david badgerow Feb 2014

i am a house with a door
a lighthouse with sand around it
where a man takes a piss at night
away from his friends

i am a cold accidental touch
of the false pinky finger of
a janitor at work at a high school

i am burned to death in my apartment
flipped out on dirty coke
sold to me by a tampon salesman in
an envelope marked "Kotex $$"

i am disappearing into roots
a rusted out minivan in a trailer park yard
that no one drives
filled with fast food bags and baseballs

i am a glimpse into a  lifespan
but only the part of the road that you can see
from your apartment building

i am an adventure
a warm wet raindrop
landing on your face
as you walk out of the door
onto your lawn in springtime

i am not a voice or an expression
like the quiet tattoo of a boat
you keep hidden in your brassiere

i am the cool dry pillow that you dream into
i collect butterflies and stamps
and old shoes from unconscious men
in the alleyways behind bars

and that's how i've decided to make a living

Samuel May 2012

You're right, let's
see where this will lead
and in an hour I'll concede to
spending all my afternoons the
sun rising and setting with you

like after-hours swimming pools, we
lead the way and make our own rules
bollocks to the ordinary, bring on
hula hoops and sherry

I'll send my heart wrapped in a letter,
hope that it will get there over shimm'ring
sails and stormy weather, hope that it
will find its way to you

Arihant Verma Jul 2016

Waiting for that paper, a light
A cursor that keeps blinking for the next word
Even when the screen arranges to sleep in daylight
Fingers begin to itch and start being febrile.

An email, such a pity,
is more accessible than
a post box.
All the handwriting fonts that I did try, couldn’t,
Just possibly couldn’t mirror the impeccable tries
To struggle to be parallel to the top
Or bottom of a page.

The improbability of what the next thought would be
The prediction  of where the addressee would smile
Or frown, or pick up eyes to stare at the wall for a while,
To embrace what had just been conveyed.

Letters are like light, they reach us later
From when they were born, but the spaces
they illuminate or burn on their arrival!
I wonder if our pupils shrink.

They more than just tag along, they tap in,
They’re the result of cleaning the ink from
the nib, a thousand times, over thousands
of sentences, or maybe just a few, but they do.

And don’t dare ask the pen for proof!
It’ll track down wrinkled pages
Who had their thirst quenched by
The swipes of fountain pens’ fountainheads,
And pictures of the fingers
Bathed in red, and black, and blue,
And occasionally of table clothes
Spilled over by the consequence of imperfect handles.

Imagine if light came as soon as it was made,
It would be difficult for our eyes to handle such bait
Sometimes, a pause is necessary,
Imagine a world without commas!

I’d like to peek into the writer’s letters,
Not to read, but to sense the shapes of emotions
And stretches of As and Ns, or the reach of commas
On the next line, and then, close my eyes
And shove my nose in it, to sniff hard
The paper and the blue smells,
And die doing so if it was eventual.

You are a hard ghost to pin down
my will-o'-the-wisp

If I approach you . . .
you recede
If I back up . . .
you approach

But you never let me touch you
My marsh lover

A light unto my heart
Burns where I cannot touch
Cold flames of blue leave me
No traces of heat upon my lips

My heart shivers from lack of loves inferno
The strength of my skin
Cannot be measured
The merit of my bones
Cannot be weighed

Nor will my love be finite
Caged or displayed
My lips seek soft wet kisses
That reign down on my soul


If the universe is a liquid-
No, you know what, let's drop the 'if'.
This is a certainty.
The universe is a liquid,
and you are it's tetrapack.
You've felt it too.
That stir at 2:00 in the morning.
Don't you feel Gods stir the universe in you?
By 2:30 all the stars and galaxies have realigned.
Stardust, gold, earth and sun,
you're all in one.
Love yourself, you colossal miracle.

I swear I was going somewhere with this but, what the hell, here is a poem so you feel beautiful. You deserve it. :)
Francesca Stamps Nov 2012


Letters are written,
Written in blood;
Letters are written,
For those whom we love.
(They are) written with grief
And written with pain
Wanting some love,
And craving for gain.

Letters are written,
With many a furrow;
Letters are written,
Containing much sorrow.
Created with care,
For a loved one to give.
Blooming with love,
Is how I want to live.

Letters are written,
With joy and faith;
Letters are written,
Despite our wraith.
Wanting us to stop,
So we might suffer with him;
But when looking back,
He appears quite dim.
With the same old tricks,
And the same old lie.
Do you think yourself
As better than I?

Letters are written,
Not in hope of profit;
Letters are written,
So we would not regret it.
To rue the oath,
On which we swore;
To concede defeat
We have never before.
Through thick and thin,
Through blood and sweat,
To succeed, we try
And we haven't failed yet.

This was not written by me. This was written by my brother Nicholas Stamps <3
Nateive Son May 2015

I wish I could send,
A letter to everyone,
So they'd know what it's like,
To receive anything other than bills,
In the ol' mail hole,
Something from a friend,
Something interesting,
Something that doesn't try to convince you,
To buy shit you don't need.

And I don't think people remember,
What a well-worn stamp looks like,
Beaten and baffled from sometimes a,
Thousand-mile journey.

When's the last time,
You could speak across the country,
For 49 cents,
Only to arrive,
More beautiful than when you set out?

Can also be read at: http://poetfreak.com/485336/letters-to-everyone.html
Lily Deane Jun 2014

I fell in love with you in the purchase of a postage stamp
I put your face and body and mind on paper
The way your hair curls
The way you jump with excitement and flap your arms
like a kid would on Christmas morning
How you were always there to turn to
Although I couldn't turn to you because you were never there
And by there I mean here, with me, where you should've been
I fell in love with the train tickets to you
The little orange squares like golden tickets
Granting me access to see you
To touch you
To share the foam of my coffee and laugh with you
at the man dancing at the hot dog stand
And when you finally stepped through my doorway
I swear it was Christmas and my birthday all at once
Planting my head on your chest
We bloomed and grew to heights I never knew was possible
And while little flowers blossomed at the ends of my fingertips
they grew on the tip of your tongue as you uttered those words
Those words to whom I have told but one; you
If I could find a word to describe the feeling of reading
the last several pages of a book you know has become your favourite
I would tell it to you
The hours that we whiled away and the ones that took up
the most of our day to get to each others arms before they took another’s
all meant something
And while the last bitter-sweet pages of our story have been read
Know that there's a girl who still writes you
You dance on the pages of her notebook
And while the postage stamps stay un-licked
She sends these poems to you
For in her mind you will always stay

long distance relationships are both lovely and heartbreaking

big love to those in one
Umm Kirin May 2015

You know what?
I'm going to mail a list
of all the messed-up things
you did to me
alllllll the way to where you are.

That'll be a lot of stamps.

But, you know, you might die
and it would be a real shame
if you weren't aware of the damage
done before you closed your eyes.

I think it's the least I can do
for you, O killer of sinners,
O Lion of the Desert.

It's the least I can do.

you can use it for a fire, you piece of crap
Wells Brand Sep 2012

You sent me the sweetest thing
In that package, grinning
up at me on my step-
had my name on it and everything-
how thoughtful! What a surprise!

Ok, I lied-
no package,
but now you know a desire of mine,
and it didn't cost me anything-
not even a stamp.

Robert Zheng Apr 2017

i collect stamps
not the mail kind
not the male kind
not the may hill kind
not the mayo ill kind
not the may hue kind
not the maim yew kind
not the mwaya view kind
not the mwayam myeil kind
not the amaway yilovski kind
not the mynsigwi malomisten kind
snot snee smail skind
rot tree trail rind
trotsky braille grind
hot bree hail's tine

don't tell me what is and isn't poetry fuck you
Rina Vana May 2016

Eleven days into April I threw on an emerald vest with the warm woolen center. I don’t have gloves on my body. I don’t even own those hip knit gloves with the finger holes. What happened to the spring we once knew? Lavender and full of flowers. Two days into May a year ago the New Whitney opened up to the paparazzi of opaque robin and I got drunk from a clear plastic bottle clearly full of vodka at their kickoff public block party. Nobody tried to stop me. Probably because I’m pretty. A DJ played techno beats thick enough to indulge the vast street. I danced alone on steal blue cobblestone with red-pigmented toes. My flushed eye caught colors of something that made me imagine van Gogh and did it hurt? To chop off his ear? Where would he put the fallen flowers if he picked them up?

Free drinks?
Yes, please

Passed out in the grass on the backbone of noon, I swallowed his tongue and tasted every forsythia he’s ever eaten. Maybe I was just dreaming. I recall catching a cab with my best friend because we were too wasted to make it on foot. Taxi wind whipping our hair into a tunnel. Heavy letters unopened on the kitchen table. Cherry blossoms covered the cracked leather and they smelled so much like your backyard. I’m probably dozing off to sleep.
How is it I can only see you when my concrete lids finally meet?

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