Are they good people?
Friendly folk?
Good neighbors perhaps,
Willing to lend a helping hand-
Loving family members?

When they are not preaching hatred, I mean,
Waving symbols of terror and oppression;
Scapegoating people who fled oppression
Torture, death or economic hardships
Such as we have never endured..
Or denying the rights of fellow citizens
(who's ancestors were stolen, enslaved, tortured, terrorized and
Stripped of as much dignity and humanity as was possible even years after the promises of freedom and equality.)

And when the parades and riots are over,
Are they good people, nice folk, once more?

I imagined our last goodbye
would be something for the screens-
you would be about to board a train
(you were always the one to say goodbye)
I would make my way through the bustling crowd
and find you through the smoke
as you'd turn around,
the wind from a moving train would brush my hair ever so slightly
that at that exact moment,
you'd fancy me the prettiest girl to cross paths with
as a tear would escape from the corner of my eye,
i'd whisper from across the station;
"please don't leave me"

you are moving to Seattle-
out west to a city that never shows sun
it was meant for you.
you want to be a Bio major,
and you want to spend the rest of your days in the mountains.
Seattle is far away from the sub(urban) town you leave behind
and you never gave me the chance to see you through.
I will never forgive myself for the things I said,
but mistaking every stranger with long brown hair
and caramel-apple eyes
for you,
is punishment enough.

you are moving to Seattle,
and although I feel a bittersweet sensation
of being happy that you finally are getting your wish
(to, quote, "be away from you and this stupid ******* sleepy suburbia that offers me nothing but painful memories)
I can't help but torture myself
as I visualize you pursuing your dreams,
meeting beautiful, pale strangers that become your new friends
or finally gathering the courage to turn behind your chair and ask the
quiet redhead sitting behind you in your American Lit. class
if she'd like to grab coffee after lecture.
how can I sit back at home,
watching your through a blank, glass screen
seeing you move into the future
while i'm still stuck in the past,
heartbroken over losing the boy who left me in this do nothing town
as he moved on
to Seattle.

Your colored flags wave in the breeze, and with them flutters my
beating heart.

Your cacophonic symphony rings in my ears, and with it sing the
thoughts in my head.

Your smells tug me in every which direction, and flavors dance
upon my tongue.

Your trottoirs are filled with a million eyes — with men, women,
children of different creed and color. They are them, and I am I, and
together we stride forward.

Oh! What have you done with me, Atlanta?
I was only a lonely, aimless cloud drifting after your twinkling
lights.

for more than a year,
I have been stuck with the indecision to
call you.
and it's as if I torture myself with the thought
of what I would do
if you were to bump into me at the grocery store
hair grown out past your chin,
bloodshot eyes; you smell like beer and ****.
would I have the courage to confront you?
or would I take on the "little girl lost" persona
i oh so often do
and crouch behind the stand of sunflowers,
waiting until you have finished fishing through to find your favorite muffins from the display
and go on your way
i just can't fathom
after all these months of trying to change myself,
i can't change the fact that you are still plaguing my body
the bruises on my lips can still be felt.
your scent fills up the room that you refuse to walk into
and it must be some kind of ******* sickness
that no matter what you could have said to me and make me cry
it won't be enough to scare me away
Stockholm syndrome for the  ones who keep themselves imprisoned in another's memory
you have made me sick and perverted
but I love you for it.

it's so ****** up but
I see him in you
same face, same hair
but the eyes
the eyes do not lie
and he is not in your eyes
i miss him a lot.

it smelt of cough syrup and cinnamon
when it came to visit in the dark hours that followed the chime of the grandfather clock
the scent lingered on every article of clothing he once had his fingers on
and crept under her nose as she lay there on her side
eyes open, hands steady
and she swore that she could almost feel it under her skin when she outstretched her arms like a bird
the scent turned into a feeling that stayed for 47 days
each morning morphing into a night, each night a new beginning
each beginning signaling for her arrest
held captive by the four walls that housed the scent
and every day she was reminded
there was no cure for fixing the void
except finding another to take by the hand
and using him dry until he could no longer be pushed around
each new one entering in,
another chance to touch the contents in the room
one more opportunity to leave memories and association with each item they picked up
and when they left,
she stayed in her same spot
surrounded by memories and names and faces and associations
that smelt all to similar to cough syrup
and she was knocked out.

this isn't a poem. this isn't some well written piece of literature that will be quoted underneath photos of our depressed youth of America. this is me jotting down my thoughts at 9:26 p.m. i sit in the darkness of my newly decorated room (i needed a change of scenery, so a make over was in place) and i wonder why you don't like me. maybe i'm not specifically upset as to why you aren't interested, but more so why half the guys i pursue look the other way. I'm sitting here, dear reader, and i realize that it isn't the sad songs that make me cry, but instead the dead silence that crowds my empty room. I wonder why you didn't take me when you had the chance, didn't sweep me off my feet. I've annoyed my friends with the constant talking of you, it consumes me. i don't understand why my own two legs are strangers to the rest of my body and why they can't hold me up sometimes. i passed English 1101 with a 99, and yet i can't seem to find the right words to string together and form a sentence to utter out of my mouth. my mouth won't form the right shape to pronounce the few words i can muster. when someone asks me if i'm ok, i cry. I'm in mourning, i hate the snow that packs the sidewalks. you weren't mine and that's hard to process. it's like i have found my soulmate, but my soulmate doesn't return the same affection. sometimes i feel that i am seen as only meat for boys of all ages to circle around and toy with before they viciously devour. I am eye candy, i am known for nothing other than my appearance. when i write, i am my words. today i went to an abandoned house and i felt sadness surround me, along with the scent of musk and moth *****. i bought a goldfish and it died because i over fed it. i care too much about things and they die.