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Francie Lynch Apr 2015
There were four pines,
Straight, that branched
Out over the hedge
With holes.
High beside
The cement goldfish pond
They stood, near the fence
And alleyway.

From our rows
Of potatoes,
And needed weedings,
A hedge ran across
The back, connecting
The Tehtercotts and Taylors;
We worked the garden
Beneath the line
Of drying clothes,
Throughout our summers,
Beneath the shade,
And the intermitent shadow.
***** blades heeled
Into mounds,
We five posed
For this poem
Half a century ago.

Over the hedge
Carriages and bikes
Rolled between houses
With porches,
And patios,
Leading to lawns.

Near Kevin's *****
A red and white rubber ball
Had landed,
From beyond the hedge.
He turned it over
With a shovel of dirt,
And broke the sod
With his blade.
He was distracted,
Singing us a Beatles song.
But it wouldn't have mattered.
Edit, repost.
Hannah McC Dec 2012
I wear the pants you gave me
on all the days I miss you.
They weren't torn or faded,
and barely even misused.

Its funny I remember
the night you said "Just have 'em".
Whats funnier is I never thought,
or even really fathomed;

that out of blue you took them off
and said "They're yours to own..."
I never wondered or remembered
just what you did wear home...
raingirlpoet Oct 2014
i am a walking cliche
teenage girl
depressed
rarely smiles
long sleeves to cover my wrists
i have a secret
-roll of eyes-
don't we all...
i wear toms in the spring and
chuck taylors in the fall
my shoes match my moods
when the sun shines brightly and i'm wearing dresses for days
i'm weightless
and then the sun sets and the trees rattle fiercely in the wind and my shoes,
they bind my feet to the ground
i crawl into my hole and start piling on sweaters and blankets it's dark
i'm alone
the sun won't rise for another 6 months
until then i'll shuffle around until i can find the nearest exit
i'm a walking cliche
Dallas Mar 2018
When I was nine
My mother asked, “What do you want to do when you’re older”
And I told her
Honestly
With my nine-year-old smile
As wide as an ocean
My nine-year-old heart
As deep as infinity
I told her, “mama, I wanna touch the stars, I wanna find pirate treasure, I wanna climb mountains and live in the treetops”
My mother,
She looked at my nine-year-old smile
She held my nine-year-old heart in her hands
and she whispered,
“Baby, how are you gonna do all that?”
I didn’t have an answer
You see,
At age nine,
I didn’t think about practicality
Or actuality
Or logicality
Or any big word with an -ality stuck to it
At age nine I had aspirations that I rode like angel wings
Dreams that would carry me to the stars I longed to hold
I was nine years old with a mind full of colors
And a mouth made to love
My heartbeat was the drum I marched to
The melody to my song
I told my mother once again “mama I wanna touch the stars”
Flashforward
I am a freshman in high school now
I stand before you,
Age 15
A year and a half away from driving
3 years from applying
4 years from finding what I’m gonna do with my life
Since then
My nine-year-old smile has dwindled
My nine-year-old heart has shriveled
These dreamers shoulders have hunched
Under the weight of textbooks and GPA's
The fingers that spewed color like a 64 pack of Crayola crayons
Aimlessly type out the final paragraph of an essay
The cavern in my chest, that was filled with infinite possibilities and wonders and questions that I longed to answer
Now sits
Empty
Instead of looking for mountains to climb
My aged nine-year-old mind
Searches for the college that will accept me
Not even the real me
Not the seeker of possibility
Not the tree climber
Not the wannabe fingerprint artist
They will take prim and proper not-nine-year-old me
the one who tells her mom she’s gonna major in finance but she hates math
The one who’ll have a steady 9-5 that’ll numb her skull and make her contemplate if death can come from boredom
A coffee tainted room of pencil skirts and high heels
Instead of her favorite blue jeans and Chuck Taylors
A nice job that’ll pay well but only for the price of her nine-year-old originality
But she only tells her mom that because it sounds like a real job
A not nine-year-old treehouse living
Cave exploring fantasy
I mean, I have to move on from that dream.
It's time to be practical
Actual
Logical
Now instead of making up new words
I learn definitions of the ones that already exist
Instead of painting with my own colors
I use the ones handed to me
Because its practical
Actual
Logical
Its how it should be.
I am no longer nine years old
Far from it at that
And yet,
I still long to touch the stars,
just a little less
I still want to search for treasure
But just as an afterthought
My eyes are still glowing with wonder
Just a little bit duller
Nine-year-old me isn’t dead
She just
grew up
Powers Feb 2014
Six
I showed up in an orange polo
blue jeans, a blonde bowl cut
and the latest light up barbie shoes
my mother dropped me at my classroom door
she left with tears in swelling her eyes
because I was the only child who wasn't clinging to her like the last strand of hope I had
she was so proud
I was on top of the world
until you tore me down
threw your wooden cities in my face
and told me I belonged with the boys

Eight
I showed up in a pink dress
white flats, and shirley temple curls
my mother sent me to school that day
she left with a twinkle in her eye
because I was the only kid in our minivan who wasn't faking fevers
she was proud
I made myself known
until I sat criss cross in that cotton candy dress
and you told me that girls dont sit like I do
and that I belong with the boys

Twelve
I showed up in pink jeans
a graphic giraffe T, straight shoulder length locks
and black chuck taylors
My mother dropped me off that day
her eyes watched me until I was safely inside
because she knew I was nervous
I took junior high by storm
she was proud
you took note of my sports bra
laughed at my cardboard chest
and told me I belonged with the boys

Thirteen
I showed up in basketball shorts
a simple T, shoulder length hair
and tennis shoes
I walked to school that day
My mother was still sleeping
I hid from everyone
you asked me if I liked girls
and thats when I knew I belonged with the boys
I needed these ******* boys

Thirteen
I showed up in black sweats
a hoodie that avoided my curves like roadkill
a half assed ponytail
and running shoes
I was invisible
I replaced the gauze on my thighs that concealed the proof he was here
I wore and extra shirt to hide the proof he was here
I learned to use makeup in all the wrong places in hopes to prove he was never here
His fists played symphonies across my ribcage
He made songs of my pleads for forgiveness and apologies
addressed to both him and god
and I am still trying to forget the notes
I am still trying to forget he explored my depths
I am still trying to pretend that he was never here
He said I could only belong to the boys if they could touch me

Fourteen
I thought the cough syrup would save me

Fifteen
He took the only shred of dignity I had left
I listened as my only hope for a family was ripped limb from limb
The child who's crescendo heartbeat originated from me
was slaughtered at the price of a Versace ring and a fake I.D.
Fifteen
I thought I could hear him screaming


Twenty
I am defined by twenty different men
These scars are proof of me nitpicking the pieces of them from my skin
Proof that I am worth nothing more than a one night stand

Twenty taught me:
1. No one will ever understand how empty you become when you're constantly filled by different men
2. A new canvas will not make you feel any cleaner
3. Hands feel like hands in the dark no matter who is behind them
4. After about the 3rd one night stand you will realize that 2 is the loneliest number
5. My mother is no longer proud to see me
This poem is about me growing up and being told that I belong to boys
each stanza begins with number that represents my age up until 15
once the numbers get higher than 15 they represent a number

Side note
14 may be a little bit confusing.
I downed a bottle of cough syrup in an attempt suicide
I told everyone I did it for fun
David Bird Feb 2010
Cricket Ladies now pull up their socks
From the Sub-Continent to the Spring Boks
  But a question of mine,
  Not of length nor of line,
I wonder, do they require a box?

Some say that I need to take a pill
But I've watched and the ladies have skill
  They get many things right
  And their bowling is tight
And of cricket I just can't get my fill.

For now England are right out on top
All Australians would like that to stop
  If they get much better
  My pants will get wetter
Being British, I'm scared we will flop.

But England, to India, must fly
Where the pitches will be ever so dry
  Not won there before,
  Not sure, did we draw?
Beware Goswami, for she is quite spry.

Holly Colvin the new queen of spin
She does not know quite how to give in
  The Taylors are great
  The fielding, first rate
Come on girls, you know you can win!
............
I like all cricket, anywhere. Played by everyone. Well, pretty much. I certainly like women's matches. I have two daughters and I can dream ... one day they will play for England (or Scotland)!
Jack May 2014
~

Parched and dry, this barren field stretches,
I wander…head hung low,
staring at the emptiness eclipsing my thoughts
Brittle blades of grass disappear beneath
my worn out Chuck Taylors,
black and white crushing beige
in slow fashioned footprints ~ blistered dust

“My sanity for some cool water.”

When upon my shoulders, reddened by solar intensity,
wet from exerted energy, comes a breeze
as if Autumn has come to claim her colors,
to gather her brown and sepia landscape,
pull the lifeless trees, with little leaf
from the chalk textured ground
taking it where it would suit another ~ for this is my luck

“Take my shade a beg not, for it is merely a branch.”

Like fingers of a silken web’s reach,
a soft caress of skin is not understood, though very pleasant
nature finds me a shiver, a small comfort in this arid place
once crawling with snakes of assorted length, now
green as if lush has just been defined
with sweet air and pomegranate skies
featuring a glow, pristine shades of which I’ve never seen ~ heavenly

“To whom might I thank for such a gift?”

When before me stands, as my eyes saturated and lost
slowly focus, a beauty of winged loveliness now smiling within my own
personal oasis, which quickly forms in my heart
An angel, a goddess, extends a hand…to me?
My cracked and weathered palm touches, smooth, gentle
her hand as she lifts me, I am weightless, floating
to her, my breath leaves me as I wonder ~ is this my end

“If this beauty shall be my final curtain, let it be dropped slowly.”

A voice of velvet speaks, as I fade in and out of reality
now steadied by her touch and the sweet scent of lavender and lime,
“I have come to you as a verse...for poetry is thy keeper,
thy words have been heard,”
lyrically she sings
melodic and harmonious, rhythm’d to the beat of my heart
the race of my pulse, the love of my life ~ my muse

“Eternal to you I shall write, for your beauty fuels my pen.”
frankie Dec 2017
once you buy a fresh pair, the black is vivid and strong and the toe cap is still perfectly intact, no scuff to be found

but after time, chucks wear thin and your favourite pair gets tossed and replaced with a replica that is never as good as the first.

it’s confusing you see, because if you loved something so dearly, a few scuffs from memories and love wouldn’t be such a problem, if anything you’d hold onto those worn up chucks as a reminder that love will wear things down, but the wear and tear is the most beautiful thing because it means you’re settling.

but i guess you don’t like things that are old, which must be why you treated me the same as your old chuck taylor’s.
Staring at the same spot makes you miss out on 273 degrees of a viewing radius coming to roughly 74% of life that you're currently missing.

If you do stare at something, make sure it's beautiful enough to be a fair trade for 74% visibility.

Your smile is worth it.  You're worth it.

Stare.

I hope one day we can sit in trees and watch the sunset.  I don't understand how you got so far up the branch.  Your Chuck Taylors hang out of the tree, the sharpie colored star swaying above the Earth.  I look at mine in the same position and think we might be made for each other.  Star crossed lovers.

But just for a second or two.

Tick Tock

The Sun goes down and begins to cool the atmosphere.  The Milky Way is still holding an ambiance.

I'll drive you home.

I wish my headlights were brighter.

I hate small talk.

I love the way you say words.

Talk to me.

You tell me you like to sing.  I turn the radio off.

Your voice is off key and out of rhythm.  Beautiful really.

It's soft, I wish you would sing it closer to my ear.  Is that weird to ask?  Yes it is.  Don't do it.

You could end me.  You know you could and you don't want to hurt me.  You're one of the few people that actually cares.  That's also the main reason I like you.

Counter productive on both sides. We're both going nowhere fast.

Bye, text me when you get home.

The car door shuts.  

Reverse.  

I dolly out, watching you walk through your door.

I miss you already.  Neutral.  Drive.
Ksh Nov 2019
In high school, I'd wear Converses.
Or Chuck Taylors, whatever you called 'em.
I'd remember going to a new school, proudly wearing
a pair of Converses with the same blue shade
as my new school's uniform skirts;
how I'd attend Phys Ed with the same trainers,
even though it wasn't a good idea to use them
for physical activity.
I remember riding in the back
of my father's motorcycle as we
did errands around the town,
and he'd indulge me by parking near
a road chock full of thrift stores --
and we'd go in, under a false pretense of
"just checking, just a quick look-around"
and my father would surprise me
by buying me a thrifted pair.
They were either pink, or magenta,
and I was at that age of rebellion --
"no girly colors", I'd shout --
but I'd always wear them out,
and it always made my dad smile.
I once came home with my friends
without telling my father,
and he was out in the front porch,
half-naked as all Asian dads are,
and he was clipping some brand new Converses
on the wash line to dry.
I had been so embarrassed, because this
was the first time that my friends
had seen my father, had seen my house
but all they could see was how kind he was
by surprising me with a new pair.
I had a total of seven pairs of Converses,
one of them he paid his sister to buy for me
from the United States.
I keep them in a box, under the sink,
because even though my feet have grown,
I'm still unable to sell them nor give them away.

In college, I wore Palladiums --
big, thick, chunky lace-up boots
that looked out of place in a college freshman's closet
and more at home tied by the shoelaces to a soldier's bag.
I've moved to the capital city,
away from my little brother, away from my father.
I lived with my mother, who worked and moved
until her body gave out and she'd have to take some days to rest.
She bought me my first pair when I asked;
because she told me that
"first impressions last; but shoes are always what stays in a person's mind",
which was funny seeing as how
Palladium was, first and foremost,
a company from the age of the Great Wars
that manufactured the tires fitted for airplanes;
and that now, decades later, rebranded themselves
as a company with a recognizable design --
channeling urban life, heavy endurance,
and the soul of recreating one's image,
rising from the ashes of the past like some sort of phoenix.
My mother had wanted me to fit in,
yet be unique at the same time,
in a world that moved so fast that I had to run just to keep up.
And she'd buy me pairs not as often as my father did,
but it was always in celebration.
Either for a job well done, a reward for good grades,
or simple because it was my birthday.
Those Palladiums became my signature shoes,
and I was the only one to wear them
inside the university.
At one point, I was recognizable because
of a particularly special pair --
Palladiums that were bright, firetruck red
and had the material of raincoats --
that people would know it was me
even from far away, just by the color of my boots.
I had six pairs in total; all heavy, all colorful,
with different textures and different price points,
and my mother bought me these special shoeboxes
which we stacked til the ceiling, right beside
her own tower of heels for special occasions,
because that was what defined us.

I've started buying my own shoes,
and I'm not as brand-exclusive as I was before.
There's a pair of no-names, some banged up Filas,
even a pair of Doc Martens I'm too afraid to bust out.
They're also not as colorful; because I know that
black pairs and white pairs are easier to style
in any day, in any weather, with any color or material.
Most of them were for everyday use, and it required
a certain level of comfort, a certain level of durability,
that was worthy of that certain retail price.

I look at my shoe rack, and realize
that I am not as colorful as I once was.
I do not have that sense
of colorful, wild, down-on-my-luck rebellion
that my father put up with in my adolescent years.
I lost my drive of being
a colorful, unique, instantly recognizable upstart
as my mother had taught me to be.
My shoes have no stories to tell,
no personality to express --
a row of blacks and whites, the occasional greys.
And when I look internally,
it's the same, monochromatic expanse staring back at me.

I am in a place where
I am everywhere and nowhere at once.
I can't tell whether my feet
are solidly on the ground,
or pointed to the sky, toes wriggling in the clouds.

In an ever-growing shoe rack
filled with old, ***** Converses,
and heavy, attention-seeking Palladiums,
I choose a comfortable pair of plain, white sneakers
and head out in the open,
paving my own way.
I take comfort in the fact
that it's just the beginning.
That I am at the start
of my designated brick road,
an endless expanse before me.
My shoes will acquire color,
my designs will develop taste,
my soul will be injected into the soles of my feet
with every step I take --
forward, backward, it doesn't matter
so long as I keep moving.
there is principle, there is mad luck on the streets
 but then again, i have neither one.
i assume the idleness of poles underneath the roof of a cafe in Poblacion
   and wonder where all my poems go,
 the value they impose -- only there's implosion   and not   so much sense
    so i go out to seek tenderly in the night,
 a cheap moon trapped underneath the bottle   of a pilsner
   as i hear one  of   the patrons call out
  my solitude like a ******* on all fours;

one afternoon pursues a following.
  i have wasted my time writing and stopping
 to   watch   stray hounds   pant   and
     ****    on the hot asphalt of Plaridel.
the   papers   retch  at tyrannies.
    hands   for  mechanisms  configured to
  a heady bias of  probabilities.
 the   house   next  to me is  being
     overhauled   and i  imagine  the incredulity
of   things  not their own  meanings.

  a pair of old Chuck Taylors on the bedspread,  a decrepit  bed for making love
    or passing time or  wasting the night away.
somewhere, someone  is  reading my  poems  and  weeping at the  cadence.
   most do not notice -- it was the caprice of things   not mine to  commandeer.
   the sound  of  stone masons hammering
boulders double the  melancholia.
   the deliberate sieving of  sand and  stone
      felt like   sandpaper air.
 the matutinal  sky split into dire condition
    much like  mine: becoming   and unbecoming.

all the   ******* are out in the streets
with ladies wuthering in high strides.
all the priests are in their rendezvous,
killing buddha heads.
the police have silenced the sirens
and behind pairs of old navy blue slacks
   and mobiles covered with dust,
the  captives scream mercy.
all the ATMs drone the pither of metal mouths.
a widow in Bocaue holding a picture
  of the departed.

i look up and see my face in the sky:
  if only i could **** the man and be the man,
fill his shoes with flesh, his movements my emulation, his enigmas my clarity, his day old denims my best dress.


more than beer and cigarettes have done me in and more to myself much no less
   than a cat hit by a speeding bicycle
  somewhere in Padre Faura.

madness hurries like a lover and hands me
   a picture of the moon.

i've got something and that's good enough
  as the police leave the grime of times
   and evict drunks off the streets of Malolos,
  as the priests step into the showers, naked
  and bloodied just like the ordinary man,
  as the cat that was hit
      by   a bicycle
   goes   back   to   the dark
  licking   the   salt  off the wound,
    bone fractured,    still alive on the  hot roof.
Gareth Mar 2016
Black T-shirt and Blue Jeans
Brown Boots or Black Chuck Taylors
That's all I need .
Jack Nov 2014
~

Parched and dry, this barren field stretches,
I wander…head hung low,
staring at the emptiness eclipsing my thoughts
Brittle blades of grass disappear beneath
my worn out Chuck Taylors,
black and white crushing beige
in slow fashioned footprints ~ blistered dust

“My sanity for some cool water”

When upon my shoulders, reddened by solar intensity,
wet from exerted energy, comes a breeze
as if Autumn has come to claim her colors,
to gather her brown and sepia landscape,
pull the lifeless trees, with little leaf
from the chalk textured ground
taking it where it would suit another ~ for this is my luck

“Take my shade, I beg not, for it is merely a branch”

Like fingers of a silken web’s reach,
a soft caress of skin is not understood, though very pleasant
nature finds me a shiver, a small comfort in this arid place
once crawling with snakes of assorted length, now
green as if lush has just been defined
with sweet air and pomegranate skies
featuring a glow, pristine shades of which I’ve never seen ~ heavenly

“To whom might I thank for such a gift?”

When before me stands, my eyes saturated and lost
slowly focus on beauty, winged loveliness now smiling within my own
personal oasis, which quickly forms in my heart
An angel, a goddess, extends a hand…to me?
My cracked and weathered palm touches, smooth, gentle
her hand as she lifts me, I am weightless, floating
to her, my breath leaves me as I wonder ~ is this my end

“If this beauty shall be my final curtain, let it drop slowly”

A voice of velvet speaks, as I fade in and out of reality
and steadied by her touch, in the sweet scent of lavender and lime,
“I have come to you as a verse, for poetry is thy keeper,
thy words have been heard,” lyrical this voice sings
melodic and harmonious, rhythm’d to the beat of my heart
the race of my pulse, the love of my life ~ my angel

*“Eternal to you I shall write, for your beauty fuels my pen”
Inspired by love
Broken Arpeggio Sep 2017
Blond hair
Chuck Taylors
Boy multiplied by three

Morning Dew
Dirt clumps
Darkness covers everything

Things that are seemingly "run of the
mill", " normal", and "mundane"
May also be the precise source of
someone else's pain

Consciousness fades
Pain grows
Body can no longer fight

Invasion within
Hope retreats
Mind and soul take flight

None of us can presume to know the life
behind one's eyes
Let us "break the cycle", "be kind", and "love"
Then maybe, our scars will naturalize...
You simply cannot tell what others are going through by their appearance. Many of us, put up walls and don masks in order to face the day. Kindness DOES matter and means EVERYTHING to those silently suffering!
Elizabeth Ann Oct 2013
I'm growing growing up and down
Arms going up up the wall
And feet going
Down
Down
Down into the ground
Below my toes
Which have popped out of
My old Chuck Taylors
And burrowed into the brown dirt
And spread themselves to the ocean
Where my soul can be free and I can dance
And sing with all the wrong notes without a care
Because I will be higher than the clouds way way up in the sky
Kissing Jupiter
And laughing laughing on my long fall
Back to Earth
Where I will burrow myself
Into your eyes
Which I have left a little more than teary
And make you laugh in that way
That you HATE HATE HATE
But I love love
And I will bring you with me the next time
That I decide to grow and grow
Because I am sorry that I left you behind
As I grew
Because I left you behind
While you shrunk
So so small
And
D
     i
s
     a
p
     p
e
     a
r
     e
d

Forever
Beneath me
Sliver Jones Oct 2015
He
Its like she give my heart an incision wit no precision n trip. I swear this girl be trippin wit no permission slip

She
He has me falling all over myself just one look and i can barely control myself ,, why is he speaking about permission when all this was written long ago

HE
It might have been written long ago in the history books. But now she sittin in a page of my mystery books. i guess kanye was right and it all falls down. Cuz she fell off the Smoove throne but i aint take away the crown


She
Now its war...why is he lying, it was he who had me crying and now i'm so over caring, you can have your fake crown and feel like a man...i just want my heart back before the hole in it gets any bigger,, this heart used to beat, it used to sing such a beautiful song but now it screams ****** and boy did you do the crime

HE
Fake crown or not you were my queen. I bowed down to your love cuz it was stronger than me. I would have given up kingdomes and gold for just one kiss. Leavin you would be suicide like skitting my wrist. But now you left me and i hate you but its u i always miss. But now the beat of my heart is elongated. But what ever happened no we gon make it. You got me cut so deep no knife no sword. Took my heart like kanye took taylors award. You said You'd **** for me thats how bad you wanna ride. But you end up killin me without a homicide


She
I guess my love was too much for your fragile heart to handle because you give up so quick kanye didn't even have a chance, i wish we had a fight or if someone else in the picture cause then i could understand why you stabbed me in the back when i was to busy only looking at you, its alright i'm okay finally sick of all your many changing faces, your true colors are out for me, now i never want to see you again, these lips you can never taste again, i'm done with this hating myself for something that's in the past, its funny now that i'm gone you keep saying i'm the who took your heart away when i never really had to begin with maybe beyonce has it now i don't care cause all this is so yesterday

He
You say its so yesterday. But why do i see myself hurtin till tomorrow. The pain and the sorrow. I gave you ma heart and you threw it back like it was it was somethin to borrow. Funny i didn't i looked a library. I wasn't obsessed wit you aint maria carey. you say i gave my heart to beyonce but your irreplaceable. You can only love once i thought you were misplaceable. But now your lost like the tv show and untraceable. Everything wit you made sense but now im so illogical, our love was higher than any level we was astronomical. I was deep inside you spiritual biological. Deeper than your follicle. There will never be another no sequel no chronical. At least your hearts beatin. Mine wont stop bleedin. Without you i'm like asthma. No breathin. How am i supposed to survive. Plz come back to me i wanna stay alive. For your lovin i thrive. Your sweet and beautiful like a bee hive. so please come back i deserve a second chance. And i promise the level our love will enhance

She
But you don't see that this over for me i can't keep throwing myself at your feet begging you to catch me, i'm like a fish out of water i can't survive in your world, when i think back on how good we use to be i literally shake, the way i used to melt whenever i hear your name, the way my knees used to go weak, how i used to see the sun,stars and the moon in your eyes,you were a monster on my back, a drug i couldn't turn down, an addiction that rotted my soul but..now all that keeps playing in my head like motion picture,everything we've been through and everything about you seemed to a big lie, a lie you made yourself see true, where the hell was i when you loved me like you say you do, i only remember all those broken promises, all those times you chose your career over me, when all you cared about was the money, the cars, the clothes and the ***'s, i suppose you want me to believe you once again, wait for your calls again like a silly lost pigeon but i won't cause i can't..not anymore
Noxx Jan 2015
I wake up.

Head to the bathroom and brush my teeth, wash my face, fix my hair.

I check my closet, rummage through the mess of clothes, grab my white t-shirt, black pre-torn jeans and clean underwear. Put them on and walk to my door.

I slip into my chuck taylors and grab my hoodie slumped over a chair.

I grab my keys and one last thing. Hung next to my keys is a smile. Worn and broken. Wear it like a mask hooked ear to ear.
OOTD
Inevitable Aug 2023
How’s life? I miss you dearly.
The colds coming but i’ve been in December all summer
and I haven’t been sleeping, been more like day dreaming.
Your birthday passes and I always go to call.
I see your shadows in the most specific places.
You’re hidden in my playlists and the loss of yours.
I look for you in the night skies.
Out to IO and back.
Cosmically at will.
I miss your tan skin, you’re sweet smile,
So good to me, so right.
Yet I still packed my things and left that night.
If we loved again I swear id love you right.
Like Saturn losing its rings I guess its inevitable
But as a flame, it burns and I just can’t take my hand away.
Wrote 7/14/2023; Revised 8/6/2023 @ItsInevitable229
You feel stories are always unsolicited. You do not want them.
You want to feel the agony of the moment – all the more the electricity of it. A moment mottled by
rain this ordinary Thursday afternoon, or the dust eloping in the wind as we drove past 50 in the middle
of the night, you telling me I do not clean my car thoroughly, like that of a lady’s. You feel stories pose
no importance. Say, at the edge of our seats or at the jagged lip of a cliff – you would dare say jump,
alone, unwound, unfettered, resolute, obvious and available in truancy, out of incalculable fear of
existing – you took the plunge and claimed it’s all the same. Apertures frantic with dazed visions of
fondness. Vertical leap, cutting through the vague sky. Keeping some sense of freedom, yet we are not
as free as we think. You do not want a story. You do not buy its thrills. You chortle at the idea of lasting things because they have hands that are clenched and frenzied. They brand. They are territorial. You are no territory. You are an island, adrift somewhere, breathing on its own in between penumbras of want
and coasts of dread.  You feel characters do not change scripts. They change how you say things. Say, when he told you were needed, and I told you that you insist your forceful importance – you felt the need
to dab into the air and spire through the thickness of the dark, flamboyant with the color of freedom, you said, pale as a dove, I am free. Finally, the man might have left somewhere without you knowing it, and just as you are unclenching your wings, you project your pace into the sky like an unseen margin in the invisibility of all invisibilities – it is impossible to look away. You felt stories are not needed. You wanted experience. The end of a dull knife, the sound of a .45 shot into the sky as the police circle the filthy streets of Quezon City. You in your Chuck Taylors, running, looking for some tough nook to hide in – omen of another rain in sight. You remembered when you first bathed in rain and laughed a laugh so impossible with high notes and shrills – you laughed away like you were not coming back, because there is no need for a story. Now left to wondering in the vastness of the room before me, was it something
to be believed? A broken orchestra enters with its surrendering music and everything is ended. I fell asleep, still dreaming of running away.
you said, at the end of the rotunda,
there will be a shade for me to seek asylum in,
and it took me in without hesitation in that blank
moment left to my own device,
not my heart’s control but yours,
I drew a line for you to cross and pithered in excess.
     you have gone far enough,
    this March afternoon – you said,
   there is potential in this, smiling, you in your
  tattered jeans and timeworn Chuck Taylors

staring  indefinitely at fretful space,
in the falseness of things, you have gone somewhere,
  I in the shed, inched along where
  you stopped to dust your clothes.
It was 3:00 a.m. in Bowie Maryland in the year of our Lord, 1861.

A drum roll passed by in the night not more than a mile away, and Billy couldn’t tell whether it was coming from the Yanks or the Rebs. Both of Billy’s brothers had left home in the past two months.  His oldest brother Jeb having joined the Army of Northern Virginia, while his next oldest brother Seth was now fighting for the Union with Major General George G. Meade in the Army of the Potomac. Billy’s family was like a lot of other families in Maryland, and the Western Shore of Virginia, with some men choosing to fight for the North while many chose the South.

Billy was just about to turn sixteen and still had not chosen his side.  He had friends and family fighting for both and knew that the time was getting short for him to choose.  He couldn’t imagine fighting against either of his older brothers, but once he decided the possibility would definitely be there.  Billy pulled the bed covers over his head and thought back to a more pleasant time — a day when his two older brothers had taken him fishing in Mayo along the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay.

His brothers couldn’t have been more different.  Jeb was large and domineering with a personality that fit the profile of the typical soldier or warrior.  Seth was more studious and would rather have his nose stuck in a book than behind the sights of a Springfield Rifle Model 1861.  The 1861 was the most widely used rifle on both sides. The south called their version the Fayetteville Rifle, and Billy’s Dad had given his to Jeb just before he died last year.  Billy had never fired the big gun and had only carried it for his father and brother when they went on their weekly hunts for deer and small game.

Billy Finally Drifted Off To Sleep …

The next morning, his mother told him that Union soldiers had passed by in the night under the command of Colonel Elmer E. Ellsworth.  They were on their way to Alexandria Virginia to join with Colonel Orlando B. Wilcox in an attempt to retake Alexandria and drive the confederates out.  It was just too close to Washington D.C. and had to be secured. For several months confederate troops had been infiltrating Maryland and sightings had been reported from Hagerstown to Anne Arundel County. Billy wondered about the fighting that would take place later that week and hoped that wherever his brothers were engaged they were safe and out of harms way.

After breakfast, Billy decided to spend the day fishing along the Patuxent River just southeast of his home.  He rode their old Tennessee Walker George as his blue tick hound Alfie ran along side. It took Billy an hour to get to the river and he used the time to once again try and decide what the right thing was for him to do.  He had sympathies for both sides, and the decision in his mind was neither black nor white.  He wished that it was because then he could get this all over with and leave today. Billy was famous in his area for being able to get across the water. Whether it was a makeshift raft, dugout canoe, or just some drift lumber available, Billy had made it across long open stretches of the Chesapeake Bay — never once having been deterred.

He Was An Early Day Chesapeake Waterman

Billy returned home from fishing that day and found his house burned to the ground.  His mother was standing out front still in tears with her arms wrapped around Billy’s little sister Meg.  A rear-guard unit from Ellsworth’s column had gotten word that Billy’s brother Jeb was fighting for the South and just assumed that the entire family were southern sympathizers. Billy’s mother tried to tell the soldiers that her middle son was fighting with the Army of The Potomac.  No matter how hard she pleaded with the sergeant in charge, he evacuated all in the house (Billy’s Mother, Sister and Aunt Bess) and then covered the front porch in coal oil, lit it with a torch, and then just rode away. He never even turned around to watch it burn.

That Union Sergeant had now made Billy’s decision crystal clear, at least for the moment.  Once he got his mother, sister, and aunt resettled, he would make his way to Virginia and join with his older brother in the confederate cause. He remembered his brother Jeb telling him that the Confederate Soldiers had more respect, and he couldn’t imagine them doing to his family what the Union Army had just done.

It took Billy two weeks to get his Mother resettled with family up in Annapolis.  He then packed the little that remained of his belongings, loaded up old George, and said goodbye to the life he knew.  It would be a week’s ride to get past the Union Camps in Southern Maryland and Northern Virginia, and he knew he would have to stay in the tree line and travel at night.  If caught by the Yanks, his only chance of survival would be to join up with them, and he couldn’t imagine fighting for those who had just destroyed his home. His conviction to get past Fredericksburg was now determined and strong.

All Billy had to arm himself with was an 1860 percussion squirrel rifle that his brothers had bought him before going off to war.  It was only.36 caliber, but still gave Billy some feeling of security as he slowly passed through the trees in the dark. His plan was to hug the western shore of the bay, as far as Charlotte Hall, and then take two short ferry rides. His first would be across the Patuxent River and then one across the Potomac on his way to Fredericksburg.  He prayed and he hoped that the ferry’s he found were not under Union control.

Billy spent his first night in Churchton along the western shore. It was quiet and uneventful, and he was actually able to get a good night’s sleep.  He had run out of oats for George though, and in the morning needed to find an understanding farmer to help fortify his mount.  As he approached the town of Sunderland, he saw a farmer off to his right (West) tending to his fields.  Billy approached the farmer cautiously making sure he rode around in front of the farmer and not approaching from the rear.

The farmer said his name was Hawkins, and he told Billy there were oats over in the barn and two water troughs in front of the house.  He also said that if he was hungry there was a woman inside who would fix him something to eat.  He then told him that he could spend the night in his barn but since it was still early in the day, he said he was sure that Billy wanted to move on.

Billy thought it was strange that the man asked no other questions of him.  He seemed to accept Billy for all that he was at the moment — a young man riddled with uncertainty and doubt and on his way to a place he still wasn’t sure was right for him.  The look in the man’s eyes pointed Billy in the direction he now needed to go, and as he turned to thank him for his hospitality the man had already turned back to his plow.

In the barn were three large barrels of oats and five empty stalls. Two of the stalls looked like they had recently been slept in because there were two empty plates and one pair of socks still lying in the stall furthest to the left.  Billy fed George the oats and then walked outside.  Everything looked quiet in the house as he approached the front door.  He knocked twice, and a handsome looking woman about his mother’s age answered before he could knock a third time.  The woman’s name was Martha and as she invited Billy inside, she asked him when was the last time he had eaten?
Yesterday morning Ma’m, Billy said, as Martha prepared him some cold pork and cooked beans.  Billy was so hungry that he thought it was the best thing that he had ever tasted. Martha then told Billy to be careful in the woods because both union and rebel forces had been seen recently and there were stories of atrocities from both sides as they passed on their way.  Martha also said she had heard that Union forces had burned a farm up in Bowie a few weeks ago.  Billy stayed quiet and didn’t utter a word.

Billy Remained Quiet

After he finished his meal, Billy thanked Martha who had packed salt pork for him to take on his way.  Billy walked George to the water trough and waited as George drank.  He looked across the fields and he could sense what was coming.  This tranquil and pastoral scene was soon to be transformed into blood and gore as the epic struggle between North and South finished its first year. It was late fall in 1861 and Billy’s birthday was in two more weeks.  This was never the way he envisioned turning sixteen to be.

Billy thanked Martha, put the salted pork in his pouch, and remounted George. Martha said:  Whichever side you are riding to, may God be with you, young man.  Billy thought it was strange that she knew where he was heading without him telling.  He then also thought that he was probably not the first young traveler to stop at this farm for some kind words and sustenance. He rode back out in the field to thank the farmer, but when he got to the spot where he had met him before, the farmer was not there.  Billy wondered where he could have gone.  As he rode back down the cobbled dirt road, he noticed a sign at the end where it reconnected with the main road — Billett’s Farm. That wasn’t the name the farmer had told him when they were first introduced before.

Hawkins He Had Said

Billy worked his way towards Charlotte Hall.  From there he would head East to Pope’s Creek and try to get on the short ferry that would take him across the Potomac River and over to Virginia. Then Billy was sure he would finally be safe.  Tonight though, he only made it as far as Benedict Maryland, and he again needed to find secluded shelter for the night. Benedict was right along the banks of the Patuxent River where the farming was good, and the fishing was even better.

It was getting dark when Billy spotted what he was looking for.  There was a large farm up ahead with two large barns and three out buildings.  Billy sat inside the trees and waited for dark.  It was inside the outbuilding furthest to the east that he intended to stay the night.  As darkness covered the fields, Billy walked slowly towards the large shack.  He led George behind him by his lead and hoped that he would remain quiet.  George was an older horse, now fifteen, and seemed to always know what was required of him without asking.  Not that you can really ask a horse to do anything, but George did just seem to know.

Billy got to the outbuilding and put his ear to the back wall to see if he could hear anything from inside.  When he was sure it was safe, he walked around front to the door, opened it, and he and George quickly walked inside.  In the very dim moonlight, Billy could see that it was about 20’ X 20’ and had chopped wood stored against the back wall.  There were also two empty stalls and a loft up above about 10’ X 20.’  Billy decided to sleep downstairs in case he had to get away fast, and after tying George to the furthest back stall, he laid down in the stall to its right and fell fast asleep.
Billy doesn’t know how long he had been asleep, but all at once he heard the sound of clicking and could feel the cold hard press of steel against his left temple.  He woke up in a start and could see five men with lanterns standing over him in the stall.  As his eyes started to adjust, he noticed something strange.  Three of these five men were black.

Whatcha doin here boy, and where you headed, the biggest of the three black men asked him?  Billy knew that how he was to answer that question would probably determine whether he lived through the night. I’m headed to Virginia to try and find my older brother. Our farm was burned a few weeks ago and my mother and baby sister are now living with relatives.  I need to let my brother know, so he will know where to find us when the war is over.
I think this here boy’s fixin to join up with the Rebs, another of the black men shouted out.  Tell the truth boy, you’re headed to Richmond to sign up with old Jeff Davis ain’t you?  Billy lied and said he wasn’t sure of which side to fight for and that he had a brother fighting for each.  With that, the biggest of the three sat him on a barrel in the corner and began to talk again …
What you done tonight boy is decide to camp in a rural spot of the Underground Railroad.  You know what that is boy?  We have a real problem now because you knows where it’s at.  We can’t trust that you won’t tell nobody else and ruin other’s chances to get North and be free.  Billy just stared into the man’s face.  He had a strength mixed with kindness behind his eyes and for a reason Billy couldn’t understand, he felt safe in this man’s presence.

Son, we is makin our way over to Preston on the western shore where we catches a train to the North.  We have one more stop before there and that’s at the Hawkins place just thirty miles up the road.  Billy then knew why the stalls back at Martha’s barn had looked slept in.  He still wondered why the sign at the farm entrance had said Billett instead of Hawkins.  The black man then said: My names Lester, and those two men over there are brothers named Rayford and Link.  By now, the two white men were gone and only the four of them were left in the stall.

Since you say you haven’t made your mind up yet about which side to join, let me help you a little with your choosin.  Lester then went on to tell Billy that Rayford and Link had five other brothers and two sisters that were all killed while trying to escape to the North.  Not only were they killed, but they were tortured before being hanged just outside of Columbia South Carolina.  Lester then asked Rayford and Link to remove their shirts.  As they did, Lester took his lantern and shined it over both of their backs.  Both were totally covered with scars from the several lashings they had received on the plantation where they had worked back in South Carolina.  Lester said this was not unusual, and no man should be treated that way.  This was worse treatment than the slave owner would ever do to any of his animals.

Lester then said again: It’ll be a shame to have to **** you boy, but for the better good of all involved, I’ll do what I gots to do. With that, the three men walked outside, and Billy could hear them talking in hushed tones for what seemed like an hour.  Lester walked back inside alone and said: What’s your name son?  We’ve decided we're taking you with us up the road a piece.  You might come in handy if we need a hostage or someone with local knowledge of the area as we make our way t’wards Preston. Go back to sleep and we’ll wake you in an hour when it’s time to go.

Billy couldn’t sleep. It had been a long day of interrogation and darkness was again approaching.  He heard the men talking outside and from what they were saying, he realized they did all of their traveling at night hiding out in small barns and shacks like this during the light of day. He wondered now if he’d ever see home again.  He wondered even more about his previous decision to fight for the South.

In an hour, Lester came in and asked Billy if that was his horse in the stall next to him.  Billy said it was and Lester said: Get him outside, we’re going to load him with the chillens and then be on our way.  When Billy walked outside he saw eight other black people in addition to the three he had previously met.  It was a mother and father and five children all aged between three and eleven.  Lester hoisted the three smallest children up on George’s back, as the other two lined up to walk alongside.  They would make sure that none of the younger ones fell off as they maneuvered their way North through the trees at night.  The mother and father walked quietly behind, as the three large black men led the way with Link scouting up ahead for anything unforeseen.

Just before dawn, Billy recognized where they were.  They were at the end of that farm road he had just come down the day before, but the sign now read in faded letters Hawkins.  Billy looked back at the sign and he could see something written on the back.  As he squinted into the approaching sun, he could see the letters B-I-L-L-E-T-T written of the back of the board.  Billy was now more confused than ever.  Lester told them all to wait in the trees to the left of the farm road, as he took out three small rocks from his pants pocket. The sun was almost up and this was the most dangerous part of their day.

He approached the house slowly and threw the first stone onto the front porch roof — then followed by the second and then the third.  Without any lights being lit, the front door opened and Lester walked inside.  In less than a minute, he was back in the trees and said:  It now OK fo us to makes our way to the barn, where we’s gonna hide for the day.

After they were settled in the five empty stalls, Lester decided who would then take the first watch.  He needed to have two people on watch, one looking outside for approaching strangers and one watching Billy so he wouldn’t try to escape.  What Lester didn’t know was that Billy wasn’t sure he wanted to go anywhere right now and was starting to feel like he was more part of what was going on than any hostage or prisoner.

In another hour, Martha came in with two big baskets of food: Oh I see you have found my young friend Billy, I didn’t know that he worked for the road.  Lester told Martha that he didn’t, and he was still not sure of what to do with him.  Martha just looked down at Billy and smiled. I’m sure you’ll know the right thing to do Lester, and then she walked back outside toward the house. Lester told Billy that Martha was a staple on the Road to Preston and that without her, hundreds, maybe thousands of black slaves would now be dead between Virginia and Delaware.  He then told Billy that Martha was a widow, and both her husband and two sons had been killed recently at the Battle of Bull Run.  They had fought on the Confederate side, but Martha still had never agreed with slavery.  Her husband and sons hadn’t either, but they sympathized with everything else that the South was trying to do.

Billy’s head felt like it wanted to explode.  Here was a woman who had lost everything at the hands of Yankee soldiers and yet was still trying to help runaway slaves achieve freedom as they worked their way through Maryland.  Billy wanted to talk to Martha.  He also wondered who that man was in the field the previous morning when he had stopped to introduce himself.  He was sure at the time it had been Martha’s husband, but now Lester had just said that she was a widow. More than anything though, Billy wanted to talk to Martha!

Billy asked Lester when he returned from his watch if he could go see Martha inside the house.  Lester said: What fer boy, you’s be better off jus sittin quietly in this here barn. Billy told Lester that if he mentioned to Martha that he wanted to see her, he was sure she would know why and then agree to talk with him.  Lester said: I’ll think on it boy, now go get ya some sleep.  Oh by the way, did you get somethin to eat?  Matha’s biscuits are the best you’ll ever taste.  Billy said, Yes, and then tried to lie down and go to sleep.  His mind stayed restless though and he knew deep in his heart, and in a way he couldn’t explain, that Martha held the answer he was desperately in need of.

In about two more hours Martha returned with more food.  She wanted to dispense it among the children first, but three were still sleeping so she wrapped theirs and put it beside them where they lay.  After feeding the adults, she walked over to Billy and said: Would you help me carry the baskets back up to the house? Billy looked at Lester and he just nodded his head.  On the way back to the house Martha said: I understand you want to talk to me. I knew I should have talked with you before, but you were in such a hurry we never got the chance.  Let’s go inside and sit down while I prepare the final meal.

Martha then explained to Billy that she had been raised in Philadelphia.  She had met her husband while on a trip to Baltimore one summer to visit relatives.  Her husband had been working on a fishing boat docked in Londontown just south of Baltimore.  It was love at first sight, and they were married within three weeks.  Martha had only been back to Philadelphia twice since then to attend the funerals of both of her parents.  She then told Billy what a tragedy this new war was on the face of America … with brother fighting brother, and in some cases, fathers fighting their own sons. It not only divides us as a nation, but divides thousands of families, especially those along the Mason-Dixon line where our farm is located now.

She also told Billy her name was Billett, but they used Hawkins at night as the name of her Railway Stop along the Road. Hawkins was Martha’s maiden name and to her knowledge was not well known in these parts. Hawkins was also the name distributed throughout the South to runaway slaves who were trying to make their way North. Martha felt that if they were looking for someone in her area named Hawkins, they would have a hard time tracing it back to her.  The Courthouse that she and her husband had been married in burned down over fifteen years ago and all records of births, deaths, and marriages, had been consumed by that fire.

By reversing the sign at night to Hawkins, it allowed the runaway slaves to find her in the darkness while protecting her identity in the event that they were caught.  Under questioning, they might give up the name Hawkins while having no knowledge of the name Billett which in these parts was well known. Martha also told Billy that she had nothing left to lose now except her dignity and pride.  Her two sons and husband had been taken at Bull Run and now all she wanted was for the war to end and for those living imprisoned in slavery to be set free and released. Her dignity and pride forced her to try and do everything she could to help.

When Billy asked Martha … How did you know the right thing to do? she said: The right thing is already planted there deep inside you.  All that’s required is for you to be totally honest with yourself to know the answer.  Martha then turned back to her cooking.

Lester then walked into the kitchen and said: Martha Ma’m, what’s we gonna do wit dis boy?  Martha only looked at Billy and smiled as she said, Lester, this boy’s gonna do just fine.  Lester then looked at Billy and said: Somethin you wanta say to me son? Billy asked if he could go feed his horse and then come back in a few minutes.  Lester said that he could but not to take too long.

When Billy walked back into the barn, George was tied to a wall cleat in the far left corner.  He walked him out to the water trough in the dark and then back inside where he gave him another half- bucket of oats.  He looked in George’s eyes for that surety that George always had about him.  Just as he started to look away, George ****** up his head and looked to his left.  The youngest of the black children was walking toward George with something in her hand.  She was with her older sister, and she was carrying an apple — an apple for George. George took the apple from her hand as he nudged the side of her face with his nose.  Billy looked at the scene, and, in the moment’s revelation, knew instantly the right thing for him to do.

Billy went back inside where Lester and Martha were drinking coffee by the fire.  Billy told Lester that NOBODY knew these backwaters like he and his brothers. He also told Lester that by joining his cause he would never be faced with the possibility of meeting either of his brothers on the field of battle.  This seemed to strike a nerve with Lester who had a brother of his own fighting for the south somewhere in Louisiana.  In Louisiana, many of the black’s were free men and fought under General Nathan Bedford Forrest where they would comport themselves with honor and bravery throughout the entire war.

Billy then told Lester he had never agreed with slavery, and his father had always refused to own them.  This made the work harder on he and his brothers, and some of their neighbors ostracized them for their choice.  Billy said his father didn’t care and told him many times that … No man should ever own another or Lord over him and be able to tell him what he can or cannot do.

Lester then asked Billy what he knew about these backwaters.  Billy said he knew every creek and tributary along the Patuxent River and all the easiest places to get across and get across safely where no one could see.  Lester said they had a friendly ferry across the bay to Taylors Island, but many times the hardest part was getting across the Patuxent to where they were now.  From here, they would then decide whether to go across the bay to Preston or head further North to other friendly stops along the Road to Delaware. Billy said he would be most helpful along those stops further North and on this Western side of the bay as he knew the terrain so well.

For four more years Billy worked out of Martha’s farm hiding and transporting runaway slaves on their way North.  He would make occasional trips back to Bowie to fortify the barn that the Union soldiers had not burned when they torched his house that day.  His family’s barn would become the main Railroad Stop before taking those last steps to freedom that lay just 100 miles beyond in the free state of Delaware.

After reconstruction, Billy went on to become a lawyer and then a judge in Calvert County Maryland.  Martha had left Billy the farm in her will, and he now used it as a haven for black people who were freely emigrating from the south and needed a place to stay and rest before continuing on to the Industrial cities of the northeast.

When Martha was dying, Billy asked her who that mysterious farmer was that was out tending her field that morning when he first stopped by so many years ago? Martha said:Why don’t you know; that was my father, Ethan Hawkins. He worked that field every day since my husband and two boys were killed.  I’m surprised he let you see him.  I thought I was the only one who ever knew he was there.  But, but, but, your father died many years ago I thought.  Martha looked at Billy with those beautiful and gentle eyes and just smiled …

Seeing him that day had changed Billy and the direction
of his life forever, making what seemed like King
Solomon’s choice — the right and only one for him.


Kurt Philip Behm
Derrick Cox Sep 2021
You gender is your role
Mine is to be me.
Nationality is your identity
I’m a person from the same galaxy.
You vote for ******* and elephants
I don’t choose sides
That are meaningless and irrelevant.
You preach you’re the greatest of all time
While I move in silence.
You wanna shine close to the sun
I like to keep myself balanced.
You say it’s true
It happened on the news
Fox, NBC, CNN, CW11
let that be your use for TV
I’ll use mine
To fight my way through tekken on the PlayStation.
You come home from Church
Telling me what the pastor said:
Pray for this, pray for that
Come to the house to seek redemption.
Forgive me if I’m not paying attention,
But I don’t sit next to hypocrites
And listen to false prophets
Who **** kids and spouses
Taking people’s money for their suits and taxes.
You’re curious about my opinion
asking why I always close my lips.
I like to conceal my knowledge
Knowing everything is *******.
Like the filters to make yourself look ****
I rather be real enough to show my face
Making money with my own company
But you need thousands of followers
Just to make yourself happy.
Girl likes you for your ink
She’ll trace her tongue all over them.
My scars are my tats,
But she don’t wanna know me
or how I got em.
Your mans say he like you
Because you’re a woman of class?
Nah. He a smooth talker who injures his neck
Just to look back at your ***.
And speaking of which
I really hope you grown men
Would give yourself this chance
To go buy yourself a belt and please,
Pull up your ******* pants.
Your Air Jordan’s are cool,
But they make you broke when you spend.
Meanwhile, I live off Chuck Taylors
and still keep my Benjamins.
You chase after butterflies
Yet they always fly away
You care and fight for those close to you
Because you want them to stay
I’ll be home alone
Sitting on my Iron Throne
with a bowl of Special K
binging on my favorite anime
Then listen to some Backstreet Boys
Because I want it that way.
You solve a problem thinking it’s all over
Guess again *** this is not the end.
Bruce said: life is your ultimate teacher
You can’t buy that kind of education.
Enjoy your mind, be water my friend.
Your American Dream is
go to school, get a job, get married, have kids
But for me
I eat, lift, sleep, repeat,
and stay out of the Matrix.
You say we all have rights
You say we’re all equal.
When will you learn that **** ain’t real
Like your reality shows and relationship goals?
It’s often disappointing
The word that we’re living in
There’s no point of saving it
Because around here
You either die a hero or live long enough
To see yourself become the villain.
You don’t know who or what to trust
You can’t keep it a buck
Or even give a ****.
That’s how we treat each other
That’s how we survive.
Ironic we’re given the name man-kind.
Your folly is wasting your time
While mine is wasted being wise.
You got beef with someone
And so quick to pick up a gun.
Whatever happened to feet and fists
Being the last man standing and then some?
Better yet, before you lose your dome
Give yourself a training day
You wanna go to jail or you wanna go home?
You said when you grow up
You wanna be president.
You’ll be a puppet on a string
Living in Final Fantasy
That’s where they want you to be.
But I don’t play that game
And that’s why they all hate me
*** I’m the one with the brain
The one you never sniff like *******
The one you cannot see
The one watching from behind the scenes
The one who gets in trouble
For saying things that sound obscene
Like Linkin Park
I told you everything loud and clear
But nobody’s listening.
Instead you look at me laughing
Criticizing without understanding
RIP to Tupac
If you don’t know me then don’t judge me.
Word from Jay-Z
Allow me to reintroduce myself
I am the phantom menance
To you society.
swiftie time his here taylors here to play
travelling to uk from the usa
putting on her concerts there are quite a few
lots of taylors fans standing in a que

all the swifties gather to watch there idol play
to see there favourite star will really make there day
singing all  her songs all her greatest hits
and to see there idol that they love to bits
Paul Glottaman Jul 2022
Find him sun faded and aching
the prersistent sound of scrapping
from the shovel dragging pavement
six inches behind him as the day went.
He don't know how to make ends meet
he's pushin' his chuck taylors up the street
hoping for answers in tired shakin' hands
knocked knees and our endless demands.
Thirsty, for him, has become a profession
and broke a bitter given confession.
He'll fix what needs fixin', mend what's broke
and he'll smile and nod at every cruel joke.
He'll repair your service to keep his kids fed
work hours beyond when it's time for bed.
Overtime and weekends. Eighty hour weeks
his kids'll wonder where daddy sleeps.
We'll hate him for never being around
Say he was silence when they wanted sound.
We never wonder how he felt, if he's aware
not that it matters. No one will ever care.
ymmiJ Apr 2019
Hasn't worn them in years
Since she lived here, my all star
Her low cut Chuck Taylors

— The End —