"subways" poems
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
Once I undertook a journey,
upon the very face of our entire world.
To view for myself the many pictures,
and written descriptions in all the geography
books and History Classes, National
Geographic magazines and movies seen.
A Quest to see with my own eyes what
I had only experienced second hand.
In my mid twenties, like a dream,
one foot in front of the other,
I went about exploring.
I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands,
Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry,
fried snake and even monkey brains.
Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands,
Along the shores of Islands and the coasts
of many lands.
Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects
and cultures, smiling and laughing with
the families and children of all of them.
Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men,
heard their chants to their gods above, the
moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land.
Clapped my hands and moved my feet in
their ancient mystic dances.
Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared
grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood.
Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains
in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the
face of the God of my youthful teachings,
disappointed when I did not see him, or Her.
Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted
to me by Red robbed Monks from within their
chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments.
Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year
old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of
nearly forgotten once great Civilizations.
Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning.
Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks,
Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways,
rented motorcycles and cars. Walked perhaps 1000 miles.
In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years.
And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim
of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?"
"What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"
All indeed, fare questions.
When a boy, I read a simple five word line,
“Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and
Horizon Lust compelled me.
The next obvious question you might
ask is, after all that; “What did you find?”
That answer is very simple,
I found myself.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue busses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day--
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.
13k
We're on a train
in London's subways
and everyone stands
with a dead-eye peer
down the carriage, so
please, hold my hand.
They're all like apes,
hung on bamboo poles
and strung vine-straps,
hunkered over the small
space I have to myself, so
please, hold my hand.
I think you've become
just like them, Daddy;
a ringed-eyed orangutan
or narrow-staring lemur.
You've become much less
human it scares me, so
please, let go of my hand.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away
Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery
Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways
Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face
Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty
A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive
Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
walking down park
amsterdam
or columbus do you ever stop
to think what it looked like
before it was an avenue
did you ever stop to think
what you walked
before you rode
subways to the stock
exchange (we can’t be on
the stock exchange
we are the stock
exchanged)
did you ever maybe wonder
what grass was like before
they rolled it
into a ball and called
it central park
where syphilitic dogs
and their two-legged tubercular
masters fertilize
the corners and side-walks
ever want to know what would happen
if your life could be fertilized
by a love thought
from a loved one
who loves you
ever look south
on a clear day and not see
time’s squares but see
tall Birch trees with sycamores
touching hands
and see gazelles running playfully
after the lions
ever hear the antelope bark
from the third floor apartment
ever, did you ever, sit down
and wonder about what freedom’s freedom
would bring
it’s so easy to be free
you start by loving yourself
then those who look like you
all else will come
naturally
ever wonder why
so much asphalt was laid
in so little space
probably so we would forget
the Iroquois, Algonquin
and Mohicans who could caress
the earth
ever think what Harlem would be
like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears
grew sending
a cacophony of sound to us
the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful
owls sending out whooooo’s making love ...
and me and you just sitting in the sun trying
to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys
koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness
ever think its possible
for us to be
happy
Nikki Giovanni, “Walking Down Park” from The Selected Poems of Nikki Giovanni. Copyright © 1996 by Nikki Giovanni.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Five minute street artists
and insomnia mongers.
****** drunk blondes
and finger snapping phat booties.
Street geniuses
bred by Machiavellian philosophies
cypher dreams over tokes
of marijuana smoke.
Color worshipping narcotic traffickers,
and bread winners
parole corners
sporting fitted caps and twisting fingers.
Senile war veterans
beg for change in cardboard boxes
from the American dreams
they afforded.
Hard workers with every ethnicity
molded into each pore of their face,
rub shoulders with tourists at traffic stops
barely escaping tires crushing their feet.
Sartorial geniuses with no pants
switch hips in knock-off stellos heels,
selling the origin of the world on avenues
next to Arab Halal food.
Cooperate ties and blue collars chafe ***** on subways.
nodding in and out of Daily News articles
while oxygen blessed by asparagus ****
pump through their noses.
Summa *** laude number runners dictate economies
From sky-crapper offices,
And powered rain swallows their concrete each winter,
With no apologies.
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
I've danced with the devil
Spoken to him in tongue,
Fought him and won.
But he rose again
Threw me down and held me
Arms pinned above my head
Legs risen onto his shoulders.
He slowly pressed himself into me
Touched my lips
with the slightest touch of his
Gave me his disease
I have the devil in me.
He whispered to me,
"You want it Young One,
Yet you cannot have it…"
I clenched and bent my back.
The Devil still had me in his grasp.
He touched me.
I felt the shiver engulf me,
The touch of sin,
The touch of pain.
Hands fought with each other
As he tried to make his way
Into my most precious,
Most precious…private secrets.
I refused to let him.
I tried to stop him.
But he is gifted at this cruel game,
He enjoys so much to play.
He danced with me,
In a trance of spins and dips,
I fall all over again.
His powers are wondrous,
My power is weak.
For I am just a helpless child
This beast wants to draw in
One that it can intertwine with itself
And destroy
bit by bit.
Secrets shared and lies told,
Honesty surrounds us...
My words were bold.
"I love you"
The devil was silent.
He knew all along…
The path he has driven me on
Has led me into insanity
Hold me Satan
Please me Satan
Satan...
Tell me you love me.
Wrap me in your arms
and kiss me.
Hold my hand and whisper to me
That you were once small and weak,
That I remind you of yourself
You felt that pain,
You have those scars,
Yet you stopped...
Satan, you miss it don't you?
He is the devil in disguise.
He is beautiful to the eye,
Yet to the human soul
He is torturous.
Devours you…
Leaving you frozen and stuck.
What to do now my dear devil?
Come with me.
Massage my sore limbs.
Touch me everywhere
As I lay here wearing nothing but my underwear.
I feel your breath by my ear
As you tell me
Goodnight stories
About a brave knight who loves his ale
Sing me that Spanish lullaby.
"Mujer,"
You speak my language.
You know my tongue.
As I do yours.
Play that role of the hero,
Take me away
Down into the loud subways
Tell me I am yours.
Tell me I am beautiful.
I'm a fool for you
And a fool for lust.
Satan dear Satan...
Release me from your dungeons
They are tearing me apart.
The pain you left behind
Has instilled in me now.
You say your smile is fake...
My tears are not.
My kingdom is a place of bliss.
Your kingdom is a place of tragedy.
Satan dear Satan...
Take me away.
May your devilish Charm,
Allow us to fly away.
We will dream of happiness
Wake up next to each other
And look at what we've become.
Satan
You are my Savior.
In the name of
the Devil,
Il Diavolo,
y el Diablo...
Amen.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 10:26 PM UTC
I want it to last
like a hurricane of love
in a drought of loneliness
secluded buildings branch our ways
like center parts
and subways
like taxi cabs full of compliments
homeless people full from harvest
books stacked high next to a fan
a tone that reminds me that you
are calling my name
like a terror erased by your care
a print out of your work
next to a scrap copy of my own
a wall full of canvas
you just fill me in
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
-arriving at eglington west station-
there's the fragrance drifting off
of her shoulders
as she checks her reflection
on smartphone mirror app,
floral pattern matching the
bright of her nails,
the sun shining onto sequined flats
that show no wear.
-glencairn, glencairn station-
there's her youth indicated by
backpack, baseball cap,
and conversation subject matter
discussing video game system merit,
there's the hand me down excitement
of muddy knees and torn jeans,
-arriving at lawrence west station-
each millimetre contributing to grimace,
beard whisker, wrinkle stationed
to the sides of each of his eyes,
weary traveller, seemingly ignoring
everyone with grocery bag
occupying chair like child,
-Yorkdale, Yorkdale station-
we used to weave through these crowds
and people watch together,
and the people would watch us,
young love, so simple,
oblivious to stage,
fingers interlocked, blocking
crowds from passing by,
there was the taste of strawberry
banana smoothie, freshly squeezed,
on your lips, we'd race up
escalators, only to circle
back down, we'd find the nook
of book store, to steal a moment,
you'd ignite, ignoring the clatter
of barrista, starbucks adjacent,
and there would walk by or sit
dolled up princess,
adolescent tomboy,
aging cantankerous senior,
these faces haven't changed
as much as ours have.
-please stand clear of the doors-
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
The Empire State Building is a giant middle finger
Concrete is broken, NYPD, taxis racing, red light green light
I enter the hand of the city through it's capillaries breaking mad concrete
Warm gusts of **** grime, and transportation swallow me
The city feeds off dreams and hope which we personally, willingly give up
We all somehow learn to accept this fate
The passerby no longer human but broken mirror
The hand inundates my eyes from breezes of tomorrow
The spacy apartment, and the affluent career and the acquantanceship
Of the handful of New Yorkers that run the hand: all questionable plans today
It's as if the hand's grasp, although sharp and brick, would venerate your intellect, guaranteed
If that's the case, I see wizards of wisdom everyday snoozing on concrete and cardboard and plastic
Bearded, black with dirt and skin, threads ripped by a world inferrior than the one in thier minds
Empire "Middle Finger" State of intellect, scrapping billion dollar clouds
Sardine can subways, escalators, elevators, high on crack **** speed of sound
The cash nerve system meltsdown into golden chips to feed the pigeons
Glass and steel craft spaces for modernity to be sold like a Washington Heights *****
You can feel the growth of the hand at the end of your intestines
It's a warm, uncomfortable vibration revealed in your ********
Foreign tongues buzz through the air, through your hair for 19.95
New York needs a haircut, some profound discipline so we wake up from this bizzare life of welcomed pain
You once charmed me with hopes of culture, open minds, connections, real connections, love and laughter
Yet, Today I am hungry in Murray hill
I am cold in Chelsea
I am broken in Union Square
I ***** in SoHo
I have fallen in the East River
And I bleed on financial monoliths
Someone have mercy on my wills
It is an intention trying to be fulfilled
But failed when it became self-aware
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
I am built like city blocks
crooked and running in all directions.
My veins run up and down like busy streets,
lit by headlights and street lamps.
My scars are like demolished buildings,
a reminder of something that once was.
I have a skyscraper mind that
reaches higher than anything else.
My heart is a monument that many see
but don't really know.
My thoughts are subways and buses that
move everywhere all at once.
There is no stopping- only a hushed hurry.
I am hard and concrete, my sidewalks are stained;
but to some, I am home.
I have hidden secrets inside, that you only know once
you decide to stay in the city
and choose to love me.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
arboreal
capitulation
to the last saw;
just lying there,
rusting and dull,
a senile serial killer.
a dirt water droplet
circlestalks the sun
like a vulture.
wild flowers
split the concrete
like jackhammers and
the vines hang low
over city streets,
while unmaintained
botanical gardens
shrivel and decay,
breeding mushy immensities.
bears hibernate in subways
and deer flock in herds
and oh, the birds..
the birds.
spiders hang webs
from ancient clock towers
while moth returns
to chasing moon.
dams crumble,
the water flows,
sea reclaims the shore.
but the
eldest
trees
still weep
when memory pains,
and so surrender
to the saw,
however harmless
out of hand.
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 1:43 PM UTC
Crowds of weary people
shuffle from life to life
in the bellies of subways
claws of escalators
past booths of seven-dollar coffees
taking off shoes and jackets
as a voice in the roof says that
the flight to Mumbai,
or wherever, is now boarding.
All of it disappears
because--after these many years--
your face
(I shrug off
my backpack)
your voice
in my ears
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
In a land where you exchange Mao
In his different values,
And get meals on Lazy Susans,
The aroma of tea
Filling malls and subways,
And people—
Ask for a fork and a knife.
Whirl your hands about
And attempt to communicate
In Chinese dashes of silhouettes
In air, while speaking
In another language you
Know will be lost to unknowing,
To this fine dining.
See the toothpicks, plain
And humble, and smile.
It could have been the same
As those in the Philippines.
Stress your hearing a little,
You might catch them say,
“Mao welcomes his brothers
From the working class.”
Back home, the only welcome
The working class can provide
Are smiles and turo-turos,
Free karinderia water
And a toothpick for the day’s
Only meal, the aroma of hunger
Filling people.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
You remind me
of a wet New York,
a summer of oily
lights on the roads,
of concerts in the park
and the white, loving claustrophobia
in the sky,
you remind me
of standing at a window
fourteen floors up
watching cars on FDR
in the darkness,
hoping that one of them
is yours,
you remind me of
sirens
always, you remind me
of
a confidante
in an alleyway
stale with garbage
always,
you remind me
of subways
and dark knowledge the length and width
of a city
always, you remind me
of crossing a bridge
over grey water
and pewter boats.
It is hard for me to let go
of the city
even as it dampens
in the slate rain;
and the stretched clouds
are pulled down
over the highrises of love.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 10:57 AM UTC
*Sacramental Elixir & Illuminated Blues,
Experimental Flauntings Of Her Midsummer Hues,
Radioactive Eyes & Her Fairytale Lies,
Seductive Abuses Across The New Divide,
Vivid Intersections In Her Phenomenal Rage,
Shatterproof Reflections Splattered Upstage,
Midnight Passions Of Her Perplexed Lust,
Starlight Rains Glittering Hybrid Dusts,
Transitional Paradigms & Engineered Moans,
Theatrical Concoctions In Her Symphonic Tones,
Flirtatious Illuminations Under The Darkest Light,
Stained Animations Igniting Kryptonite,
Palisades Of Her Collated Reflections,
Cascades Emitting Her Sedated Projections,
Contraband Infatuation Resonating Magnetic Love,
Raving Constellations Provocating Atomic Dove,
Divine Catharsis Of Her Cupid Amour Eternity,
Valentine Bliss Mystifying Her Restrained Insanity,
Charismatic Futility & ****** Binge,
Cinematic Tranquility Emanating From Her Bulletproof Sins,
Neon Subways & Fragile Foreplays,
Sensual Arrays Of Her Red-Light Decays.
- 03:53AM -*
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
I rarely get on Facebook anymore. But when I do, I'll change my profile picture or banner-- maybe post a witty status update, maybe not witty, just something to let people know I'm alive.
It's like repositioning the arms on a stationary mannequin to depict a different scene. Except lately I just don't care anymore. It's just that-- a mannequin. An object, an image, a lifeless entity with which I used to feel real-- a dusty mirror.
I see that the line between the idea of a person and the reality is being blurred and crossing over into something all-together different. It's as if people are starting to wake up and realize the objectivity of their reality. But that brings into question the basis for which we define reality.
We have become a, “Look but don't touch” society in which we click a button to show our appreciation as opposed to genuinely reciprocating human emotion and energy. It is extremely isolating and dangerous.
Packed subways and sidewalks have fallen eerily silent with faces illuminated by their cellphones. Most everyone wants to be heard, appreciated and recognized and social media has provided an outlet for that.
But there comes a point at which your platform becomes your prison and your voice your warden-- and everything you say is modified to be pleasing to the ear and 'likeable'.
But I like dislikes. And if you're not ******* anyone off-- you're probably not doing anything important, and if you're not outraged you're not paying attention.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
There’s strangers I’ve loved unconditionally,
In train stations and subways their eyes have met mine,
In checkout lines and park trails their words have left me comforted
In the ugliness of it all strangers have shown me beauty
For it’s not about the time you’ve known someone
But the relentless respect and adoration they’ve shown you
In this angry world I’ve found happiness I carry with me through all of my days
There’s smiles engrained so deeply in my heart I can’t help but feel their warmth
theres strangers in this world that I have
loved, and there are strangers who have loved me
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 9:23 AM UTC
The sun its farewell to the skies
As it cranks out this unexplainable color
That Painters can’t make on their color pallets
The Wind creates this unexplainable noise
The wind gives you reasons to keep dreaming towards the sky
It is something that city slickers can't hear in the rowdy subways
At this time the sun bids me farewell
But don't worry, It will return
When it pokes its head out
On the east
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
We made nests in clocks
that Summer the electricity died.
Stars rose out of the ether for the first time in centuries.
Autumn rolled in
but it only grew hotter.
We climbed on rooftops to escape the heat of our homes
and saw the silhouettes of strangers follow.
Winter choked the freeways, the subways, the old ways.
Rust fell on us like rain.
We danced in the belly of an abandoned ship
cheeks burning with mirth.
By Spring
the plants had withered
and the animals had slept until their bodies devoured their souls.
We sat on the town hall as the sun engulfed the sky
Thankful for such a beautiful life.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
Down the hall, through the living room
and living daylights.
Through corner shops, spoon-eateries,
between rows of seats in adult theaters,
Beneath Roman spears
of crystal ice
ignoring the warning.
Same old, same old wicked agonizing cold. I freeze solid
and I escape once more.
Through Subways, through hotel lobbies.
Between invidious eyes, above the malady.
Down streets, down stairs, getting stuck, falling asleep, getting chased.
I refuse to affirm my negation with pity,
but rather with revolt and insurrection
I build this fortress not with iron and bricks, but with dust
and guilt
And off I go again...
An airport chapel is tonight's citadel.
From a hidden corner
a raspy cough emits from a familiar throat.
I sit down.
I sit like Plato's prisoner in my cave,
eyes fixed forward
on the wooden cross.
The familiar figure rises.
He walks through my vision,
but I refuse to see anything
but his silhouette
And off I go again...
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
*Earth to earth, Oh ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
How strange, how familiar, human connection is untrusted
when we awake, each passing day, knowingly that by sunset
Those words would be read out loud
Over an innocent, black brother’s grave site tonight
Too many tears, too many mishaps
who scattered those bullet caps,
Too, many innocent lives have been taken
By the hand of the nervous police,
Even The birds keep gliding in the air shows solidarity
In respect of the dead:
Some human wish they were like them they said.
A charge is one thing. A conviction is another
Black lives does matter.
Who pulled the trigger, which got the last laugh?
The innocent or the victims
More weeks of demonstration,
the fight for the white house continues with words not arms
Blood in the Inner City Streets, subways
and shopping malls, bias and frustration, sound the alarms
Who pulled the trigger, which got the last laugh?
The guns, or the victims,
My poetics tone this morning.
voice your opinion*
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
You came to see me
on a unplanned visit
so I took you to the only
interesting place I could
think of.
I dragged you through subways,
and crowds of interesting people,
to get to our destination,
our final stop in the Brooklyn station.
You doubted my directions,
as I had only gone once before,
but you trusted me enough
to get you to the right store.
You looked at me as we walked in,
doubting me once more,
it was a place full of junk,
you must've thought that I was drunk.
You stepped in through the door,
and right on the floor,
you found an old typewriter
that you wanted forevermore.
Your eyes, they lit up
like none I had ever seen,
as you began to press each key,
and your smile, it gleamed.
At that moment in time,
I knew I had done well,
as you took right off
like you were under a spell.
You ran though the aisles,
taking in each thing,
seeing the beauty behind
the dust and water rings.
You picked up the glassware,
each little piece,
you told me you loved them,
your excitement didn't cease.
We looked through the art,
and the old records too,
you pulled out a few,
and I had out some Motown for you.
It was the perfect day,
that one random trip,
the day that changed it,
the day I made the slip.
I let myself fall
so hard and so fast,
I forgot that china dolls,
are made of such fragile glass.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
I like to sit across from my ______
She usually tells me about how I should be better. But I don't want to be.
Everyone says my generation's only talents are to keep our legs open and Our mouth's closed. I like to think we can read and write and
Fall in love with strangers on subways in the forgotten underground.
Everyone says that we don't know how to live righteously
But if we were never taught how can we learn?
Someone once told me to keep my legs shut,
They told me ladies know better.
They told me when their eyes not their lips.
They told me to keep my mouth closed.
They told me with their actions not their words.
But it doesn't matter now.
If you're going to say to me:
"You're from that generation"
I'll say to you:
"If you wanted to change us you should have taught us
If you wanted us to pave the way you should have shown us the starting Road
We were taught to sing praises to those who came before us.
But what for?"
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC