Once again I wore my spiked choker and wristband today
I haven't worn them in a while
Because everyone thinks I'm depressed when I wear them
But I realized I don't care what people think of me
I'm not hollow like I was the last time I wore this
So that is all that really matters
This is my little symbol of rebellion
Against hatred
To say to those who prejudge me and hate me:
F!ck you
I'll do whatever the hell I feel like
Your approval is not needed
I'm happy dressed this way
That's all that matters
I encourage everyone to have a little bit
Of that "F!ck You Attitude" today
Just little symbols of rebellion
Draw a black X on your wrist today
In black ink
If you support
Being yourself regardless what people think
And through this little ink symbol
Though apart in miles
We will be united in spirit
Be YOU :)
X

Her shallow waters, I dove in
head first trynna be someone
I shouldn't sin
suicide
if she wanted I would jump again; terrorist all she needed was a turban with a Taliban as a wristband
chants written on her body they were lyrics then
tattooed, and I was thinking more like angel wings instead she brought a dress from the devil on the ****** sands
tainted, glasses even tinted, everything Instragram everything vintage, everything is everything to her im just a witness; a blast from the past, a mistress of a mistress Killed it.
matter fact **** me this not what I wanted and I not who I should be; you say the sky's the limit but my limit is a frisbee my sky is a ceiling of a feeling of what could be
I don't think I want you any more!
MTA
stand clear closing doors
gasoline
burning bridges to the floor abandon ship ***** you don't wanna fall alone
but it seems im stuck in Davie Jones and swimming in her waters is the only way to roam,
grown
daughter of the music angel so; burn
Sean is the only way to go; swerve
I had get up outta there but no one elses water taste like Everclear and no one elses water I could jump in bare
matter fact there was never water there i could jump in raw, the rain coat was never there
Hold up, but what was I thinking
I knew her whole song she never had to sing it
I knew that it was wrong, I couldn't stop reneging
***** after ***** after *****
cut after cut with a blade
clubs I would cut cause of shame
I knew her whole hand so who is up for blame,
Or is this just a phase but maybe I was wrong, to think theres something better and maybe Im alone in thinking that there was palm trees and maybe nicer weather after I was giving up but I cant forget her.
so I
jumped in again, head first
she was wet all clear, slick roads
traveling full speed on her **** curves words slurred vision about to go
I'm bout to give it all up to this girl
my mans like I don't really think you know
cause once you go in raw you already sold your soul
and once you eat her fruit she already took your clothes.

What could I do to take your pain away?
You counsel others, but it’s yourself you’re talking to.
I see you nervously fiddle with your wristband--
I’m pretty sure I know what you once tried to do.

I wish I could share my healing skills--
there’s no one whom I want to help more.
But we’re far apart. It’s me who is helped by you.
Someone else must unlock your secret door.

Freud once said: It is love that cures the patient.
But can we truly love at will?
Take the love that’s freely given,
and banish what has made you ill.

Moonlight peers through window blinds,
thin, fluorescent strips streaking the beige
walls and tea green sheets. Her dew-eyed
gaze lies on the baby blue bib,
imprinted with a small white bird,
next to her on the bed. Beside
the bib is a wristband from
Carnation Hospital, and an
open, small, wooden box.

She reaches for the bib and
caresses the soft cotton,
shadowing the bird and the seams.
She takes a glance at the wristband,
but clenches her eyes. She grips the
bib and holds it to her cheek and
sits this way until she melts into
the dark.

The streaks drift.

Coming to from her trance, she lays
the bib into the box, then tosses
the wristband in before shutting
the top. She carries the box to
the closet and buries it beneath
a bundle of unkempt, *****
clothes. She closes the door and prays
to the blessed ****** Mary.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

Once more I shut and lock my door
And again I reach for my purse
As before, I pull out my tissues and blade
Once again I pull up my sleeve
And remove the wristband you gave me
I look at myself in the mirror again ashamed
As I give into the tears and pain
And the sadness and anger swell
I begin to lose sense of my surroundings again
I press the blade to my flesh as I have done so many times before
And out of memory I repeat the action again, again
I wipe the blood away as I did the previous nights
The tears mix with blood again, and I wipe my eyes
Even though this has happened several times
I still am shocked once I come back down from flying high
With the repeated marks left
I quickly hide my blade again
And throw away all of the ****** tissues
I gently place the wristband back in place
And again smooth my sleeve over it
I remain hidden in my room again tonight
Awaiting more scabs to form
Again I cut
Again I fear myself
Again I'm afraid of the world
Again I cry
Again I scream
Again I hide
Again I am hurt
Again I try to block it all out.
Again I keep secrets
Again I cut
Again
Again
Again

I remember my body trembling as I took my first step inside Payton High,
I remember my hitched breath and twitching eye,
I remember sitting behind a blue eyed boy during homeroom,
I remember thinking his eyes would be able to light up the gloom.

I remember it took me exactly one day,
To walk to him during lunch with my tray,
I remember offering him my cheese dip,
And that was the start of our friendship.

I remember wondering why he was always alone,
When he was the most beautiful being I’ve ever known,
He was spontaneous; he loved feathers; he loved star gazing,
You could say I fell in love with him because he was amazing.

Everyone ignored him as he walked on by,
I never understood the reason why.
So cold, so aloof, so distant from the crowd,
I remember thinking it was because he was so proud.

I tried many ways to draw him close,
A movie, a drink, a lunch, all that I could propose,
I am sorry, I am so sorry, was all he said,
The light in his eyes went dead.

I was never his and he was never mine,
With this fact, I had to pretend I was fine,
Little did he know he was killing me,
Because my heart was locked and he had the key.

I remember it was a rainy fifth of July,
When I was talking to a teary eyed guy,
Who had a newspaper on his right hand,
And on the left was a pink wristband.

R.I.P it wrote in capital letters,
With a picture of two white feathers,
I took the newspaper and there on the obituary,
I saw ‘To the 1st anniversary of Alfie Ary’.

The picture of my blue eyed boy was staring back at me,
Black and white his smile filled with glee,
My world started spinning round and round,
My thoughts in disarray as I fell to the ground.

Where was he, I looked all around,
But he was nowhere to be found.
The corridors were filled with haunting memories,
Of questions unasked and cryptic apologies.

I was in shock, was his existence a lie?
Just then a cold breeze blew by,
I remember his shaky breath whispering one last time,
“I love you baby, but you can't be mine”.

W.H.Y~

To the humans of 2017,

The date is January 5th, 3017.

The empty roads fill with hover cars and the streets buzz with noise.

It's a cold day. But everyone is warm. With their coat heaters, of course.
Some people are even wearing t-shirts and shorts.

The sky, blue and crystal,
is overloaded with Flyers and Sky-Cars. People are roaming on the sky streets.

They don't rush because they're late to work, they don't carry heavy suitcases- all they need is that one little wristband on their right forearm.

Humans are perfect now.

None is stronger than other, none is more handsome then other, none is more smarter than other. They share the same amount of money. Everybody is equal.

This is the Happy City. Not a single fight has happened. Everyone is kind. They do not lie, thief, fight, or ****. Not even one commotion happens.

Everything is perfect. Equal. Even.

But that's not what I think.

Humans shouldn't be perfect. We shouldn't have been.

Humans are a creature that thinks, fights, sacrifice, lie, trust, betray, and make choices. That's what humans are like. That's what they're suppose to be.

That disgusting red wristband makes the decision for us. Or at least, them. It tells them what to wear, eat, do, and even decides your mate. We are not humans anymore. We are not perfect.

These people here are so simple. There is no lesson learned, no school or government. Everybody just has a joyful life.

But no! I disagree! We humans should learn lessons, decide good and evil- we must make mistakes! We also must be evil sometimes! That is what makes us human. Those are our characteristics that prove us human.

Dear fellows, it is hell here.

We are not humans anymore. We have become slaves of perfection.

Save me.

**And these humans that are not humans anymore.

I’m sorry. It’s such a frightening
thing. While I’m covered in airborne dust
and dirt, somewhere out of the desert
you dream of losing a girl you never had.

Under a straw sunhat, I argue with a chubby bartender
who insists my “over twenty-one” wristband
is not enough to justify selling an overpriced beer
to my baby face. I run through crowds, back

to my campsite, cursing her under my breath
for delaying my drunken dance. But somewhere else—
out of the heat and the food trucks and the live music
and the showers in the backs of trucks—you know.

And you prepare yourself for the path I am down,
where I miss Frank Turner for the sake of stumbling,
and later my legs will tremble under a tent
that may or may not be my own.

I can only recollect the moments....before, during, and after,

before.....
we were laughing so hard I felt like I couldn't breathe,
and my stomach, it hurt so bad the pain was almost unbearable,
I was crying too, we were both crying,
to the point where she begged me to stop because it was hard for her to see....
and moments before,
we saw the lights of a cop car, and
at first I was going to say go straight to avoid it, but
I didn't, so we turned left and were
hoping that we would not catch their attention,
but we did....
because in that moment,
we both saw two lights,
ones that were red and blue,
and the others attached to the front of a street sweeper,
and I remember screaming stop, because
these things only happen in movies and on t.v. shows, and
I don't know why but seconds before we would collide,
I actually believed that we could avoid it,
but our fate had already been determined...

during...
I don't remember screaming,
I remember the sound, the adrenaline, and the feeling of us colliding,
the second I knew we were going to hit it, I closed my eyes,
and when I opened them again I was in a dream, my
chest felt heavy and all I could see was the shattered window shield,
the airbags, and
I could feel a heavy pain on my chest,
she turned and said "oh my god I'm so sorry",
all I could manage to get out was that I needed to get out, we
were on the curb,
and had encountered what we were trying to avoid because,
we definitely caught the cops attention, and

after....
for some reason in my mind I felt as though I had to act like nothing was wrong, I
suppose I was in shock, but
I remember saying I was okay, but questioning whether I really was or not, the paramedics
checked my vitals and said I was good, but
it did not feel that way, and
I could not bring myself to look at her because she was displaying all of the emotions that I couldn't, all of the emotions that
made it real, and I tried
to say I love you and it was okay, but
I could barely make out the words, my dad took me
to the emergency room and, everything felt even less real, we
arrived and I remember listening closely to their conversation, "my
daughter has just been in a car accident", I
gave her my social security number and she got the rest of the information from my father, and
I remember listening closely, making sure he got it all correct, he
got my date of birth off, by a day,
she put my wristband on and a file in a slot, we sat down and waited, only for a second because in a second, a man
in all blue,
picked up the file and welcomed us in, I
remember getting my weight taken, should I
put my phone down will that affect it? I didn't,
I held it and then followed him into the next room, I
laid down on the bed and he, took my vitals again, I
remembered I took a picture of the ones they took in the ambulance, and they said I should show it to them, but I
couldn't talk unless I had to, I
couldn't move unless I had to, I remember
hearing laughter in the next room and thinking of how this, this
can not all be real, there's people
happy and smiling yet I can't get to where they are, I
can't even begin to think of how they got to a place where everything is okay, at least in that moment, but
the doctor came and then someone to take an X-ray, one
by one they came in and out, each telling
me something new, I
remember looking at the clock and noticing how fast the hand moved, they
asked what time it happened, but
I remember Emily texted me when we got off the highway, 10:25,
it takes about ten minutes to get to my house,
how bad was it, I
showed him the picture, "you're lucky
you were wearing your seatbelt, tell
your friends to wear theirs," as
if I am now a walking advertisement, and
they scanned my wristband, as if
I am like a box of cereal, like
the ones I ring up at my job, I
did not feel human, and
we left, I went home and wanted to sleep but,
everything kept replaying in my head, everything
keeps replaying in my head, the before
the way we were laughing, the thought of almost dying nowhere on our minds, the during,
my scream of warning, the cop coming over, the paramedics, the headlights...
the headlights, I swear I can still see them coming towards me in the dark, and after,
the hospital, the smell, my
nurse smelled like someone I once adored, how strange,
and I keep replaying everything in my head, I
can't believe that neither of us is dead.

i'm not here to joke about the stance of creationism, i know that secular society admits to the pillar of atheism, a- i.e. without theology, but i mind to not be concerned with the bishop's mitre or the pope's ironic kippah - i just look at my library and think of aeroplanes, the creative process was there, these books are stones you can enter and stretch your feet up, the person in question is now a persona non grata, out of natural constraints, namely mortality and death; creationism is not so much about originating into what i call a limited readers' digest - you can hardly be creative citing only one book, why just one? is this trampoline worth jumping on? why not bungee jump with some other book into the abyss? aeroplanes, books, you see the **** thing stacked on a shelf, and you have to play the role: in the end there was sound, and the sound was with man, the only currency of rubric coherency among animal instincts and lack of insight to digress from seasonal stimuli like the grizzly bear nearing the end of spring preparing for hibernation, hence our insomnia; look, the book is like an aeroplane, and you're the delayed sound feedback, but the magic is the fact that there is no authority holding you back, you interpret it as you feel constrained by an idiosyncrasy when brushing your teeth, writing is the foremost expression of something about you being dispossessed, you write from the standpoint / angle of particular, but you write to reach the plateau of universality: obviously you will feel disgruntled should your particularity leave no tsunami or earthquake or an atom bomb of influence (you think i don't?) on the plateau of universality; and to sound ironically even more biblical than necessary: i will walk on the plateau of universality and i will only fear myself... let death take the valley and god with it... i'm talking about the deity of solipsism, akin to Sisyphus, namely Solipssus (Σoλιπφυς) - you're the delay and with origin (0, 0) coordinating what creativity once was, regressed and shut in the cemetery of Tartarus that the library is, the aeroplane in plain sight... whistle a tornado with your book of choice!

whatever the father intended for the son,
ex *ecce **** of pilate
and the washing of hands at the mosque
to fulfil the temptation prior to prayer -
Hemingway spoke of the centurion's
act of pity with the spear piercing the lung
in a chapter from the book men without women;
whatever the father intended for the son
came to pass, hence the inquisitions and
the sheep-herding conglomerate of the holy
populace, not a person, but a gathering,
the membrane of these church-going folks
required a blind Samson to shake things up -
bring the temple of petulant whims into
a standstill saying: enjoy the weekends and
the theme parks.
i could never become a performer,
we deem universality of the shades for each man,
i know entertainers have a immunity
like ambassadors when on stage -
the bass line from the new paul simon's
L.P. wristband is gratifying, minimalistic,
the way i like to claim all music
to imitate strippers, feng shui hits in the basket,
maybe... maybe... maybe.
and should poetry create an imitable orchestration
of all the musical instruments in a band
or orchestra through the onomatopoeia flute
sometimes adding a definite meaning
with words, so be it, but still, a voice to match
to an army of instruments coordinated,
it will be hard to create a concert hall audience
for encore and deafening applause -
you see the plot now, don't you -
poetry for the shy punching bags, poetry
neither for heroism or gambling, both
shared a womb and both shared a tomb;
but this auxiliary trinity i'm speaking of,
never mind the father or the son, we're trying
to encapsulate the holy spirit, or should
i say the zeitgeist - for it is a zeitgeist of
switching the years around at spring for harvest,
an hour forward, when a strange anomaly to
change dates - and the kingdom of china
didn't bow, nor india - even though satan
promised all kingdoms - these two didn't
bow and i am thankful for their stance -
so if the holy are to be left holy and unimpressed
by a lack of dialectical stimuli - holiness is primarily
a non-engagement with dialectics,
secondary to that the horrid synonymous approach
of treating the concept of sin as both immoral
and criminal... well... it can't be both,
i can understand forgiving immorality,
but forgiving criminality would only translate
as the unnatural collapse of the profession of law,
all the lawyers and judges would end up as hobos...
so watching a music program (on t.v. it starts well
near the midnight mark, so you want to be hip
stay up late, foraging on the internet solo will
not necessarily give you a wide range of chinese whispers
to gather new influences, stuck in the grunge rut of
the early 1990s, e.g.) - and it came to me,
creativity now a stasis, nothing is really changing
in terms of what's new, unless it be primarily in art,
new art and abandoned auditoriums of former trends,
digging themselves out of and into a cemetery -
so this zeitgeist has to be accounted for -
out of holy must come something destructive:
δημιουργικoς ψυχη (alt. πνευμα) -
             the creative soul (alt. spirit) -
the artistic community is in shambles over-reacting
to a lack of creativity in this world,
their atheism repressed, unimpressed, reveals
a hope for every new big bang a minute by minute contrast
of the whole inertia surrounding them -
but never did a single man provoke a question
that tailored all the answers - no theory of everything
could be a chauffeur for the ride -
so indeed when half the potential is asserted by deviations
in the obstructions via holiness and lack of
argument to represent a clarity, another half is lodged
in a constant strife to overladen immovable mountains
and inert stones with a spirit of creativity -
it's not a holy spirit, it's a spirit of desecration,
or constant creation with subsequent equal constant
destruction - i find this spirit of more interest -
this zeitgeist to be perpetuated, esp. since it existed
prior to a.d. in the realm b.c., and continues to be pursued,
more ardently, given the declining number of
worshippers in Anglican churches - the final abandonment,
which create a strange picture with Evangelical
ardency in what is deemed the most progressive country
on earth.

The ride from Starbucks was too quiet.
We sit crossed on adjacent couches.
All six feet of him cornering into my couch.
He sweating in his black ninja shirt and jeans
because my house is always 10 degrees too hot for him.
His half-smile retreats behind your tongue.
I am too bright for him in my pink T-shirt.
The couch I lie on barely runs the length of my legs.
My hands fiddle with my blue wristband,
snap it across the room. I lock my fingers together.
The clock coughs loudly with each tick.
He was suppose to be home four hours ago.
The pillows and I lean in. This conversation
starts as a reflection. He wants to know
why people are friends with him. Why I keep
claiming him as my best friend. I admit
it is because I want him to be mine.
He saved me from the black undertow.
Threw me a fishing hook. Reeled me into his boat.
His phone rings. His mom and dad are furious
that he has ignored dinner. Slowly, he drags
himself across my carpet. He wraps his palm
around the door handle. His shoulders roll back-
this has never happened before- he say stiffly,
I've been dating another man for two months now,
I didn't tell you because I didn't want to lose your
friendship. You are the best friend I have ever had.
He slumps through my door,
face too blue and low to say good-bye.
He didn't expect me to cry.
I sit here jarred as we once were.
Trace the tears on the floor.
I can't find it in me to pelt him against my wall
like ******. There is only He is still my best friend.
The whole house shakes with me.
My lungs are jellied.

quantum physicians may not be able to write out an equation
showing proof of our bond,
but the ties that bind reach across the galaxies and beyond
and biology professors at the ivy league schools may not
be able to explain why my heart thrums faster when I think
about you, but my pulse is yours and I guarantee I can feel
you in every measurable thing that I do
it's funny... multiple dimensions couldn't even keep us apart,
and my body has been frayed and fuzzy since I left you--
from the start
of this journey toward self-realization and humanization
but the one thing that no one can deny is that time exists  
a watch is not a thing to keep time;
a watch is proof of the seconds before and now and after
and it certainly isn't ours to keep
but we could borrow some and place our fate in the
hands of that fragile wristband and call it an
insurmountable thing
I would venture to say
that we could call it love,
we can call it you and me
and science cannot create nor destroy us

He could feel the way water moved
when it stuck to the windows, how it slipped
and dripped off the poppies
onto his cigar box filled with ******
escapees. Even its softness can drown,
He was drowning.

Inside the greenhouse the found
him already emptied, lying
on the ground with the white hospital
wristband tied, shotgun resting
beside. His face missing.

I understand
why he did it, “It is better to burn
Out than to fade away.”
He wanted to stop the sinking.
He wanted to burn.

No one saw the water tangled in his teeth,
pressed up against his lips, consuming.
Or heard the drenching within his voice
as he sang. If I had known he had a gun,
even when he swore he didn’t.

Now all I can hear are pulsating echoes
Of strings that no longer sound like waves crashing,
and his raw, gunge screams now mute  
And rippling away.

8:33 PM
Hey,
are you there?
I'm just looking for someone to talk to.
If you get this message, please me call me back.
Bye.
Click

9:01 PM
Hey,
did you get my other message?
I...
Click

9:56 PM
Hey,
sorry, but it's me again. I don't mean to bother you, but... yeah. Could you give me a ring when you get this?
See you.
Click

12:06 AM
Hey,
I don't know where you are right now, but... I wish you were here. With me. I don't want to be alone now.
Uh...
Click

1:29 AM
Hey,
I miss you. It's really late right now, so that might sound weird, but it's true. I really hope you delete this message when you get it.
Bye.
Click

2:37 AM
Hey,
I don't know if you get any of my other messages, but if you get the chance to call back, I might not be here when you do. I'm going outside for a while.
See you around, I guess.
Click

3:43 AM
Hey,
If this makes any sense... I love you. I love you. I can't believe I just said that. I. Love. You. I don't know if you love me...I'm gonna go now.
Bye.
Click

---
7:27 AM
Indigo?
Are you okay? I...got your messages, and...I...feel the same way about you. I always have. Um...can I come over now? Never mind, I am coming over now. Give me ten. Wait....oh my goodness! Indigo! Indigo!
Click

News Report: 7:20 AM
A young woman has been found dead in 56th Street this morning by joggers. She was hit by a car driven by a drunk driver. She has yet to be identified, but is wearing a wristband with the word "Indigo" on it. If you have information, please call this number...

eight o’clock breakfasts,
pad down the hall in padded socks
i hear her weeping again
she’s in 7B because she liked the bed against the wall
good morning, here are your meds
they scan my wristband to charge me later
i eat and spend the day talking with strangers
sometimes lying, sometimes not
i fill my head with words on pages to pass the time, yet it only seemed to move slower
i can’t remember what home feels like because I was never able to find one in myself
so here I will rest for now, until it’s time to move on

Tick tock
I ate the clock
Or not

I drank
The wine from the grapes
The grapes the same mouse
That ate my watch's wristband

Ate
The cat ate the mouse
The same cat that swallowed
And after eating

Puked up
My shoelaces, again.
Maybe I can forgive
The lack of laces

The eating of grapes
But the hiccups I
Endure after drinking
Never fail to give me

A headache

It was filled with your pictures...
your memory,
a book filled with Kodak moments of both you and me,
but you cut its lifespan short,
empty prophecies of true love,
tell me...
have you ever spoken truth that wasn't covered with lies?
small white lies became the large elephant in the room,
I put together this new album...
what I thought would be filled with vivid new memories,
make this year my own,
meticulously time landed photographs,
capturing smiles warmth and laughter,
it was filled with your memory...
every county Fair wristband, movie stub, Thanksgiving wishbones,
yes, you were that important,
too bad that I wasn't the same,
thought this year would be my year.... thought it would be the album of the year

She was vibrant with a dash of darkness
Cascading into the summer sunset
She caught me staring a few times
Watching her bare back
Watching the sinew of the muscle fibers
As she hugged herself tight
She cared more of how I felt though
Asking how my night was going
Tired and sore my dear
“Anything I can do to make it better?”
She said with a devilish tone
In a second she transformed into something more
Removing the wristband
Pulling her hair into a ponytail
Grinning with delight
I never stood a chance

terminal is a wristband with your date of birth
moved to your big toe when you lay in the morgue