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Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.



























BANG!





















An artificial cloud.

































“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;

indoors,

apart,

he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and a beast crashed in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.




"FERMIN!"







































­












He leaps down steps
and explodes
as it rams her
to and fro,
bashing her head
against the wall
where horns sin
and horns gore
cement and brick.

He grips the tail
heaving its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine,

he slips and slides
in fractured glass
and finds a horn
and yanks the head;

is yanked instead,
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to shout and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer
fast and frantic
flying flustered
by the frenzy
finding the
pattering
of
pavement



petering



into





the











street.





"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"





His hands bleed
and flesh breathes.

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.
Men and women
fuss and frown,
always making sure.

"Podria haber sido peor"

Another story for the herd.
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
Wai Phyo Win Dec 2018
Which one you choose; whatever?
Jimbaran, Kota or Nosadua
happiness inside leaves us forever

Took pictures with terrace rice fields background
thinking of hanging on the wall around
dancing decor all surrounds; echoing sounds

Looking for the bedcover pink and blue
Cotton floral design so beautiful true
when we can use it without a clue

Having a candle lit dinner on Uluwatu cliff
beside a table without a script, a band of music
breezing air across the ocean; not restrict

Tasting Luwak coffee on way to Mount Butar
the buffet was not super but we felt like Michelin cook rooster
Thinking of happy ever after

We went for banana boating
I was afraid of chocking though it was floating
while you're holding me tight but soaking

Now you are there without me
I'm sure your eyes will be full of tears
of the memories
can we call it tragedy?
A Story
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2018
Let me know
What was that
That made you
To choose him/her

She/He replied
Leave it, or listen
He/She is the future
Nothing more

Being an observant and a traveller of examined life I come to this conclusion. Tragedy does not happen, from the very beginning  It is "Us" who pave the path within. With the unawareness we focus to travel to the destination where we don't belong. Throughout the journey we keep on dreaming with a hope of a good day making us vulnerable to the threshold, when even a single undesired word, few seconds delay, lyrics of the background music could unexpectedly break us.
Trust me we all are fragile.

Let it be simple, if we are watering the leaves of the plant and hope to grow, we get the result what we have to accept. Sometime mishaps happens, we are the culprit. How dare we expect to water the roots of the plant in neighbor's terrace and wish for the fruit to be ours.

We may smell the fragrance if the kind breeze blow towards our side.
Even we may always get the fragrance if we follow the direction of the wind.
The choice is ours.
Does it worth?
Will we be happy?
Can we hide the pain?

Always
The choice is all ours.
Genre: Dark Diary
Theme: Examined Life || Words of wisdom
Ian Mackenzie Aug 2018
We lie here - our bodies quiet in the late night heat

Off in the distance a dog barks as it’s master stirs and
in the fields the crickets give their last gasps of the day

A party lightens up a far away terrace as the wine flows and a secret flirt takes place as a gecko flits across a stucco wall, stops and moves again

And in this still heat our bodies merge - become one and we grow together

The far off waves of a Mediterranean Sea lap the silken sand

As we become one once more
31st July 2018 about a friend in Malta
RAJ NANDY Sep 2017
Streets of the city has recently bathed, with a sudden hour
long mid-Summer's rain.
Romeo trudged down the empty street, towards his lonely
pad located on a terrace.
He had nothing to call his very own, excepting his dear old
Saxophone!
The crowd in the hotel applauded as he played, since he played
with empathy like every other day.
He had met his Juliet briefly once, those were the moments of
a happy trance!
The saxophone has countless musical notes embedded inside, -
For our Romeo to play them out night after night.
Yet so many Romeos like him shall slowly fade away;
And the saxophone shall play their dirge at the end of
the day!  
                                                         -By Raj Nandy, New Delhi
Andrew Jun 2017
Originality is overrated
We are at our most original
The moment we are born
The rest of our lives is for specificity
Not for staring in awe at something different
But building with blocks already used
Style is arranging those pieces in ways
that are pleasing to our species
Humility is gaining pieces from others
Specificity is collecting as many components as possible
In the most unique manner available
Because when I'm traveling
I have a destination in mind
And it's not just anywhere
It's a specific city

We must sift through the mud to find the diamonds we build with
The dew forms on the grass at night
It's beauty eludes us until morning
As our terrace becomes a tower
Specialties become more apparent
As our tower becomes a tomb
Glory becomes more transparent
Not wanting to be a cliche is such a cliche
Tradition is our foundation
For we're only truly free once we're given constraints

Who do we ***** these facades for anyway?
Do we want everybody to enjoy our lobby?
Or do we want one person so interested
That they climb the rungs to the top floor?
I'd prefer the latter
So I continue growing new wings on my structure
To attain specificity
Until the day someone comes along and says
"Oh my God, I **** with this **** so hard, how did you know?"
I'll respond
"I have no idea what this is or how I built it."
But I built it for you
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
Take me to the Rookery with its many paths
A tea house selling refreshments in pretty glass
Three striped lollies covered in chocolate beads
Biscuits and sandwich are all that we need.

The garden was set out, in brick oblong beds
Raised from the ground and divided by hedge
Many bush roses, of the older kind, smelling of
Cold cream and sweet camomile.

There was a terrace with steps leading down
To a sunken garden where the roses reclined
Hanging over arbours, pink , white and cream
And other perennials added to the scene.

This place a haven at the top of Streatham hill
Does anybody know it, it might be there still?
My daddy took me often on a Sunday afternoon
To ramble in the sunshine, and play at my will.


Love Mary x
Dawnstar Aug 2018
Tomorrow the sun will rise
as usual, the moon will also sleep
in a harmonic star-cradle;
the voice of longing will emanate
Tomorrow, from our lips;
bright morning and two-days,
waking safely somehow in our
terrace of the dawn. I hope
the chance will come for you
to view the river city
in all its sunrise glory
Tomorrow,
before the latesummer ends.
Evan Stephens Dec 2018
There were
those thickets
of flat
graying trees
and a frozen
skin of lake
out by the
hunched rink
behind Georgian Woods
the terrace apartments
where Dad lived
after he left
the family.

Left to my
own devices
while Dad
delved in books
I slipped out
the sliding door
through
the frost-grass
and the
snow branch gap
into the
unfolding stillness
of the drowsing park.
Sometimes
my sister
was there
with me
in the woods,
our play
always some form
of running away.

In the early
years Dad
smoked a pipe
his thick
blue rug scented
with Captain Black
**** tobacco,
the white tin
with the rigged
ship logo.
The humming silo
of the air purifier
Dad's concession
to my convulsing
asthmatic chest,
close-gathered lung

like the branch bark
that scraped
my lip
as I ran in
the park wood,
blood slipping
across my face
and down
into the ache.
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
I had not been born yet.
Still, I can see you at your labor -
alone, scouring the meadows
for the stones -
lifting their gray shoulders
from the moist earth -
pulling them from the
green grasp of briars,
goldenrod, and
Queen Anne’s Lace.

The smell of the earth
must have filled you with
your own childhood memories -
of plowing fields
and cold mornings
trudging across barn yards
mud thick on your boots -
promising yourself
that someday you would leave
and never return.

I can hear the pick axe -
the sharp strikes
against the stones,
and the dull thud
when the earth
swallowed the blade -
and the deep exhalations
when the stones tumbled into
the old wheelbarrow – new then -
that now leans rusting
against my garden shed.

Some of the stones were so large -
far too large for one man –
how did you move them?
I look at the old photographs
and you seem so young –
so much younger
than I am today - and so thin –
staring off-frame beyond the camera.
What were you looking for
in those fields?

I can see you sorting the stones,
stacking them -
building and unbuilding
and rebuilding the walls
and  terraces
until the walls were true
and the terraces level
and planted with dogwood,
birches, soft grass for bare feet,
and bordered with roses.

Did you know
that you were building my castle?
That the highest terrace
would be my tower and keep?
I remember calling out to my
knights, my legionnaires,
and tribesmen –
rallying them in defense
of the citadel –  ready for
the coming siege.

I also remember looking out
across that verdant kingdom
for the last time -
no longer a king or a boy –
and miles away, across the river
to the west, I imagined
the new home that awaited us.
I couldn’t know
how far away it would be
or what it meant to leave.

This morning,
as I looked out across
the garden that I have built,
I felt the weightlessness of time
and its gravity
settling me into place.
For a brief moment I had
the sensation that I was standing
on the shoulders of
gathered stones.

(for my father, Guy Spencer.)
Tom Spencer © 2015
v V v Dec 2018
In those first years
we spent a lot of time
in red corduroy chairs,
the ones that came with
the house on Turner Terrace.

I would sit and watch you
when you didn’t know
I was watching, constantly
looking for a crack in
your armor,
for a little snippet of the
***** you might become,

but I never found it
and it never happened.

Your little girl wonder
had me convinced that
the world in your hands
would be safe,

no death blows,
no mean streaks,
love's foundation set deep
never to be undone by
head games or hidden agendas,

and now all these years later
I am still transfixed by
your clarity,
your complete “sheerness”.

You are my priceless
dividend of peace finally paid
from a lifetime investment
in Faith,

you came to me
when Hope had gone
and Grace was silent,

and you love me
when you don’t even know it.
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
In the ashes of division hope ignited
Unity decided a new fate, in its wake.
My father lived in Chester Road,
Off Ladbrook Grove, eight children
In a tenament flat back to back.

The poverty of the forties are
Now palatial palaces, white pillared.
My father joined the army to escape
To marry and move to Streatham,
South London, to an Edwardian terrace.

Notting Hill, the divided community
Chelsea and Kensington let it happen.
My grandmother moved to a new town
And this year we all watched on TV
Grenfell burn as an inferno in the dark.

Love Mary
In memory of those lost in the fire.Love Mary ***
Antithesis Feb 25
The wind brushed past my terrace
City lights, bloomed into a Polaris
Stylistic expression allured my eye
For our city's beauty could not hide
Beyond the presence of our vie
Lies lead us to open pride
Old architecture lay anew
Upon the veil of our closed view
The cigarette my mouth held
Fell down an endless abyss
Thats depth seemed unparalleled
Although the city provided bliss

But I couldn't see the skyline
Was the skyline ever there
or did I just imagine it
Now reality shone through

Bliss lost its flavor
Depth was shallow
The abyss had ended
My cigarette had started a fire
I could see, but was it real?
New architecture lost its polish
Pride was only an illusion
Our vie lead to hatred
There was no beauty hidden within
My eyes wouldn't close
The lights turned off
And the wind brushed past my terrace
Bring the brush
and let the Mighty whiting
the teeth of the earth
to a snowy terrace of life.

The smoke of glory is
swirling in ethereal
motion bringing peace to
the tormented souls,
discharging the prisoners
of morning hope to eternal
freedom of the morning.

The clock of victory is
ringing in highest decibels
choking evil mind into
burning fire , bringing victory
to the glorious Dawn.

It's the dawn of the golden sun
from the throne of Glory,
raining down victory and
favor in glut, running
rivers of joy, overflowing
grace in grace of mercy of
the sovereign Grace!
Shirley Antonio Sep 2018
Pull the trigger.

**** me.

So that I can no longer paint my emotions with lies.
Sometimes you just can't describe moments you only feel it


I was waiting for my prince but he never came.
So I went looking for him.

It's as strange as people go from lovers to strangers.
Do not bring love today,
I want your shame.


My hobby  now is to see depressed girls with pink wigs.

I need you to hurry up when you're going to make decisions.
Because I need you now.
Here on this terrace near the sea.
Looks like I'm lying on the seashore.



I wanted to be like God.
Have access to a door to the infinite of an unreal place.

To be honest, we all create an unreal world a surreal fantasy when we are rejected.

And so when the pain begins to flow, we look for ways to define love.


Do you think I'm a stupid girl?


Pull the trigger.

It ends my agony of not being able to love.

Pull out the rug.

Drop me into reality.

Sometimes people make us think we're on the test.

No one can see anyone's heart.
But we all have a concept of what the other feels.
No one can see the heart beating.
But everyone thinks we're alive.

Pull the trigger.

And I end up feeling like I'm repeating the same mistakes.
I do not want to have unreal feelings.
Get the feeling of being looking for nothing.

Pull the trigger

**** what's already dead
TheIdleOwl Jun 13
8
15 floors up on the terrace,
Distance seems endless,
Figures an oil painting,
Buildings just dust,
Noise a never-ending static,
Fog a malfunction in the code,
The sky nothing but a watercolour,
And the sun just a fragment of time,
Laughing at the dreamers who rhyme

Only you and these tears now seem real,
Will it forever be just the once?
bythesea Nov 2018
i draw the kitchen just so i can see it again.


i wonder if the lemons on her branches still grow.
and what happened to the dust from the rooms below,
they used to be so empty.


they only held
the beds and dressers
and i can't help
but wonder if those were even real,
and what did they once hold of the
sisters and daughters,
and a son.


i know the bed frame was hollow
and you'd hide jewels in there,
of all the stories i've been told.



i know how the kitchen wore herself
how pretty she sat against the white
stuccoed wall.
how the window framed itself so that the kitchen shone,
through the branches of the lemon tree, at dusk.
black beautiful shutters, a rusted eggshell blue enamel sink, a terrace with cast iron railings,
the terrazzo floors.



in our summers there we'd lay out a mattress and sleep outside with the mosquitos
in the mornings, we’d rise just in time to watch the sun creep over the church on the horizon.


its the saddest magic i've ever known.
Kate Copeland Jul 28
I like to sit on a terrace
sipping the afternoon away
listening to others' heart-to-heart
Maybe sit in|maybe not.

Chats range from tube rides
to the colour of our Thames
to their dog not eating well
To views on life we must have.

Sun fades and all still nice
my books help me focus
turning life into questions
Questions take on words.

Outside in the green sea
Alone among people
Now is then later
Later is now then.

I cannot decide.
Peter Watkins Jan 20
The bustling disquiet of shopping centres at mid-day makes me feel uneasy now. The people appear, as crashing waves of peachy white and pastel brown. I can’t stomach this buzz. Don’t they have something better to do? I think a woman’s screaming, clawing after the last carton of milk. A gentleman decks a teenage boy, for having the tenacity to take the last fifty-two-inch TV. I can’t really quit laughing. But everyone looks so serious. I think they’re staring at me, as though I’m making fun, and I am so not!
          
          You’re all a joke regardless of my seeing you! Go on, and on and on and on, keep going like no one’s watching you. As much as I’ve always wanted the rapture, I see now I’m a fool. This wave of people, no, better yet: animals. This flood of ******* genius is exactly what God would send forth. Oh I’m laughing again. What a ******* he is... They really do move like water, if river, ocean or tide had a mind of its own. I can’t really stop seeing their fluidity now. Overlapping and sliding off, and doing the same again, and crashing until frothing over and over, again and again until they flow away with less of themselves.
         
         Gentle, sweeping ecstasy floods my mind in tsunami. The pleasure overcomes the little ***** which festers in my skin. It gapes at me, that festering wound: red and raw. But I’m too busy, staring at the wall, seeing faces and writhing bodies struggling against the dense brickwork. I drool as I watch my shoe and the ******* sprouts wings.
          
          I feel him struggling, flapping, making me laugh tryna’ get away. I wiggle my toes and he giggles too, and I ask him “Hey little shoe, you like that so why you run away?” And he goes all dead serious, and straight away I know things are starting to turn out bad, as he says “Mister, it’s just what I do, and you gonna be running too, soon enough.” And I see the walls moving again, his little wings cover his head, and I’m teeming with all sorts of bad feelings. But for some reason, I keep on looking at how my laces create a little mouth, and how his little leathery hide, spotted all white, flexes with my foot. It keeps breathing and breathing, compelling me to tear it free of its spine; swinging it to beat the terrible walls back, back and away.
          
          But then I’ve woken, such a hacking cough, crucified on a bed of broken glass leagues below my window. On my feet, cracked and blasted bones, stumbling through the neon night compelled by the itch of home. Not particularly sure where this park came from, with tangerine lights and dew-soaked grass. There is a desk in the middle of the grassy field’s expanse. I’d go and ask who put it there but it would start talking all over again. It looks like little hands are clawing out of the dirt, but I later conclude (after stomping one of the annoying *******) that the grass just looks all wobbly. I’d have gasped at this revelation but I fell over first, and it felt like I didn’t really stop tumbling. Call me Alice and give me a dress, it’s **** like this that I live for. I’ve fallen into a slippery pit that’s dark and wet like a huge throat, but oddly cold like being beneath ice. I feel like I’ll never hit the bottom, when a falling candlestick sneezes engulfing me in flames. I’m kind of screaming now, but it doesn’t really hurt it’s more just reactionary. And the great whirring noise! My breathlessness and whimpering, I can’t see: such sublime golden heat and... ****! ****! Thud.
          
         Slipping out of my bed, on to the terrace where the stars may see me; peaceful at last beneath the ultra-marine sky. The Maharaja approves of my efforts for the nation; the blood I have spilled, enshrined within scarred veins. I have journeyed for him, into the chrysalis of the mind. Folds of wrinkled DNA trapped deep in this eggshell cavity. Smash the egg, smooth out those folds and initiate rebirth. I raise my arms in rejoice, oh how proud he is, winking at me in the stars. My brain stretched across the sky, the colours swim and mix; fornicate in the open petri-dish. The truth emerges so.
A surrealist prose-poem influenced by the works of Ginsberg and Burroughs
Tanzim Ahmed Jan 5
In 1852, an artist named Luc Maspero threw himself from the fourth floor of a Parisian hotel
Leaving a suicide note that read: "for years I have grappled desperately with her smile,
I prefer to die."

Then in 1910, one enamored fan
came before her solely to shoot himself
As he looked upon her Napolean crushed ******* her.
She has broken a lot of heart
Men have died loving her.

Last week Mona Lisa walked out of her frame
And out of the Louvre Museum
Straight to the terrace of the tallest builiding of Paris and cried.

The world is smudged with oil now
Paris streets smell of smoke and warm colours.
My mother knows nothing about mona lisa
And neither does my father.

But he steals some of the colour from mona lisa's cheeks
And put them across my mother's everytime he pronounces her name
Like it is the only word his tongue has ever known,
Like it is the only colour his eyes have ever seen.

Somedays, he steals stars from Gogh's starry night.
"A good lover is a good thief" he says.

I wonder probably the Italian man who stole Mona Lisa wanted to put some colour across his wife's cheeks
Or he just wanted to steal that smile.

Maybe his wife had left him
Or yellowed
Or died

Maybe his wife was a bad lover
And he, a good thief.

Maybe his wife was a good lover
And he, a bad thief
Who went gaga over Lisa.

What I want to say is,
This poem is standing on the fourth floor,
Of the same Parisian hotel,
With a suicide note in one hand
Smuged with oil and warm colours, And pistol in other.

This poem is the terrace of the tallest building of Paris.
This poem is Mona Lisa crying at 3am uncolouring herself while trying to forget French
And a thief trying to rob the colours and stars,
And a half asleep world smudged with oil and smoke

Which is to say,
This poem is a poor attempt to be everything,
But anything about you
Wondering what would be the first sentence of Mona Lisa if she ever walks out

Would it be,
"Where is Vinci?"
Or, "I wish
To run away?"
can you leave me out
of the stories
that you choose
to tell them?
i will leave you
out of mine.
we can be
like this,
for another little moment
before it's absolutely
time.
under this sheet
the world
is so small
and so big.
between blinks,
we have bought
our first plant together.
and a soapy bubble
from you doing the dishes,
has escaped the sink
— glittery —
towards the sunlight.
you just called to say
that the colours
of an umbrella
reminded you of me.
between blinks,
it's raining
on an April afternoon,
and i brought us pastries
from the bakery downstairs.
i can't believe
how breathtaking
you look today.
we are on an airplane
laughing about yesterday.
out on a breezy terrace,
look —
is that a firefly?

between blinks

we're back again,
under this sheet.
and it's time.
it's cold on this terrace;
they're passing around a joint,
and i'm stunned at how
all the city lights
could pass for stars.
i don't remember the last time i saw you, but
i remember we don't see each other anymore.
maybe sometimes
reasons come later,
and feelings come first.
my friend made me chai
with sweet, powdered milk yesterday
and it tasted like a memory we share.
it was sweet.
i feel very happy here among people
and starry buildings;
i don't remember the last time i was on a terrace
so high,
or much of anything at all,
but regardless
i feel very happy here
and you're free to join me.
Özcan Sh Nov 2018
In the middel of the night
We went outside
On the terrace
We hid us under a blanket
Our eyes were on the sky
And a bright warm star
Was in my arms.
Ryan O'Leary Jul 16
My neighbour has just had
a tantrum, a bit of a delirium
tremens. Inherited, her mother
was the same, fell out with
everyone in the terrace.

Can't wait for the day to sell
this house and hopefully the
council will buy it to house
a family of Irish Tinkers, that
will quieten the *****.
Jack L Martin Sep 2018
Head south on W Doubt Drive
0.2 mi

Turn right onto N Confused Court
0.8 mi

Slight left to stay on N Frustrated Fairway
1.0 mi

Turn right onto W ******* Rd
0.2 mi

Turn left onto N Hell Hwy
0.5 mi

Turn right onto W Anger Ave
0.2 mi

Turn left onto N Pain Place
1.6 mi

Turn right onto W Suffering St
0.2 mi

Turn left onto N Regret Road
1.1 mi

Turn right onto W Depression Drive
0.2 mi

Turn left onto N 68th St

N 68th St turns slightly left and becomes S Agony Ave
0.4 mi

Continue onto E Therapy Terrace

Slight right to stay on Self Forgiveness Blvd
0.4 mi

Turn right onto E Understanding Way
2.2 mi

Turn left onto Acceptance Alley
0.5 mi

Continue onto Lovers Lane
0.3 mi

Lovers Lane turns slightly right and becomes Peace Place
99,000,000 mi

You have arrived at your destination.
To get to heaven, you must first go through Hell!
OnwardFlame Jan 3
You said that
You wish you had time to sit down
And write me.

I circle among the wooden nymphs
Infiltrate fire on ice
And mend golden beams with
A little solitude
And an everlasting
Humble sadness.

I don't know that I can adapt anymore.

Mirroring lampshades, the wallpaper too
I drift among the water here
Submerging myself into the lake
When the water tastes just right
Or not great.

I quantify and qualify
And echo in and out of chambers
As you listen and reach for everything
All while wanting everything
But not all of it.

I wasn't supposed to mean anything
A choir of banshees sing
And in my writing to you
I don't know that I have anything new to say.

Will you think of the way people circled around me on the dance floor
Or how an all consuming radiance and freedom
Releases from the room when I enter it?

I'm still here while you go
Chipping and chopping away
With my golden axe in hand
The belle of the ball.

I can still taste
The comforting way
I've come to find your hands down my lips, down my throat
Down the grip
Of my heart that you tighten and sometimes
Toy with.

You flutter through like a winged creature
Through your own plights, your own jealousy
Finally admitting to me
As we both swirl in moments of turmoil.

You described a feeling in your chest.

I've always been someone who can take on a lot of pain
I've always been someone who
Finds some kind of weird ****** up joy
In feeling so completely
A *******, a pained artist
And so here, in the terrace
Where it's you and it's me
But not so completely
I can paint strokes
As my arm bleeds down the canvas
Because a part of me
Can somehow stand it.

I don't know what will happen here
I wish I could write more joyously
All I know to do
Is to set you free

And trust you'll come back to me.
Tanzim Ahmed Jan 5
In 1852, an artist named Luc Maspero threw himself from the fourth floor of a Parisian hotel
Leaving a suicide note that read: "for years I have grappled desperately with her smile,
I prefer to die."

Then in 1910, one enamored fan
came before her solely to shoot himself
As he looked upon her Napolean crushed ******* her.
She has broken a lot of heart
Men have died loving her.

Last week Mona Lisa walked out of her frame
And out of the Louvre Museum
Straight to the terrace of the tallest builiding of Paris and cried.

The world is smudged with oil now
Paris streets smell of smoke and warm colours.
My mother knows nothing about mona lisa
And neither does my father.

But he steals some of the colour from mona lisa's cheeks
And put them across my mother's everytime he pronounces her name
Like it is the only word his tongue has ever known,
Like it is the only colour his eyes have ever seen.

Somedays, he steals stars from Gogh's starry night.
"A good lover is a good thief" he says.

I wonder probably the Italian man who stole Mona Lisa wanted to put some colour across his wife's cheeks
Or he just wanted to steal that smile.

Maybe his wife had left him
Or yellowed
Or died

Maybe his wife was a bad lover
And he, a good thief.

Maybe his wife was a good lover
And he, a bad thief
Who went gaga over Lisa.

What I want to say is,
This poem is standing on the fourth floor,
Of the same Parisian hotel,
With a suicide note in one hand
Smuged with oil and warm colours, And pistol in other.

This poem is the terrace of the tallest building of Paris.
This poem is Mona Lisa crying at 3am uncolouring herself while trying to forget French
And a thief trying to rob the colours and stars,
And a half asleep world smudged with oil and smoke

Which is to say,
This poem is a poor attempt to be everything,
But anything about you
Wondering what would be the first sentence of Mona Lisa if she ever walks out

Would it be,
"Where is Vinci?"
Or, "I wish
To run away?"
olivia Aug 8
I write with a pink Bic now

My phone is white and out of storage and I’m not connected to the
   cloud because it freaks me out, so every time I delete a picture, she
   asks “are you sure?” And I “delete anyway”
My high school best friend’s cousin’s husband just died and I’m
   wondering why I’m weeping for a kin I never grew akin to, a mere
   stranger, a subtle blip in my matrix. But his poetry
   is beautiful, I know that. And his music is beautiful, I know that.
I drank a root beer float tonight and the night before, or did I eat it? It
   reminded me of buying 99 cent slushes at Convenient. Or the
   “healthy” slushes I bought to accompany my soft pretzel everyday
   in middle school.
On the terrace, everyone else ate hot dogs and I looked down,
   holding my soggy French fries and wondering what else there is out
   there besides ketchup and mustard: like in Princess Diaries when
   Julie Andrews puts mustard on her corndog. I always thought
   that was so cool.
Or when Mia Thermopolis sit sideways in her giant comfy chair after
   throwing darts at balloons filled with paint aka “stupid cupid stop
   picking on me” or is it… “hitting on me”
Remember when Ben Day asked for pictures and when you sent cute
   selfies in your sports bra, he responded, “okay, but can they not be
   of your face?”
Or when Ben Wilson taught you that “hurt people hurt people” and
   had “ultra conservative” on his Facebook page underneath political
   views and you had go ask what that meant. I Corinthians 1:13 or
   something like that was always my favorite bible verse because its
   the only one I ever learned by heart.
Hail Satan.
We all rot under late capitalism.
But I didn’t know that then. I know that now, but not then.
Now I wonder mostly about the ethics behind “procreating.” I wanna
   bear fruit, but I can’t even stand the thought of myself burning in a
   fiery pit, let alone my spawn.
But,
My stepsister is pregnant. She found out the “gender” today, “boy.”
   My nieces and nephews have had a very gendered upbringing, I
   guess I did too: barbies and bratz and Betty spaghetti.
I know everyone always says they just want a “healthy, happy baby”
But I have a crippling nicotine addiction and manic depression, I’m
   not healthy or happy.
Do you think I was the idea my parents pictured when my mom peed
   on that stick and got a plus sign?
Probably not.
I hate to disappoint.
They can live in the glory days when my cursive handwriting was
   better than anyone else’s in my second grade class. Olivia Layne
   Ulmer on that brown, dotted, lined paper.

With a yellow no.2 pencil.
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