my hero. cheers, you little ****. (: i love you, whole biiiiig bunches.
ashley Mar 2013
you know,
when you're younger,
you think boys are icky.
mean boys that push you
in the sand on the playground,
stupid boys that call
you names
and make fun of you for
being a '*****.'

when you're younger,
you think girls have cooties.
silly girls that play
on the swings
and talk about
the wind,
girls you try to avoid
at all costs.

but once you grow up
and stop being so small,
you come to realize that
boys are far from icky,
except for the fact
that they still pick their
noses and chew
with their mouths full;
and girls are far
from having cooties,
unless you consider
STD's as cooties, these days.

now,
girls and boys
are attracted to each other
by an unmistaken force,
one that's so strong
it feels like a magnet
is conjoining the both
of you.

or at least,
that's what they claim.

but really,
our generation is
obsessed with the
facination
of being rebellious,
of not caring about the rules,
or doing what they want
whenever they want.
we're obsessed with
the motto that
having *** at 16,
getting drunk at parties,
and doing drugs
is okay.

the problem?
we'll never know.
everyone will always
have different thoughts,
views, opinions
on how our generation
came to be as
disasterous as it is:
the media: music videos,
movies; the music,
what kinds of messages
rappers are conveying
in their songs;
but no matter
what we think
or what we say,
we'll never know.

we're the kids
your parents
warned you about --
or rather, didn't.

nowadays,
losing your virginity
is becoming something
of a contest to see
who can lose it first,
who can get this girl
laid, who can
sleep with the most
girls in their entire school.
today, girls are willing
to lose it, all because they're
under pressure, or being
influenced by the wrong
crowd.

nowadays,
going to ravid parties
and having
'a few drinks'
is something to celebrate.
"come on, have a drink,"
and even if they don't want one,
even if they don't want
to accept,
they somehow get convinced
otherwised.
then 'just a few drinks'
turns into a rollercoaster
that gets you spiraling
out of the earth's
gravitational control.
your mind goes haywire
and you might even do
something you never imagined
you'd do. all because of
'a few drinks.'

nowadays,
rolling a blunt
and smoking ****
is something
everyone does;
if you don't smoke,
if you aren't a stoner,
then you're considered
'abnormal,' or 'odd,'
or even 'weird.'
roll a blunt,
pass it around,
take a hit
or two
or three,
until it feels like your
soul is being detached
from your body,
floating into the
horizon,
being swallowed by
darkness,
vanishing into the
atmosphere.

nowadays,
everyone's
trying to **** themselves
from the harsh words
being thrown at them
like daggers to the heart.
everyone's
cutting themselves,
a temporary way
to solve a problem
that seems
incapable of living through.



nowadays,
no one has any respect
for themselves.
no one cares
if they don't get into
a decent college;
most don't even go.
no one cares
if alcohol is
causing them to become
addicts;
they disregard the signs
completely.
no one cares
if smoking ****
or doing drugs
is illegal;
now, they'll
expose it in the open.
no one cares
how their words
can affect people;
"fat," "ugly.'
they'll call people
***** that are still
virgins.

nowadays,
our generation
has turned into
something to be avoided,
an example of how bad
the world can become.


a.m.
Byron May 2013
I am content being in my closet-bed, safe and alone. I am ok with my window open and the night air. I can switch the switch of pursuit, fondness and a candid smile. I have my own sphere of existence and I am happy to have it. I cannot always start running on a new chapter of my life but I am fully able to continue to ream in the past with new vigor and statistical desperation. I am one of a few million-million and it is still unclear what creates the legend of capital uniqueness. I love my father and mother and always my sister. I want better for everyone and myself. I want to love on them all that I can.  Marriage no, children no, family is what I have as conflicting and contradicting as it may be. Thing fall apart. I love the ugly moments of my ceiling.

I am not a new story waiting to happen. I am not a ravid political face or frenzy. I am not a desperate grunt who got his just-comings. I am not the type to be escorted in any way by the crumpled void of fallacius fame and humble-beginning-fortune. I am the desperate coat bearer of the northeast bronx. I have the mind of a child. I have the graces of rat. I have the public anticipation of a broken man apart from his chariot-era. When sitting I grow anxious and hungry and mis-mannered and poor and terrified. I throw away any hour to the madness of deep seething and wallowed whispers of loathing per-the manuscript writings of two years ago. I cannot help myself like others can. I cannot say what haunts me the way they can. It's the deaf ears and I have some too. I was born this way and I who I am. They are permissible and I am another anachronism. I am tempted to start over somewhere completely unknown and away. I just want to break free from the cycle my age and be with my age. I want to chase my girl around the city and stop at another house and have another long conversation about the same daily occurrence of you evenings. Then move on when you have moved on and see straight into another tomorrow like I was unable to until now. To write myself out of another horrific night, alone. Defeated by my own revelations of my own determined normalcy and struggle for authentic dialog. Near the line of conviction that I should never say another word because the shy me now will be appalled by the shy me years later. That I will surely be an embarrassment in my own if I ever stepped on a stage. That I have nothing, and will never have anything, worthy or useful to the world around me. That I am completely doomed to die forgotten and unoriginal.
Sydney Bittner Sep 2019
You were always tearing up the tree roots
And lighting up the sky at night.
Seemingly ravid in your destruction-
You were striking down on
Fools and geniuses alike.
Something to write home about,
Houses on fire and telephone poles
Crashing through windows.
What an awe inspiring sight.

I imagine a world where you make no sound-
I cannot reconcile with it,I was there
beside you. Shattering houses and
Littering branches across the ground.
I let the world know your glory
With every breath i could find,
Waking slumbering babies with a fright.

If you were lightning-
A bright flash of purpose-
Then i swear i would have been
Thundering forever. I wanted
To vibrate your beauty
Out into the universe. I wanted
To let it be known that you were strong.
I wanted to be the sound you made.
I wanted to be the seconds in between.
The miles that stretched
Between fear and praise.

But then the clouds cleared
And either you became tired
Or lost your spite. And I no longer
Found the purple light
That painted the skies. No more
Was there a song for me to sing
I could not find the words-
The epic poem that you
Seemed to deserve.

So i handed my voice to the rain.
I let it wash us away, you and I
We made way, we let the storm
Move out. You did not want
For me to bring on the day.
But I fell for the sun-
And now I am but a rooster
On a farm somewhere
In Arizona. I used to be thunder,
Tell electricity
it was nice to know her.

— The End —