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Showing most liked content on 04/08/18 in all areas

  1. 5 points
    Farmers market, on Saturday mornings Hipsters in jean jackets and nose rings flock to the food co-op And my third-grade teacher sells donuts from a food truck The icing is sticky on the pads of my fingers Downtown liquor stores and apartments Give way to churches and cornfields I know the way home by heart We would meet on playgrounds Little kids in fleece jackets Convinced we were something magical And now those little kids are teenagers Separated by thousands of miles It's the little details that I miss The bowling alley where octogenarians eat lunch The shopping mall carousel, the old museum Saturday mornings at the farmers market, the bustle of people Author's note: So this is really unedited but the whole city poem tag and @thepensword's urban hive poem made me want to write something about my hometown. I don't live there anymore, but just thinking about it makes me really nostalgic for all the little things that I never realized I loved about it.
  2. 3 points
    Dear Emma Gonzalez, On Valentines Day, 2018, your life changed forever Not because of love, But rather, A lack of it. On that day, You lost friends you've known since you were little And that thrust you into the national spotlight Dear Emma Gonzalez, You're a phoenix You buried your friends and rose from their ashes You became the Speaker of the Dead You're keeping their spark alive, Dear Emma Gonzalez, when talking about Carmen on NPR today you hesitated. she wasn't just a friend, was she? Dear Emma Gonzalez, With that spark you've lit a torch A torch that I'm going to carry with you Because my niece and nephew, Should never have to be afraid of someone with their daddy's gun Dear Emma Gonzalez, My fist is raised Dear Emma Gonzalez, I'm calling BS with you Dear Emma Gonzalez, I won't give up Dear Emma Gonzalez, I'll stand at your side. Dear Emma Gonzalez, Thank you.
  3. 1 point
    When I get out of bed I ache to feel comfortable again But when I lay and soak in my thoughts I just want to get up What if I never find comfort? Is that why we as humans work so hard and travel so far We experience highs and lows Yet it is only on our death bed When our eyes relax and our bodies go numb Because we stop trying to find what cannot be found I want to be touched and to experience But I don’t know where the line of innocence lies I’m not ready to cross it Is it defined by me, or others? I stopped writing for a while I just want to fall in love with words again And just plain fall in love Maybe I don’t feel sympathy for those with nothing Thinking about their situation doesn’t make me feel spoiled Because I know If instead of nothing they, like me, had something they would be complaining just like I am now that is why people with nothing are the happiest because they don’t know what they don’t have and any something is far better than nothing at all
  4. 1 point
    You keep talking and talking and talking And in no way listen It's not like I'm eager to say what's on my mind, It's just If I was I know you wouldn't care or listen You would rather talk. Why do you need to fill every moment with words? Silence is beautiful and thoughtful and most importantly a good way to relax I mean, I'm not saying we have to never talk but could we listen to music without commentary? Or could you not stress me out with everything you say? All you talk about are things that push my anxiety button so please just stop talking
  5. 1 point
    It was September When you said you were leaving. I remembered last spring, the way you showed up out of the snow, promising light and warmth And adventure, And I believed you. It was wonderful, for a while; The world was different and wild and colorful And the sun stayed out longer, The skies were brighter Until they weren’t anymore. Your words pulled on my heartstrings, A warning that winter was coming. The sun started to set and I didn’t escape the cold until April came again but By then it didn’t hurt that you had gone. The world revolved, once, And I was entirely whole by May; Even though spring came late this time It was gentler than the last.
  6. 1 point
    please feel free to leave your thoughts below! thanks! When the sky dreams up tears applauds the failures on your feet with my umbrella at the stained brick wall where we always meet Three hours to limelight if only the skies were still yellow lemony sweet laying pictures on my pillow I spend so much time trying to hold the flame in my palms are you as cold as i am? skipping stones on the bottom of the ocean You can see the stars but they don't search for you your picture is worth less than a thousand words white with envy a politician's promise your perfection is perception i'm not fooled
  7. 1 point
    for some a purgatory filled past eternity with infinite shades in the sea of greens that surrounds the thread of sun-bleached rain-washed asphalt that twists and swoops around hills speckled with salt-and-pepper cattle and yellow-gold flecks of tied-up hay pulled and braided like shorn hair and the single store across a red-clay-streaked street yellow lines so faded that we run on assumption the dog barks and chases every car that pulls in across from her once-white house wooden siding gray as the pavement where the paint has chipped and peeled her name is lily she defends the singular store with cigarettes behind the counter and pencils beside a child’s paradise in the form of a wall covered in crayola-colored candies the woman inside is older than anyone can remember and her hair is whiter than the house across the street her son is there too his name is mike when i was smaller he’d pick me up so i could reach the dollar ice cream inside the icebox and once he tolerated me when i climbed on the counter to braid his hair and two men sit in chairs by the door they have always been there too in the half-light through the paper-plastered front window and they drink coffee careful not to spill on camouflage jackets and well-worn leather boots red from the clay they’ve stood in they talk about the before and compare it to the now and they talk about how the now can be better how nice it is that their daughter can be in the military now and how the solar panels on their hot tin roof help so much and they talk about stamps and their guns in the back of their trucks and hunting the bear that’s been killing their salt-and-pepper cows they say that the past is nice too before cookie-cutter houses sprung up and chain restaurants forged their way in before a night-black road came in beside and the days when a president’s skin was not orange or black before when anyone could come in regardless of their skin and then we could hate them for whatever else they’d got and patriotism didn’t mean ignorant so we sit in the shadows of purple-blue mountains and watch as the wind blows through the trees that line the roads that may turn to gravel and we watch picket-fence perspective lines fade into the humidity the cardinals and sparrows fly and sit on the graves of names faded with indifference some kept in the best shape are of a different shape than the rest and the next church offers hope too, regardless of who you voted for when you last stood inside but eternity isn’t so bad and purgatory is my backyard Author's Note: okay so @thepensword directly inspired me with "American Purgatory" (go read it, it's gorgeous) to actually follow through on the effort I've been making to describe the small town in the American Southeast that I live in. I want to make clear that I am NOT mad at you/offended, Jess, I just wanted to show my corner of where she's seeing from someone who's lived here for a while. Second note: the lines in this poem "some kept in the best shape/ are a different shape than the rest" refers to how the graves of confederate soldiers are a specific shape. And we've got some of those around here. Most people can recognize the shape. That said, not a single person nearby me has a confederate flag displayed at their house.
  8. 1 point
    so i had an hour of free time yesterday and this is what happened. honestly it's a little bit of a mess and even i'm confused by some of it, but i haven't put any writing on here in, like, forever, so here you go! i hope the lack of capitalization isn't too annoying; i don't have the time or energy to fix it :/ paris and i are sitting on the porch of his house. he's holding a cup of cider, both hands wrapped around it and his legs crossed. some hair falls into his face as his lowers his head toward it, catching the steam on his face. "callum." he says. "yeah?" paris shifts his fingers on the mug. "it's cold." i nod. we're both wearing jackets, and we both have blankets wrapped around our shoulders. the air is freezing and my eyes are heavy but i don't don't don't want to go inside. "if you could choose one emotion to never feel again," he asks, "what would it be. "i think all emotions are important," i say, though i know he's going to laugh. "really?" paris covers his mouth, but he's giggling like he's drunk and doing a bad job of hiding it. "well, yeah." i cross my arms. "i guess." "i would choose, uh..." paris stops. "happiness," i say, as a joke. but he stops smiling. "maybe," he says. "that's stupid." he shrugs. "do you want me to tell your parents? i will, if you're serious. go up to them and be like 'paz doesn't want to be happy.' idiot." i nudge him with my elbow. paris turns away from me. he pulls his fingers away from the mug and sticks his hands out. there's moonlight on his light brown skin and he's never pale but right now he looks like a corpse. his face is covered in shadow. i thought he was joking. "why wouldn't you want to be happy?" i ask. "i do," paris says, and it's half angry. "cal." i turn. "what's your answer?" "i already-" "no, you didn't." paris says. he uncrosses his legs. "you avoided the question. not the same thing." "fine." i fiddle with the laces on my shoes while i think. "what if i can't decide?" "you have to." "is i wish paz would stop asking impossible questions an emotion?" "nope." he's starting to grin again. that settles me, and i can breathe all the way again. "okay," i say. "i guess i wouldn't want to feel annoyed." "annoyed?" paris snorts. "jesus. not even angry?" "leave me alone," i say. "you got what you wanted." "i wanted a real answer," he says. "not a baby one." "that's my answer. for real." i poke his leg. "i'm not going back on it. now, what's yours?" "is callum can't participate in conversations for shit an emotion?" "fuck off," i say. "wow." "i would choose to not be disappointed. or angry." paris shrugs. "wait," i say. "i have a new answer." he raises his eyebrows. "a real one?" "depends on how picky you are." "well, let's hear it." paris takes a sip of his cider. "i think regret," i say. his eyes soften as he looks at me. "no one cares anymore. it's all fine." he says. "just let it go." i swallow. "we all love you," paris says. "okay?" "yeah," i say. "okay." he runs the backs of his fingers down my arm. i close my eyes. "i'm gonna go with anger," he says. "good," i manage. "that would be nice." he laughs. "thanks." paris finishes his cider and sets his cup behind us, next to mine. he turns to look at the house. "i wonder if they can see us?" "i think they're asleep," i say. "mine, at least. parents always go to bed early." "i hope so," paris says. he pulls a face and flips off the second story window. "you know," i say. "we'll probably be parents someday. and go to bed early while our kids sit on the porch at one in the morning." "might be a little early to be planning that far into our future, no?" paris says. he shoots me a smile. "maybe i don't want a porch." "oh." my neck gets hot. "i didn't mean- i just meant, like, probably, our separate kids. not-" "i'm just messing with you." he says. "we should totally get a house together. and i would love a porch."
  9. 1 point
    My parents tell me that when I was little, they couldn't understand me. My sister had to translate, saying with a sigh, "she says 'I want ice cream'" or whatever I was trying to communicate to my parents. How fucking ironic is it that, more than a decade later, we're back with the same issue, but this time speech therapy won't help. We can't talk about the things that are important to me without calling my other sister to moderate. The only kind of therapy that can fix this is family therapy, and god knows how that would end. I was in first grade when I first met the nice lady who patiently corrected my lisps and mumbling. We played games and I met some pretty girls who were in 5th grade. I was a chatty fellow, telling stories as they picked me up from my classroom led me to the lady's room, where we practiced breathing through our noses and played Heads Up! My voice got better through the 4 years of speech therapy, but it was raspy for years after. In 5th grade, I joined chorus for the first time, and I fell in love. I pretended to hate it simply because everyone else hated it, but I loved it. I loved the vibrations in my throat and the sounds that poured from my mouth. For once, I had a voice, and it was beautiful. My year of chorus ended, and I left for middle school, where my voice was ripped from my throat by people who thought that I was something for them to destroy. I couldn't even order food at a restaurant. My mom became my voice, ordering my food, talking to the principal, even calling the cops on this one girl who prank called my cell phone for hours and hours on end. She stopped being my voice when I came out. No, she didn't stop being my voice, she stole it. She read my texts and I never got to come out. I never got to use my voice to tell her that I like girls. That I felt more like a boy than a girl. I wasn't able to tell her. She found out. I don't talk to my parents much. Sometimes it seems like our relationship is irreparable. But I'm speaking out, I'm rising up. I'm using my voice again, and I'm getting stronger everyday. I've found a family, and I'm being the man that I needed when my voice was gone. I'm in chorus now, and my tenor is strong, vibrating through the auditorium. I sing, telling everyone that they are not alone. That they can always use their voice. I'm living proof that they can make it. My voice is strong, and I am brave. My voice and I are friends. Sometimes, when I'm speaking and I want to claw my vocal cords out, I sing. I sing, and I feel the strength and the journey that it took to get me here.
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