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Justin Griego Apr 2012
Somethings written
shouldn't be read
    Somethings heard
    shouldn't be said

Somethings  sometimes should  be  read
                                            by all but one
Sometimes somethings should be heard
                                         by all but none

Somethings I've written
I want you to read
Sometimes I worry about the letters
'cuz I know you'll see
Another Insomniac Poem
jeffrey conyers Nov 2012
In a world.
Where everyone thinks information needed to be said?
Somethings need to be left unspoken.

Analyze.
Recognize the consequences of your action.
Some might be devestating if told.

If some under the belief that it is.
Then let it be.
Why cause someone hurt?
If there's no need to be.
Somethings are better left unsaid.

Whether it's an affair.
The heritage of a child.
Or something serious in this nature.
Somethings need to be unspoken.

Sure there are certain events needs to be told.
If embezzeling.
If against policies or rules of a company.
Then yes bare your soul.
Still somethings shouldn't ever be told.

We all heard the truth should set you free.
While some knows the truth will get you ****.
I'm just keeping it real.
Because reality will come after the truth has been exposed.
jeffrey conyers Aug 2018
Without, you just apart of a dream.
With, you can achieve more than possible.
Somethings you just know.

As one, you can stand out.
With two you notice more.
Somethings, you just know.

As with groups.
John Lennon stood out with his glasses.
Somethings, you just know.

As with the Temptations the Classic Five version.
Who?
Can't see David Ruffin stood out in the group.
With his gestures and raspy vocals of hurt, pain, angst, and sympathy.
Somethings, you just know.

But so did the rest of the unit.
Somethings, you just know.

Just like in the scriptures.
Many stand out a little more.
None more so than Jesus.
But you know some about his mighty disciples.
Who?
Can't name the disciple that betrayed him?
Doubted him and denied him.
Somethings, you just know.
Journal of Darkness: Assassin and Deceptress


Nov 21, 2011, 8:17:32 PM by ~OmegaWolfOfWinter
Journals / Personal




(description of storyline: all characters in this work are dragons, with the ability to change into a human form. they live in present day society, but have a base in the middle of the desert. there is a library with the history of the world, which is operated by stacra, an organization to preserve the peace in the world. there is a rival organization, the dracra, who wish to take it over. the dracra is led by a dragon named Darkheart, a dragon who has haunted the Scar line for millenia.)
"... sahsa...."
what was that mumbled sasha, a small town girl in modern day USA. she was nearly asleep when the voice called to her.
sasha was usually described as a freak. she was a dragon fanatic, and she carried her favorite books wherever she went, Brink of Insanity: journal of the Wild and the Broken; and its companion, Blood curse:  journal of the Destroyer and the Savage. they told of dragons living in new york who had to bear a family curse and sought a way to release it. the author was only known as "Lucian".
"....sasha...."
i'm sure i heard it that time...
"....come to me sasha...."
she didnt know why but she felt as if she absolutely had to find the source. she was barely clothed but quietly snuck out, leaving small footprints in the snow.
"....sasha!...."
she felt panicked. as the voice grew louder so did her heart, beating quickly in her ears. some sort of animal instinct took over and she somehow Managed to run on all fours. her whole body began tingling, her skin writhing. she looked back and nearly choked: wings and a tail... had grown from her body. her whole body turned white as scales etched their way into life over her skin. her body began elongating and enlarging, becoming streamlined and lizardlike. she was transforming...
"...yes!... just as you said, master...."
"...quiet, kovu..."
sashas vision went dark as she stumbled, barrelling through the snow. when she looked up, she saw an enormous dragon, with scars just like the ones in her book. "she will be a fine student."
sasha was dumbfounded as she saw her parents walk up behind them. "greetings, master Lucian, kovu." said her father.
"and you, rydon."
"y-you...know...?" stammered sasha.
"all will be explained in the morning, sasha," replied her mother.
sasha felt tired and her eyes shut as the ground came up to meet her.
sasha sat alone at the picnic table, surrounded by lucian, her father rydon, her mother sophia, and kovu. "so... you're all.... dragons.... like in my books..." she gestured to the two books.
lucian stepped forward and placed a hand on the books. his hand glowed and the glossy books turned to worn, leather journals. "yes, we are dragons. sasha. and you have done well guarding my journals."
"your... journals? but i thought that these were best-selling novels..."
lucian chuckled, "no no. young one, there are only two other copies of each of these in existence."
"wow..."
her father spoke up now, "so what are you here for, master? is it time for her to leave us?"
"leave?! what do you mean leave?!"
rydon looked worriedly at lucian and then at sasha,"you are dragon, and it is tradition for you to be trained."
"but what if i dont want to leave?!"
her father began to become angry,"its not your choice!"
"then whose-"
lucian's eyes glowed red in anger, "rydon, haven't you taught your daughter respect? surely you would know of my ways by now."
rydon nodded, "i- i'm sorry, master. i don't know whats come over her."
sasha ran, shifting to her new dragon form and flying away. darkheart had warned her of this, that lucian was a dictatoria leader. she asked herself, "why had her father taken his side? why did this have to happen so suddenly? and most of all, what was she going to do next?"
darkheart had given her directions to meet her after lucian made contact. sasha flew, tired as she was not used to the extra limbs.
once she reached the spot that darkheart had told her, she waited and thought things through.
once darkheart arrived, she spoke, "i want to join you. i beleive everything you've said."
darkheart chuckled, "i knew you would dear girl, lucian is the same as his grandfather, they both hounded me and tortured me, for their own twisted ways. i've tried to keep as many as possible from falling into their cluthces. i wasn't able to **** scarheart, as he captured me and forced me into his own body as an energy slave. he tortured me even there, and after he died, lucian, his grandson, got me. he too tortured me."
sasha looked at her in sock, "thats terrible. i didnt know..."
"you couldnt have, darling. those evil dragons keep everything from those who should know."
sasha stood, "i want to be trained. by you."
"really? i warn you, it is quite tough. not all survive. you must be willing to do whatever it takes to stop those vile dragons."
*     *     * 3 years later
sasha was 20 years old, and it was time for her to take on her first big mission: infiltrate lucian's schol and learn everything she could.
sasha had already talked to lucian, apologizing for her behavior so long ago. lucian had seemed hesitant but allowed her in. foolish old bat. she thought. she had been at the compund for a year and a half now and had become familiar with their ways.  sasha would often wonder why she was doing this, and she remembered, darkheart had said that lucian killed sashs's father. she always looked at him with scorn and wished to **** him. but she restrained herself and kept on the facade.
today she felt especially hating towards every master she came in contact with. she passed tsai, lucian's right hand dragon, as he went to talk with the master. she tried to eavesdrop but they were speaking in an ancient, coded language. she growled and her white scales flashed in the sun.


"Lucian, somethings not right about that youngling sasha... she's always watching us, like she's gathering information."
"yes, tsai, i know. i know exactly what she is."
"what?" tsai looked skeptical.
"she's an agent, an informant. for darkheart."
tsai stared, incredulous."wha?! how do you know?!"
"ive been under the influence of darkheart before, as have you. something about sasha is of darkheart's doing."
tsai nodded "even still, is she possessed by her or under orders?"
lucian thought for a moment "i beleive under orders..."
both stared as lucian's son, kovu, walked up to sasha.
*       *        
"sasha! hi!" kovu had taken a liking to sasha since his father took her as an apprentice.
"oh, um. hi. kovu..." *i cant let my emotions get in the way of my mission!
"how have you been?" sasha felt herself blush under the gaze of the drake. he wasnt half-bad to look at, and she often caught herself watching him.
"i'm doing great, training with tsai is always fun. what about you and master lucian?"
her eyes darted to her master, her target, then back at kovu. "you mean you're... dad?"
"yeah... my dad... but we students can only call them by their designation. even master scaleweaver calls some elders master."
sasha's ears pricked up as she heard scaleweaver's name. she was assigned to gather information on all of the masters. i must make madame darkheart proud... i am worthy... she must see that...
"is... something wrong, sasha?"
she caught herself, "n-no i'm just tired is all... just tired..."
her master lucian came toward her what a fool, he doesnt even know about me... "sasha, i need to speak with you.... alone."
kovu difpped his head and backed away respectfully.
"sasha, come."
she swallowed her pride and said, "yes... master..." and followed him.
once they were outside, lucian turned to her and said, "i know, sasha. i know that darkheart sent u here to gather information on us."
sasha's eyes widened and her mouth dropped. she thought hard how?! how does he know?! this cant be possible....
"i-i dont know what youre talking about, master..."
lucian turned on her with a peircing gaze, and made her wince as he studied her. "there are better ways to lie, youngling... but not to me. ive known for quite some time now."
sasha felt her legs give out beneath her. she sat, looking into the dust, listening incredulously at lucian. "how... how do you know?!?!"
sasha ran forward, clawing at lucian's throat. she was instantly frozen in place, an immensely strong spell holding her legs in place.  "let me go, lucian!"
"its master to you, youngling. and why would i let you go? you just tried to **** me." sasha struggled helplessly against her bonds. she saw lucian mutter something and felt her legs grow suddenly cold. she looked and gasped as ice started to creep up her haunches.
"lucia-master, please let me go... i was only under orders."
lucian chuckled, "how did darkheart get to you?"
"i can't tell you..."
"oh? then let me guess; theres another informant, a higher up in stacra, who told darkheart about you and she arrived, possibly a week before us? she fed you a story of stacra destroying the world and trying to take over the one that they created. she told you that she was only trying to help restore order. am i close?"
sasha felt naked under the gaze of the elder, who saw straight through her act and through her commander's plan. it made her heart quicken and her scales writhe. she felt a sharp pain as the ice crept up and chilled her thighs, creeping steadily upwards. "how... how can you know these things?! darkheart said you wouldnt be able to know... she said that you held her prisoner... that you tortured her... she said that you- you killed my father."
lucian shook his head and wiped something from his face, revealing gruesome scars. "she altered her face to look like mine... look, and know the truth." he placed a claw on her forehead and she gasped as a flood of memories flooded her, darkheart inside lucian's mind, taking over him, taunting him, and forcing him to do terrible things. she heard lucian say, "she tortured me, she held me captive. its true that stacra destroyed the world, but look also;" she saw the corrupt government of old, and their wretched attrocities. "they brought about their own destruction. we created the world you know, but dont wish it to be taken over, we merely want peace...We act as peacekeepers. darkheart seeks to enslave all to do her bidding. and your father died at darkheart's talons, not mine." sasha saw a gruesome scene as lucian tried to save her father.
she felt him withdraw, and felt the magic and ice withdraw from her, the ice's touch fading from her ****. she shivered and crouched low, warming her body.
"sasha, darkheart is a liar... she's been at it for thousands of years." he watched her shiver and said. "come, sit around the fire."
sasha noddded and followed close behind lucian, hiding her vulnerable state.
"i'm sorry, master."
"all will be okay, sasha... all will be fine.."
lucian brought sasha into his study under his wing. he had her sit down in front of the fire and draped a blanket over her. he sat down behind her, looking over the latest reports, waiting for her to speak. after a few minutes she sighed and looked back at lucian, tears forming in her eyes. "is everything you said true? Is darkheart nothing but a deceptionist?"
lucian looked up at her and nodded. "all of it was true. I'm sorry, sasha. darkheart is a gifted deceptionist and many of us have fallen for her tricks.  including me."
sasha turned back and looked into the fire with sad eyes, tears rolling down her cheek. she shuddered and took a shaky breath. lucian came up beside her and placed a comforting paw on her shoulder.
"darkheart forced me to **** my best friend... a she-drake named Clia... in front of her other followers to show that we must be able to turn on anyone to fulfill the mission..."
lucian nodded, "so I had heard... darkheart has become more cruel than ever."
"l-lucian, what can i do to make her pay?"
lucian thought for a while and then shook his head. "let me think more on this, sasha. for now, let no one know that you are an affiliate of darkheart, it could have deadly consequence. you may remain in here if you wish, or you may return to your own quarters. i have some things to attend to."
sasha nodded to him and gasped as everything went still and dimmed, even the fire seemed grey and frozen.
"wha-"
"sasha... you must tell me now, will you work with me?"
she was stunned. "where are you? what do you mean?"
"you want to get back at her, i know how to. but you must tell me if you will work with me."
"i-i will, lucian. but whhy ask now, and in this way?"
"because, there is someone here, that is going to try to **** you. he was listening to us and is going to attack you with magic. ive cast a spell that will give an apearance of death. just let the magic do its stuff and u'll do fine">
"but wait!"
"you must trust me, sasha."
all of a sudden, everything went back to normal, and lucian was gone, she could hear his fading footsteps.
what was that abou- wait! the killer... she kept facing the fire and listened as she had been taught to the clawsteps of the incoming dragon.
"is it true? you're one of them?!"
sasha turned and gasped, flashing him a shocked, innocent look over her shoulder. "what are you talking about, kovu?"
he was angry, and she was struck with fear. "i overheard you and lucian talking. i heard everything."
sasha turned to face him."y-you, heard everything..."
"then you are one of them! i cant beleive it... i cant beleive i trusted you."
kovu stepped forward and sasha's eyes shifted, trying to find a way out. "kovu, i- i can explain."
"you're nothing but a trickster, a deceptress! dont try to talk me out of this."
her heartbeat quickened, stricken with dread. "out of... out of what, kovu?"
he said nothing but uttered the death spell.
*      *    
sasha let herself go, remembering lucian's spell. but as she did so, she thought about why she was doing this. *to make darkheart suffer...
she heard lucian in her mind. "you'll be going to death-sleep for a while, a few days to make it beleivable. now sleep, sasha... sleep and i will awaken you soon."
"o-okay, master lucian..."
"there is no need to call me master anymore, sasha. from now on, you no longer exist. which is why darkheart will never see you coming. its time... dont worry."
the death-sleep overcame her and she fell to darkness.
*   * *
lucian ran downstairs and saw kovu standing over sasha's body. he put on a facade of dread and said, "kovu.... what have you done?!"
kovu looked at lucian angrily. "you were going to harbor a killer... i took care of the problem."
lucian became angry now, "no, you made more problems. you didnt think... you didnt listen. she was willing to help."
kovu snarled at lucian, "i did what needed to be done. I killed her for you, father."
lucian responded quietly, "you killed a helpless dragoness in cold blood. i have no choice but to arrest you for ******, my son." he muttered a binding spell and blocked kovu's magic. he watched kovu struggle for a moment then went to pick up sasha's seemingly lifeless body. he contacted her mentally, saying, "i'm taking your body in to the infirmary, i'll oversee your examination. in 2 days, i will wake you, when i do, be very quiet."
"yes, sir."
sasha's new appearance was stunning, quite different from the black color of her original scales, she now looked like each scale was a glittering saphire, and her horns and underside were now a shimmering silver. sasha was astonished by what lucian had done, he had also changed her voice and form, making her more slender and agile, he altered her voice in such a way that it seemed that she could charm the heart out of a rock. even lucian who had a mate of his own had to keep himself composed. but he was undoubtedly pleased that things were turning out well. lucian had to change everything about her, her eyes now a deep green, her draconic fingerprint being her tail-tip and spine, were changed to furry mane and a slender diamond tip.
she looked at herself in amirror and remarked how mature she looked.
"you may have to be put in certain situations which may have you exploit some... erm... feminine charms."
"so i'll have to...."
"only if you let it go that far. it depends on you. you said that you'd  do anything to get back at darkheart. these matters are up to your own discretion."
she thought long about this. "i want to g
this is a book i'm still writing.
jeffrey conyers Jul 2012
Take the limb from a tree.
And a part will die.
Take the love from a lover.
And that love will even die.

Every part is needed.
Every part is wanted.
Just to deny one.
Means you're denying the other.

Somethings are meant to forever be shared.
And love is one that needs to be handle with care.

Take the stars from the sky.
Or the glow from the moon.
And darkness will win.
Bringing nothing but gloom.

Somethings are meant to forever be shared.
And love is one that needs to be handle with care.

You can share it.
You can show it.
You can enjoy it.
You can explore it.

Because somethings  are meant forever to be shared.
Akira Chinen Apr 2016
Somethings got to break
Somethings got to give
Somethings got to hurt
Somethings got to spill
Somethings got to ache
Somethings got to fall
Someone has to dream
Someone has to leave
Someone has to hope
Someone has to cry
Someone has to love
Someone has to die
Sometimes its just nothing,
Nothing at all
Her thoughts and I,
we stay awake
waiting for someone,
hoping for somethings
for the heart in pain
needs no tending
just a pinch of the divine
and that silver lining.

I think of the moments
we gently stole
from the curious eyes
of tired souls
our driving the distance
to escape our own
and finding the universe
in our palms, unfold.

There in the coffee shop
she stares at me
from the helpless tea bag
in scalding water.
In the bottle she would get
to quench her thirst
I find her asking if
my need's greater than hers.

The empty seat of car,
in front
is taken in her absence
by her memories warm
The gear shaft
without our fingers twined
is stripped bare
of our naked thoughts

The rains when they come,
they flood my heart
for a stormy noon
is still parked within
when the highway was lost
behind a sheet of rain
and in lights all turned on,
our tongues were mating.

Her breath is all over
this gluttony of a glass
half filled with wine,
half consumed by need
Now, the dam opens,
blood rising to the lips
flooding me with her thoughts
she can never read...
Where do you find love?
In the absence of your love...
Somethings better left unsaid
Some debts of heart should never be paid
Shades of darkness of eyes
Shouldn't be washed off with lies
Better its left to burn inside
Instead of extinguishing it by assuarance tide

Damages of time heals anyways
What is the need to cover up with stiches
There is no buyer to pay off for truth
Is that bargaining what it worth!!!
Faking yourself is the new trend
Sometimes its better to be blend(with trend)

Sleepless nights never compensates the pain
Still heart desires to be ******* in chain
Mind often plays trick with heart
To wrap it up with hidden fact
Dealing with scars always turns out *****
All that what it want is, a little bit of pity

Ripped off emotions never need skin
To multiply dearer's deliberate sin
Freaking out is the ultimate destination
Why there is matter of botheration
Nobody cares anymore and memories merely fade
Somethings better be left unsaid.....................
Katlyn Dion Oct 2014
Somethings you never asked for,
Somethings you never deserved..
But you get up again,
And move on from them.
And you take them as a lesson learned.

Losing you has shown me,
That I can get through anything.
You meant the world to me,
You were my world.
And now I've overcome the loss of you.
Even though it still really hurts.

I miss you everyday,
But I know this is for the best.
I'll love you till the end,
But I'll lay our memories to rest.

So I'll say goodbye,
For the final and last time.
And hope you never forget,
What we once shared and had.

But I'll hold you in my heart, for the days to come.
And hold onto to the love we never had.
Hoping someday, we can reopen those doors,
And be brought back into each others lives again.
Ana S May 2017
In a world full of people whom claim to be something I have encountered quite a few nothings.
The nothings who feel the need to flaunt accomplishments in the other somethings faces.
The nothings who brag on and on about how they are the most important something.
I've also met a few somethings.
The ones who hide behind their creativity and silence.
The somethings who can't speak in crowds.
And funny thing is all the nothings who identify as something bring all the somethings identifies as nothings down.
They are the ones who make the somethings think they are nothing.
Than nothing and something
jeffrey conyers Dec 2013
Oh, they a strange brew.
Almost like a union crew.
One minute disagreeing.
Then the next tight as can be.


In house fighting that makes you question their love.
Just to see them turn around and show it.
Siblings, only they can explain it.

Getting to the truth is hard as can be.
Unless you have a young one.
Who will tell on everyone?
Siblings, only they understand that connection.

Parents know their bond.
That if attacked by others.
They gather together to bare arms.
And it's not with any guns.

The world of a child is simply hard to explain.
The way they wants to go outside and play in the rain.
And avoid coats in the snow.

And when questioned about , how things got broken?
Then between them nobody really know.
Siblings, we all been there before.
Unless you're the only child.
Then you just don't know.

This love bond stays between some as they simply begins to grow older.
Their motto , somethings parents don't need to know.
Unless it's something vital.
Then the protection goes out the door.

Yes, there'll be fights.
And lectures from parents.
There's be wearing of clothes that belonged to others.
Who hadn't had the chance to wear them before?
And give you the option of taking them off freely.
Before they assist you to the floor.
Yes, siblings.
They hard to explain.

Counselors advice isn't asked or requested for.
Not by parents that know about these things.
Books wasn't going to be their teacher.
Because books didn't raise them in anyway.
That this new generational thing.
Where judges and courts thinks social workers needs to be involved?

The best instructions is in the book about the teaching of God.
Where we see the same conflicts?
Siblings, there's no one better to have than a sister or brother.
Who had a mother or father to witness it all?
jeffrey conyers May 2015
Not, all children's will know their parents.
Too much conflicts might come from it.
Especially , if an affair created them.

Yes, somethings can't be told.

Like the President sealed to secrecy  information.
Especially if it harm the United States of nations.
Yes, somethings can't be told.

What many feels should be reveals sounds great?
But somethings kept isn't always a mistake.
If it created one upheaval.

The consequences can be more dangerous.
Make it worse for many to face.
When it involves the substances of the heart.

Even the guilty has came to regret telling.
Much more when the facts never came to help them.
Clare Apr 2015
What are we? 20 - somethings
Depressed and angry
Giving days of our best years
to this or that MNC
Nights, we sit with a beer
and use the dim pub lights
and noise to hide tears
That flow unchecked, without reason..
Or maybe for something that's not reason.
Moving away from those closest
to us - we don't take rejection well
So better push than get pushed.
What we will pass to our progeny
would be tales of vicious companies
That we offered our youth to,
Hoping they would value
Life more than luxury.
PK Wakefield May 2010
from between 2 somethings
arose a kind erosion
saying, "your you is a light lie crusting on the tongue of truth"
i could not
find a suitable
vocal enunciation to repeal
this tepid assertion
so i gave
him a measure of myself
laughing
The pathway to the hidden falls,
greenest trees and ivy walls,
Humid day and rain a threat,
Forest living, thick and wet.

Pebbles on this path to be,
Never ending, fast to me.
Flip flops make an obstacle,
For me to keep the pace we go.

The peach in hand is almost eaten,
When roaring waters reveal this Eden,
The water falls so quick approaching
seems to stick my memory's poaching.

We climb the uphill train of rocks,
more like boulders, need for socks,
Majesty miracle's tickle my senses,
Like watching babe ruth swing for the fences.

Something here is overpowering
behind the force field something is flowering,
Wet smooth rocks lay geometric,
something alive and something electric.

Native American premonitions,
Thoughts of the beginning of all of this swishin',
Waterfall dreams sparkle like diamonds,
Foam and water, slippery minded.

Brain chemical explosion.
Somethings been bound.
Something is gone
something I found
Burned in my imagination
is this place that I visited
on my vacation.
CE Green Jan 2014
Jovial mess on bed encapsulates heartburn diarama
a fresh coat Bismuth Business man with codeine red sweet stains on his dockers
3am Dharmic ranting
"job well done Wednesdays"
and "feel good Fridays"
Moronic howling immediacy
immediately vibrating cell walls within the twenty-something aged voice box device.

Burly chest galavant
push up to get the muscle fat
lean, and impress upon
the natural on-and-on
leave the face unscathed along
Have to be outside
Outside where it's most safe
ascend the incline just before the nightshade
lose your technology in the primordial Koi Fish Pond in oxymoronic fashion and let the nature of this dream leer at you from the area down below.
Julie had never been one to partake in

Girly things, dollies and frills

Julie was one of those tomboy like girls

Who looked out for adventurous thrills

She loved riding bikes, down the hill at high speed

Screaming loud with her hands in the air

But Julie could not play in organized sports

Her mum said the cash wasn't there

She sat on the  sidelines and watched all the games

To not play the game was a sin

But Julie Macado would spend her whole life

On the outside of things looking in.

She knew all the players on all of the teams

She wanted so badly to play

But Julie Macado would learn pretty fast

She was one of the have-nots that day

In gym she was better than all of the guys

She sank every shot that she tried

But organized sports was just out of her league

She was still sitting on the outside

Her friends that she played with said

"Go see the coach", maybe he'll let you join up

When she told her poor mother that that's what's she'd do

Her mother told her to shut up

"I've done my best girl, to give you a life"

"And charity...I'll never take"

"If you're gonna play then you'll pay your own way

"For you learn more when somethings at stake"

So Julie went out, hustled, working part time

Doing all that she could to make bucks

But, when she had enough money to finally join in

The season was done...and that *****!

Even though she had shown she could be on the team

She was finished and did not begin

Poor Julie Macodo was still not on the team

She was still outside looking in

She worked all that summer making money galore

She'd be ready to sign up that fall

She had enough money to pay for herself

She was going to play basketball

Her mum lost her job in early July

The plant that she worked at had closed

Now she too was outside looking in at the others

They would move...that was what she supposed

Again Julie Macado would miss out again

All of her money she gave to her mom

She would be an outsider for all of her life

Never playing a game...'cept for fun

Even though she was better than all in her school

She would never be in looking out

Until that one day, when a man from Kentucky

Had come up to Freeling to scout

He'd heard of this girl, who could shoot from the floor

She had skills that he had seldom seen

He signed her on up to a four year free ride

It was all like a really good dream

He told her of how, he had gotten a letter

About a young girl ..that was her

It was written in crayon and a little bid blurry

And it stated out with a Dear Ser,

the spelling was bad, but he read it completely

It told of how Julie could play

But she had not school record, no history so

He set out to see the girl play

He contacted the school and he asked them for game films

They said she played only in gym

So he set out directly to see for himself

The decision would be up to him

Now, Julie Macado has realized her dream

Her life is all set to begin

She did it herself, with a note from her Mother

She was no longer out looking in.
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs

stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did—
you imagine His surprise

bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
—to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said

whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song,
might i’m called and did no wrong

cried the third crumb,i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don’t punish us for we were good;

and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God,my name
is must and with the others i’ve
been Effie who isn’t alive

just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie’s little, in

(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjunctive crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs:
picture His peering biggest whey

coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way—
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed

with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering ******)
—staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day

cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way.
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
Aztec Cathrine Jan 2018
When I lay next to you I never thought I couldn't have my heart on fire, on fire. But the fire can only run skin deep. Know your lying when you say you love. I should not have fallen through like
I have done before. But everything stops now, because somethings
gotta change, like the way you talk to me, I know this is not in my fantasy. No nothing is going to phase me now, because everything is changed. Its not like is was before. When we would fight on knock on each others doors. No reason to say somethings gotta change. When we see each other we don't talk. It never hurt me but, I still cry.
It really did not **** me so am I half alive, half alive. Somethings gotta change.
Hello everyone. A song inspired me to write this. Hope you guys like it.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Somethings false
somethings true
somethings are
too true

the elements looked inside my brain
said this man needs some storm rain wind
to aid and abet his pernicious melancholic

too true

worries list and complain ain't gonna do,
put when a revelation slips out
that touches the highest priority
pain points
writing poetry
can't help
even and especially if

too true

like to tell you I am happy to be alive
but that would be a lie

somewhere behind my forehead is
an amorphous ache that only goes quietude
but Cain marked never disappears.

you can't take it with you,
happiness seems to have a shelf life,
a half life, that cuts the time you get to get it
in half.

but the amorphous ache
you call depression
that I call
desperation
has no life,
it just never dies

Rain, flooding and wind advisories
come to mix and match
the desperation that is
pill-proof

they don't laugh at me,
cause they know
desperation is
too true.
Bellis Tart Dec 2010
As I walk down these streets, I'm smiling
the streets aren't slippery,
they aren't riddled with puddles,
the sky sits like a blanket,
just resting on the top of the city
As I draw in a deep breath
of cold, crisp air
I'm slapped in the face
as it all comes crashing back
with every click clack and scuff of my shoes on the street top
it's as though my feet aren't mine
they walk, and I have no say
in where they go
or how fast they move,
or where they stop
I know they think they're going to the market
I know they think they'll walk the isles
and I know they think they'll carry me to the checkout
but unfortunately I know
that although they are amazing feet
and they've gotten me where I am today
they will not pay the bill at the grocery store
and their full time job as my carriers
leaves no precious time for moonlighting
so it's been left up to my soul
it's will to survive is much stronger than the feet
it knows that though I've done somethings
somethings that hurt too much to allow them to turn into memories in my mind
that scar, and brand and torment the soul
injury after self inflicted injury
that us two, we belong together
that even though I may have sold you,
dear soul
to someone else
for just enough money to pay the checkout clerk
to fill my stomach, if only for one day
to feed my demons, and steady my crutch
you forgive me, for my survival is yours
you know this pain I feel, for it's your pain too
so when, dear soul
tomorrow comes, and I always wake up,
with that brief moment just before I allow my eyes to open
where it's like staring at the sky, walking to the beat
of my feet click clacking down the street
as I feel the crisp air move into and fill my lungs
and escape quickly a little warmer
when nothing else in the world is in my mind
you are there.
(c) 04/12/10
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."


Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,

I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *
Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?


Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,

where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA.,
friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,

of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *
Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.


even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.
1.  What makes this poem special, if anything, is the trust and confidences we share with each other, that allowed me to perhaps catch just little bit something special of each of you, where I could.

2. Can anyone explain to me why the site labels this poem explicit?
Tyler Atherton Jul 2018
its 4:30 am...
im awake thinking, living, and breathing...
but somethings different..

my heart... its breaking,aching and shaking...
all because of a guy..

my minds racing, chasing, and raising..
all the problems of my life..

and im slowly fading, wasting, and breaking..
because i dont know who i am..

not anymore...



© Copyright Tyler Atherton
This isn't him,
This can't be the face he's left here,
This isn't the face he's used to seeing,
Solidified in the mirror.
It can't be the current one,
Or even close,
It's not at all how he recalls from the ponds he's known.
Not the one admired,
On crystal clear days,
Or the one sang with,
Through some humming nights.
Maybe his memory is just fogged up,
Maybe this reflection is just blurry from the showers,
They'd have burned others skin.
Still this can't be the face.
Not with the potholes for eyes,
Waning moons for lips,
And cliches for brains.
Or maybe things,
Maybe they do just change,
Maybe sometimes somethings sink in the earthquakes,
And are never swam in again.
Maybe sometimes there's no hope for reversal, redemption,
Or some rectifying light to right what's left,
Only hope in surviving the new.
I guess that's all there ever was.
If only he had it sooner,
He would have thrived in the old world,
Found melodies in the days and more mirror-less memories for the nights.
Only then could things be better off,
Different.
older poem, don't turn on your front camera or introspection may occur.
When my life begins with pain,
I Suffered with pain
When people lies to me,
When someone hides things from me,
When someone a Psychopath and obsession about me,
When someone wants to hurt me,
when someone yells at me,
When someone wants to be mad at me,
When someone just someone got problems with me
That my life with suffering in pain.

When life comes in force,
somethings that i don't want to do,
somethings about to keep secrets,
somethings when people complains
about what they want me to do that i don't.

that why that things in life that isn't good for me
don't need to come in from suffering.

My suffering is that cause that i have people in
my life that does all those things to me or force me to do.
I want is peace and love.
That isn't hard to ask.
Kiernan Norman Jul 2014
I try to live Here. Here is humid-sticky-underground-dance-hall hot. I’m caught tight in a mess of limbs- bodies stretch and sway from this to Eden. I have never been more lonely. Together we inhale metallic Old Spice. Together we exhale stale tap water hymns. I am breathing all alone.

My tired tongue kicks awake to cheap nail poison as I tap each fingernail against bottom teeth and lightly push three times.
(Four times or eight times. Ten times in one quick, heart-drop minute but who’s counting?
Me. Of course I’m counting. There’s not a beat, rhyme or giggle that hasn’t busy-bee buzzed around my foggy brain. Each thought its own color, each touching down on a different set of crumb-glazed quilts or a different tower of gutted magazines. Each bee is long and thin, pointy in a terrifying way. Each bloated and dripping with a grand idea- which they leave like droppings and are so specifically intense they will never make any sense a breath apart from this moment and this context which crumpled and blew away while I dully, dutifully checked my pulse. I'm alive but my thoughts took off. I can see their exhaust but they fled fast, like they knew I could only begin to gnaw on them. They were born to quickly, maniacally live and die- in and out and there then off and gone.)

Here. Here the walls are chipping off one hundred years, one hundred lives of lead-based paint and are dripping onto the frayed denim of my ****** cut-offs. Impossibly long hair, absurd to call it mine, hangs heavy and wet. The strands shed drops of atmosphere on my (and their and your and-) bare feet. I’m my own sumi brush- my calligraphy is not words, but a footprint-marked path to treasure. Braided bits cling heavy and soaked to the curve of my neck and then billow like sheets hung out in the wind. My sharp, slick scapula must be the laundry line. It’s one of the good bones. Good bones only exist while jutting. The scapula is the beautiful ******* of my skeleton and we finally have made nice.

Here the music is so loud. The bass ignites my dental cavities. They sting and pierce as a reminder of how terribly I’m taking care. Lights blink, the room quakes and I need water.  I’m throbbing and flickering and faces attached to bones slither between each other and grind up into my own perfect focus. They’re smirking.

One at a time they appear with a warm, grainy hand on the small of my cold-sweat back. Each face of bones lean in close, dry and cracked lips that graze my own fever-hot ears. Goose bumps sling up and down limbs and the lips, all smudgy red lipstick and cigarette breath, whisper something to me that is absolutely crucial. It’s something beautiful or something hilarious or something crude but I can’t hear it. I’ll never hear it. They throw their bones back and cackle-laughing so hard it must be painful. All I can hear is my eardrums cracking and breaking, laying the bass for a high pitched dial tone.

One by one they do this and then, with a huge play-dough smile and eyes as deep as I feel, they slowly back away from my flimsy, electric body. I know they’re relieved they didn’t get stung. This goes on for forty straight hours. I feel like the Queen bored and still as they file through to kiss my ring. I feel like I’m at my own wake. I am beginning to erupt. I am lightly vibrating with the burden of militant creativity. I think I'm melting from the inside out. The bones still laugh and the bees, diving like war missiles, are screaming that it’s time to flesh out that novel, string precise words together in a huge, monumental way down golden strings that will change the world for the better and forever hang on God's graceful neck. It's time to record that beloved lullaby and sculpt that masterpiece or put on black clothes, sneak out and vandalize monuments. It is all absolutely crucial and so very urgent. Everything is wailing and I’m nodding slowly because if I do not do it, ALL OF IT, now- right this instant and quickly- I will die having said nothing. I will have wasted my opportunity to matter.

Here. Here the bone-bodies continue to mock me. The room stays dim and damp and I don’t think I’ll ever get clean. After twenty minutes or seventy years the crowd thins out, lights switch on illuminating exit signs and the room slowly, sadly, empties. I am sticky and aching and have never felt dumber. The bone-bodies left their blurry sweat, their empty bottles and their void inspirations like blank fortunes trailing across the bar top. There’s a real, fur, calf-length coat and a fake Birkin bag in the corner. My feet are filthy.

Here. But I’m not really Here. Here is bougy and exclusive. There’s no list but you probably can’t get in because actually Here is utter *******. Here is the moldy bricks and pre-war ceilings inside my head.
Leaving Here is too easy. You blink and you’re gone. Then I try to remember what party I even went to but I’m sitting Indian style and cramped on rough carpet and my back is in knots and everything I’m thinking is slow, melting taffy lose and inconsistent.

The sun starts to rise up pink through broken bedroom blinds and I know that I went way down deep and danced and gripped tight to flurrying ideas and made a big mess and now I’m stuck ripping papier-mâché, three inches thick, off coat-check walls and trying to read the graffiti-ed bathroom stalls but the Sharpie is dripping and I might be illiterate.

The Somethings I came to flirt with are hiding and won’t answer ‘POLO’ no matter how loudly I scream ‘Marco! ******* Marco!’ I’m reeling and under-breath begging ‘and please come find me and let’s make stuff and we can’t waste this and I can’t be a waste.’ But below all the pacing and knuckle-cracking I know that there are no Somethings listening to my panicky prayers. They sneaked out while I was braiding my hair for the sixth time, humming something old and Johnny Cash-y that I remembered and liked and had to Google and perform eight times for a mirror. I sneeze and I want to cry. I don’t think I know how to read. Edges start to blur and the alphabets a mess.

In defeat I’ll wash my face and slide under one light blanket and quickly sweat through it. I’ll lower my heavy, thick-thought and dizzy head onto a stack of three pillows. My vision will fall away from me and stars will explode in a chatty whisper that has be immobile and straining and sore. I will treat them like a sky full of fireworks blazing just for me. I'll ooh and ahh and my heart will palpitate under the weight of them. (Really I do know they're just amphetamine snowflakes falling slowly and burying my wasted night.  I swear next time I won’t waste it.) But at that moment I'll watch the show and feel safe and small and inconsequential, at last.
Callamasttia Feb 2019
They say somethings are just like riding a bike, you can't forget
I remember I learned pretty young how to get by on my own and in self defense my head was set
Then you came around, it was like in all my beliefs you pressed reset
From one minute to the other the world wasn't grey anymore, I could finally see a colorful sunset
I didn't have to struggle so much anymore, I've put my defenses down cause then I wasn't alone to defeat the threats
Then you went away, and I was on my own again
I tried to calm myself because I've been alone before, I knew how to get it right, I know how to pilot this plane
Told myself "somethings are just like riding a bike, you can't forget"
So here I'm asking why the hell life ain't fair
Because I'm going crazy trying to figure it out how to keep sane without you there.

- I'm starting to think you were a drug disguised as a person.
Mike Bergeron Sep 2012
There was a house fire on my street last night …well… not exactly my street, but on a little, sketchy, dead-end strip of asphalt, sidewalks, weeds, and garbage that juts into my block two houses down. It was on that street. Rosewood Court, population: 12, adjusted population: 11, characterized by anonymity and boarded windows, peppered with the swift movements of fat street rats. I’ve never been that close to a real, high-energy, make-sure-to-spray-down-your-roof-with-a-hose-so-it-doesn’t-catch­ fire before. It was the least of my expectations for the evening, though I didn’t expect a crate of Peruvian bananas to fall off a cargo plane either, punching through the ceiling, littering the parking lot with damaged fruit and shingles, tearing paintings and shelves and studs from the third floor walls, and crashing into our kitchen, shattering dishes and cabinets and appliances. Since that never happened, and since neither the former nor the latter situation even crossed my mind, I’ll stick with “least of my expectations,” and bundle up with it inside that inadequate phrase whatever else may have happened that I wouldn’t have expected.



I had been reading in my living room, absently petting the long calico fur of my roommate’s cat Dory. She’s in heat, and does her best to make sure everyone knows it, parading around, *** in the air, an opera of low trilling and loud meows and deep purring. As a consequence of a steady tide of feline hormones, she’s been excessively good humored, showering me with affection, instead of her usual indifference, punctuated by occasional, self-serving shin rubs when she’s hungry. I saw the lights before I heard the trucks or the shouts of firemen or the panicked wail of sirens, spitting their warning into the night in A or A minor, but probably neither, I’m no musician. Besides, Congratulations was playing loud, flowing through the speakers in the corners of the room, connected to the record player via the receiver with the broken volume control, travelling as excited electrons down stretches of wire that are, realistically, too short, and always pull out. The song was filling the space between the speakers and the space between my ears with musings on Brian Eno, so the auditory signal that should have informed me of the trouble that was afoot was blocked out. I saw the lights, the alternating reds and whites that filled my living room, drawing shifting patterns on my walls, ceiling, floor, furniture, and shelves of books, dragging me towards the door leading outside, through the cluttered bike room, past the sleeping, black lump of oblivious fur that is usually my boisterous male kitten, and out into the bedlam I  had previously been ignorant to. I could see the smoke, it was white then gray then white, all the while lending an acrid taste to the air, but I couldn’t see where it was issuing from. The wind was blowing the smoke toward my apartment, away from Empire Mills. I tried to count the firetrucks, but there were so many. I counted six on Wilmarth Ave, one of which was the awkward-looking, heavy-duty special hazards truck. In my part of the city, the post-industrial third-wave ***** river valley, you never know if the grease fire that started with homefries in a frying pan in an old woman’s kitchen will escalate into a full-blown mill fire, the century-old wood floors so saturated with oil and kerosene and ****** and manufacturing chemicals and ghosts and god knows what other flammable **** that it lights up like a fifth of July leftover sparkler, burning and melting the hand of the community that fed it for so many decades, leaving scars that are displayed on the local news for a week and are forgotten in a few years’ time.



The night was windy, and the day had been dry, so precautions were abundant, and I counted two more trucks on Fones Ave. One had the biggest ladder I’ve ever seen. It was parked on the corner of Fones and Wilmarth, directly across from the entrance into the forgotten dead-end where the forgotten house was burning, and the ladder was lifting into the air. By now my two roommates had come outside too, to stand on our rickety, wooden staircase, and Jeff said he could see flames in the windows of one of the three abandoned houses on Rosewood, through the third floor holes where windows once were, where boards of plywood were deemed unnecessary.



“Ay! Daddy!”



My neighbor John called up to us. He serves as the eyes and ears and certainly the mouth of our block, always in everyone’s business, without being too intrusive, always aware of what’s going down and who’s involved. He proceeded to tell us the lowdown on the blaze as far as he knew it, that there were two more firetrucks and an ambulance down Rosewood, that the front and back doors to the house were blocked by something from inside, that those somethings were very heavy, that someone was screaming inside, that the fire was growing.



Val had gone inside to get his jacket, because despite the floodlights from the trucks imitating sunlight, the wind and the low temperature and the thought of a person burning alive made the night chilly. Val thought we should go around the block, to see if we could get a better view, to satisfy our congenital need to witness disaster, to see the passenger car flip over the Jersey barrier, to watch the videos of Jihadist beheadings, to stand in line to look at painted corpses in velvet, underlit parlors, and sit in silence while their family members cry. We walked down the stairs, into full floodlight, and there were first responders and police and fully equipped firefighters moving in all directions. We watched two firemen attempting to open an old, rusty fire hydrant, and it could’ve been inexperience, the stress of the situation, the condition of the hydrant, or just poor luck, but rather than opening as it was supposed to the hydrant burst open, sending the cap flying into the side of a firetruck, the water crashing into the younger of the two men’s face and torso, knocking him back on his ***. While he coughed out surprised air and water and a flood of expletives, his partner got the situation under control and got the hose attached. We turned and walked away from the fire, and as we approached the turn we’d take to cut through the rundown parking lot that would bring us to the other side of the block, two firemen hurried past, one leading the other, carrying between them a stretcher full of machines for monitoring and a shitload of wires and tubing. It was the stiff board-like kind, with handles on each end, the kind of stretcher you might expect to see circus clowns carry out, when it’s time to save their fallen, pie-faced cohort. I wondered why they were using this archaic form of patient transportation, and not one of the padded, electrical ones on wheels. We pushed past the crowd that had begun forming, walked past the Laundromat, the 7Eleven, the carwash, and took a left onto the street on the other side of the parking lot, parallel to Wilmarth. There were several older men standing on the sidewalk, facing the fire, hands either in pockets or bringing a cigarette to and from a frowning mouth. They were standing in the ideal place to witness the action, with an unobstructed view of the top two floors of the burning house, its upper windows glowing orange with internal light and vomiting putrid smoke.  We could taste the burning wires, the rugs, the insulation, the asbestos, the black mold, the trash, and the smell was so strong I had to cover my mouth with my shirt, though it provided little relief. We said hello, they grunted the same, and we all stood, watching, thinking about what we were seeing, not wanting to see what we were thinking.

Two firefighters were on the roof by this point, they were yelling to each other and to the others on the ground, but we couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the sirens from all the emergency vehicles that were arriving.  It seemed to me they sent every firetruck in the city, as well as more than a dozen police cars and a slew of ambulances, all of them arriving from every direction. I guess they expected the fire to get really out of hand, but we could already see the orange glow withdrawing into the dark of the house, steam and smoke rippling out of the stretched, wooden mouths of the rotted window frames. In a gruff, habitual smoker’s voice, we heard

                                      “Chopper called the fire depahtment

We was over at the vet’s home

                He says he saw flames in the windas

                                                                                                                                                We all thought he was shittin’ us

We couldn’t see nothin’.”

A man between fifty-five to sixty-five years old was speaking, no hair on his shiny, tanned head, old tattoos etched in bluish gray on his hands, arms, and neck, menthol smoke rising from between timeworn fingers. He brought the cigarette to his lips, drew a hearty chest full of smoke, and as he let it out he repeated

                                                “Yea, chopper called em’

Says he saw flames.”

The men on the roof were just silhouettes, backlit by the dazzling brightness of the lights on the other side.  The figure to the left of the roof pulled something large up into view, and we knew instantly by the cord pull and the sound that it was a chainsaw. He began cutting directly into the roof. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, wondered if he was scared of falling into the fire, assumed he probably was, but had at least done this before, tried to figure out if he was doing it to gain entry or release pressure or whatever. The man to the right was hacking away at the roof with an axe. It was surreal to watch, to see two men transformed from public servants into fingers of destruction, the pinkie and ring finger fighting the powerful thumb of the controlled chemical reaction eating the air below them, to watch the dark figures shrouded in ethereal light and smoke and sawdust and what must’ve been unbearable heat from below, to be viewing everything with my own home, my belongings, still visible, to know it could easily have gone up in flames as well.

I should’ve brought my jacket. I remember complaining about it, about how the wind was passing through my skin like a window screen, chilling my blood, in sharp contrast to the heat that was morphing and rippling the air above the house as it disappeared as smoke and gas up into the atmosphere from the inside out.

Ten minutes later, or maybe five, or maybe one, the men on the roof were still working diligently cutting and chopping, but we could no longer see any signs of flames, and there were figures moving around in the house, visible in the windows of the upper floors, despite the smoke. Figuring the action must be reaching its end, we decided to walk back to our apartment. We saw Ken’s brown pickup truck parked next to the Laundromat, unable to reach our parking lot due to all the emergency vehicles and people clogging our street. We came around the corner and saw the other two members of the Infamous Summers standing next to our building with the rest of the crowd that had gathered. Dosin told us the fire was out, and that they had pulled someone from inside the gutted house, but no ambulance had left yet, and his normally smiling face was flat and somber, and the beaten guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his messed up hair, and the red in his cheeks from the cold air, and the way he was moving rocks around with the toe of his shoe made him look like a lost child, chasing a dream far from home but finding a nightmare in its place, instead of the professional who never loses his cool or his direction.

The crowd all began talking at once, so I turned around, towards the dead end and the group of firefighters and EMTs that were emerging. Their faces were stoic, not a single expression on all but one of those faces, a young EMT, probably a Basic, or a Cardiac, or neither, but no older than twenty, who was silently weeping, the tears cutting tracks through the soot on his cheeks, his eyes empty of emotion, his lips drawn tight and still. Four of them were each holding a corner of the maroon stretcher that took two to carry when I first saw it, full of equipment. They did not rush, they did not appear to be tending to a person barely holding onto life, they were just carrying the weight. As they got close gasps and cries of horror or disgust or both issued from the crowd, some turned away, some expressions didn’t change, some eyes closed and others stayed fixed on what they came to see. One woman vomited, right there on the sidewalk, splashing the shoes of those near her with the partially digested remains of her EBT dinner. I felt my own stomach start to turn, but I didn’t look away. I couldn’t.

                                                                                It was like I was seven again,

                                in the alleyway running along the side of the junior high school I lived near and would eventually attend,

looking in silent horror at what three eighth graders from my neighborhood were doing.

It was about eight in the evening of a rainy,

late summer day,

and I was walking home with my older brother,

cutting through the alley like we always did.

The three older boys were standing over a small dog,

a terrier of some sort.

They had duct taped its mouth shut and its legs together,

but we could still hear its terrified whines through its clenched teeth.

One of the boys had cut off the dog’s tail.

He had it in one hand,

and was still holding the pocket knife in the other.

None of them were smiling,

or talking,

nor did they take notice of Andrew and I.

There was a garden bag standing up next to them that looked pretty full,

and there was a small pile of leaves on the ground next to it.

In slow motion I watched,

horrified,

as one of the boys,

Brian Jones-Hartlett,

picked up the shaking animal,

put it in the bag,

covered it with the leaves from the ground,

and with wide,

shining eyes,

set the bag

on fire

with a long-necked

candle

lighter.

It was too much for me then. I couldn’t control my nausea. I threw up and sat down while my head swam.

I couldn’t understand. I forgot my brother and the fact that he was older, that he should stop this,

Stop them,

There’s a dog in there,

You’re older, I’m sick,

Why can’t I stop them?

It was like
AM Jun 2015
They said somethings
Are better off unspoken
Maybe that's why
He didn't tell me
That it will rain in April
And now my hair is soaked
In April's rain
While he smiles,
Holding an umbrella
For himself
David Huggett Oct 2012
At the edge of the Waterfall
My motor gone the boat drifted faster and faster.
At the edge of the waterfall as I approached the falls
helpless hopeless I thought of my life subsiding
to words and no friend message or hopes to send my life
summed to press me quickly but no time for tears in my eye
I am afraid for soon I may die.
But what the hell I lived a good life everything
I wanted with very little strife.
What may lie at the bottom of the falls as I drift closer to the edge.
The tension grows it may all soon an I suppose
I think back to a time when everything was so sublime
and peaceful and free.
I know its time so please lord take me
I will be pleased to meet you and gaze upon
your face I will know that I with your heavenly grace.
So over the edge I fall and fall and fall.
I thank you lord it is over That's all.
So the paramedic says you're lucky to be alive so somethings
glimmers inside my head with St Peter Jesus and God
I'd be better off dead.
For I have a broken pelvis and life will be full of pain.
So St Peter Jesus and God do look fine.
Check with me at a later date, some other time.

https://vimeo.com/27129652
https://vimeo.com/27129652

to see the video
Daniel Borgonovi Apr 2018
After all the tears that streamed heavily down your jovial face, I knew it was time to walk towards time.
The pulsing blood rushed in a cold path and made all of my limbs become completely petrified, and i wish things never changed. But I understand it is a sin to ask for fake desires and situations.
As my body walked pass the silver door, a glance of regret flew like a bullet through my skull. I realized that once out of that door, I would never have you back.
Somethings can't simply be fixed, I presume. But somethings can't be forgotten, also.
By the deepest corner of my heart, breathing  very hardly, there is hope.
There resides your moon and my sun, frozen in time in our eternal kiss.
Somethings can't be changed, and will never be.
I forgive you.
The Willow Dec 2015
I am in control
I am in control
I have my life
I have my soul

My hands are strong
I know, I am sure
My opinions are fact
And I have no fear

I know what I'm doing
There's no doubt in my mind
I'm not allowed to feel pain
Only to love and be kind.

I am in control
I am in control
I am sure of my choices
I am sure of my goal

Because if I'm not in control

I am nothing.
Jonathan B Toro Jul 2012
Hop off my galaxy trip -
No, soar to a million shores and
find men with antelopes for beards that
Breathes air into life-less gizzards.

Im freezin' for  the beach's herbs
Remembering, dry skins that
hung amongst the lying ones.

But isn't it fun?
To make fun of someone's mind flaws
Without him knowing the cause
nor the fault for - lack of a better word-
feelings- being hurt.
But jerks do exist and I do believe
That I'm also a flee on My Monkey's ****.
jeffrey conyers Jan 2013
Somethings, you think about.
And know the answer before it comes.
You just seeking confirmation on the matter.

Some issues pushes us to see the truth of reality.

Somethings, are done for many reasons.
We just chose to question's the happenings.

They could be of our own making.
Or a higher force for a teaching.
Somethings just got to be outside our reaching it.

It's through growth we see maturity.
It's through growth we learn responsibilty.

And it comes from something we have done.
Cheyenne Majors Dec 2012
and there he goes typing
with those ****** up fingers
as he likes to call them
writing his little nothings
or as i prefer to call them
sweet somethings
and every  now and then
he'll grace me with eye contact
and i'll only have a split second to decide
what color his eyes are today

— The End —