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Do you remember the night I came
down, and you were sitting on the
windowsill? One leg up and the
other left hanging, in one of your
white oversized shirts and your
hot-pink pajama pants. Outside
the snow fell like feathers, blue
in the moonlight and black in the
shadows, with a tinge of orange
from that annoying nearby streetlight.

You looked at me, saw me in my
blue boxer briefs and teal t-shirt,
and you didn’t say a word, and
neither did I. Neither of us had
to. I sat down beside you, a mirror
image, and we stared with deafening
expressions. The snow piled on
like feathers strewn across the
room of two lovers too happy to
control themselves. I looked into
the darkness, and you glanced at
the orange sun tainting the solemn
blue hue. And then you turned away,
walked away. I stayed, watching
the snow fall in the dark.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
'Ello ya'll! So, I'm usually too busy stroking other things to stroke my own narcissism, but I just want to say that, if I take my ego out of the equation and judge this poem dissociatively, I believe it is the best poem I have written. I wrote it with the intent of there being a deeper meaning behind it. But since I've written it, I keep thinking of different ways you readers would interpret the bits and pieces, and I keep coming up with countless different ideas between the images and details and the relationship. It's honestly freaking me out. But aside from my obvious boasting, I would encourage you other poets and writers to read back on your own works and try doing the same thing. Put yourself in someone else's shoes and see if your bits and pieces can be interpreted in a different light than you initially intended. You might be pleasantly surprised that one of your works is more complex than you thought possible, and you can use what you learn from that odd experience in future works. Anyways, I hope my shameless self-promotion isn't too intrusive in my bigger message/advice, and in the end I just hope you read and enjoy. Ciao!
Can you tell me have I lost my mind?
Seeking other lonely to be my guide.
Streetlight prophets have all your answers for a price
Turning all your coppers into fortified signs.

I keep on dreaming of you and of you only
Speaking your name as though it's something I hold holy
But can you tell me does the sky get lonely
.. Siting all alone up there

Sing me songs of love and revolution
In a rage of fury and absolution
The alley oracles keep searching for solutions
To find fortune in hearts weakened by contusions.
They sing...

Find me love sweet like sacramental wine
For my penance I'd pay any price
Give me strength to pursue my paradise
And the wisdom when I find it to recognize
That the only thing missing in my life
Was someone to walk beside.

They sing...
Can you tell us have we lost our minds
Seeking other lonely to be our guides
To navigate and hide us in the streetlights
As we lay awake looking for a sign.
will19008 May 6
filthy whiskey
smoking asphalt alleyways
roaring ******* windowsills
shuddering stoops

midnight money
shaking subway traffic
neon red hotels
battered archangel blues

starving madness
sweet ecstatic ***
naked eyes lounging
******* harlequin ******

blemished evenings
hopeless
humorless
concrete amnesia
blind hungry dreams

jukebox consciousness
bald drunken incantations
suicide waitresses
the holy pavement angel

tenement jazz
weeping
dreaming
scribbling *****
screaming delight

sirens
sunrise
disgorged rivers
tender moans
pure unshaven salvation
Nicola-Isobel H Sep 2016
Black Chrysler.

White Ferrari.

Loaded barrel.

Dark corner.

Back seat.

Trigger, trigger.

Streetlight.

Unmade bed.

Bathroom floor.

Bang, bang.
©Nicola-Isobel H.         04.09.2016
Neon euphoria;
We bring rapture unto the night,
As we venture forth
under orange streetlight.

Join us as we quest
to compose a good time,
And glide, rapt in lamplight,
On a high that's divine.

Express yourself,
Drop a line,
The movies taught us
adventure was never a crime.

No longer do we face rejection,
Now we are the stuff of legend.
When night falls
this city is mine.

It's what we know,
What was left for us
to find; it's not a crime
to have a good time.
There's streetlight outside
burning in the blue-black sky,
Standing on the pavement
with friends by its side,
They'll sway in the wind till morning
then flicker and die.
Only by the night
does a spark ignite,
Illuminating suburbia
in perfect half-light.

"In this silence I believe".

The streetlights are lonely
as they sway in the wind.
Their job is to **** the darkness,
Yet dawn signals their end.

Teenagers climbing streetlights
cause they like to get high,
Hanging from lamp posts
just to feel alive.
Ascend the mast,
Attain a heading,
Set sail and let adventure come running.

In the hazy orange glow of la madrugada
some things will appear clearer than others.

For where the mind may be lost
what might stand to be found?
Quote:
-Line Eleven from Silence by Mt. Eden Dubstep
Note:
-"Madrugada" is the Spanish word for "early hours of the morning" (the period of time between midnight and before sunrise).
Lanz Gabor Apr 28
Her name is Scarlet,
a beautiful rose.
She is like poetry,
and not prose.

Beside the streetlight,
glowing of amber.
With her iconic coat,
she starts to wander.

Her heart is ablaze,
like a dancing inferno.
Thrilled with adventure,
and euphoria for tomorrow.

A staircase to nowhere,
and she runs high.
Fearing the unknown,
but still choosing to fly.

Beyond the veil:
a gateway to time.
Marvelous and profound,
it was celestial with rhyme.

And her name is Scarlet,
a beautiful rose.
A mystery from the stars,
and from there she goes.
02-08-2018
for g
Edward Coles Feb 2017
The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.

Drunk laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.

She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.

She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.

She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.

Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.

I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.

Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.

Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.

I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.

If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The hell we retain;
Our paradise, lost.
C
clio Oct 2018
from the rose under her nose
a gentle fog of smoke escaped her scarlet lips
a slow and hateful eye roll was flashed on her face
as the colors on her hair never seemed to fade

perfectly poised, she paints poignant statures
alive yet devoid, her daggers dazzle through her wrists
her heart is heavy but she cannot weep
her eyes are closed but she’d never sleep

the moon looks opaque tonight, kind of like city girl skin
she’s in the streetlight, all dressed to ****
lord should have seen how the traffic lights all stuttered from red to green
oh please
the devil himself wouldn't be so cruel to this soul
alodie.
grace snoddy Mar 2018
lying awake
and looking for all of the answers
in my ceiling.

asking why
it has to be me who feels this way
               (feeling completely lifeless, and absolutely hopeless)

asking You
               “haven’t you taken enough from me?”
               “why must you haunt my dreams?”

and the only bit of light i have
comes from the streetlight by my window,
it shines on You.

and from the corner i hear You,
with a vacant and harrowing tone.
and the detached vowels and consonants
echo throughout the hallways.
they hang themselves on the wall
as a reminder.

               “they say nothing kills a man faster than his own head”.
JB Sep 2018
you wish you
knew
where you
could walk off to

-to Night:
half-drunk-
staggering cigarettes-
slamming a-
streetlight
shimmering
view of
two-
sidewalks snaking-
who?-



what few
friends you
have are all sleeping
or dead
or in your own head
and all the bars close
too

soon...



(you
stop)


intentionless
on the edge of your
bed
with the final four
cigarettes

and that ******* song still in your head
gracie Aug 30
and your halo can be seen on november nights before the car starts
when our breath is cold in the air
and, for a moment,
your words can be seen instead of felt.

when i look out the window,
i see a streetlight.
matilda shaye Mar 2014
I am outside a high school party with a cigarette in my hand and my sweater trailing on the ground. I belong to the night; to the teenage desperation you find right through the front door inside every single one of those boys and girls eyes. It is dark outside but I can make out everyone's faces simply by the light of cigarettes. I close my eyes for a second and inhale. I can barely make out the silhouette of the person I wish was in front of me. My eyes open. You are not here. To my left there's an alley and a short boy is throwing up the 22 shots that are tallied on his forearm. His best friend is video taping it. I don't think I'm really here. Is this the alcohol speaking? I didn't feel this attached to you 3 hours ago. My mother thinks I am at work. I don't feel bad at all. After everything I have done, lying is simple. I've become accustomed to being a lie. A boy is trying to get two girls to make out and that offends me. I'm not here. I'm not anywhere. I'm with you. I matter to you. I matter to someone. I am something.
I open my eyes.
A guy is handing me a beer, so I take it. I should be going home but that girl looks like you. There are four boys to my right free styling. One of them is actually really good. I try to weave through the people to find a familiar face. I find one, and he's handing me a bottle. I don't know what it is, but I drink. It burns.
I'm outside again sitting on the curb. The streetlight that shines above me is a dark shade of yellow that glows off every wall. It reminds me of the night. The moon is looking at me with an intensity I've never seen before. I have a text from you on my phone but I don't want to open it. I don't want to be able to feel this much. I go to find the bottle again.
I'm laughing a lot now. I found the bottle. The familiar face is laughing too. Her boyfriend broke her heart last week.
Your silhouette is standing in the corner. It's beckoning me. I open your text:
do you need something?
I close your text. I close my phone and my eyes and my arms and my heart and I throw my empty beer can at that silhouette of yours.
I'm outside again. Familiar face is going to take me home.
The cigarette is glowing orange and I'm dancing to her car.
You don't love me. I don't care.
Bard Dec 2018
Follow lights the will-o-wisps
To red lights onto pillow slips
Walk under streetlight to pink lips

Everyone after green glow
Even if it means being a ***
J.Gatsby's after the afterglow

Peddlin their product, street vendors
Dealin in meat and being tender
****** in a backseat, body lenders

Crafting blissfull afterglow and after glow
Some call it sinful so callow although
Most aren't so shallow, chill in a bordello

Red lights swimmin in the air
Sanctity dyin without care
For sale tittys and derriere
Jim Hill Dec 2017
At 104th street
a great bulk of igneous rock
heaves itself from Central Park—
wet black-green in halide streetlight
like a breaching submarine.

I hadn’t seen this place before;
still, I passed, all a funk,
mind inside itself (a typical brood),
moving past with just a sidelong look.

By a low stone wall
at the foot of the cliff, a man
(black parka, pants
too long, high-top shoes)
leaned as if in muttered
collusion with the ground.

He spoke to someone as I passed
(I figured he was drunk).
“Fella,” I heard him say,
as if to me.
I stopped, and looking back,
saw from across the wall,
crouched on the side of the cliff
a raccoon, black-masked,
capacious gray coat,
tiny hands.

It sat there watching me,
or rather, just watching,
attentive to some
attraction I didn’t see.

And then another.
And another.
And all along that black expanse
must have been twenty raccoons
(I didn’t think they could be so varied)
quietly foraging, awaiting,
I came to understand,
the man in the black coat.

He threw bread to them
like the old pigeon lady in
Mary Poppins
and five or so gathered nearby
on the other side of the wall
not minding his humanness,
only eating.

“I come out here every night,” he explained.
“I don’t got a girlfriend anymore,
so I come out here
and feed them to **** time.”

He tore a piece from a half-gone baguette
and threw it to a little one.

“There’s like fifty of them now,” he said.
“There were twenty when I started;
they have four or five babies every spring.
Nobody knows they’re here except me.”

As he spoke, a baby raccoon
climbed up a sapling
by the wall, extending its sharp black nose
toward the man who held a scrap of bread.
The raccoon took it unreluctantly.
I flinched at the thought of tiny
raccoon teeth missing their mark
on my index finger.
But habit was fixed and easy
here between man and raccoon.

“They’ll come up and sit on my shoulder...”
he said at last and then trailed off.

I stood and watched for several minutes—
this assembly of raccoons
along the black cliff
and the man who called them “fella” and “baby.”

At last he said with satisfaction,
“They call me the raccoon man.”
Deciding he had said his bit,
I gave a soft, enthusiastic whistle
between my teeth
as if to say,
“Well done.”

At 105th street, I felt remorse
for not having said more
to the man who drew
his nocturnal congregation every night
right there on Central Park West.
And in a gesture of regret,
I turned slightly back as I walked
to the see his black form
bent over the low wall
dispensing bread.
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