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Showing most liked content since 07/15/18 in all areas

  1. 2 points
    Hey guys, I’m still around (if you’re on the discord you know that) but I’m just not writing as much poetry right now. Hope everyone’s doing okay, and maybe I’ll post more soon.
  2. 2 points
    I know from experience that the going is almost always easier than showing up unannounced, unplanned, even unwanted. (They didn’t expect you, and their discomfort showed) So. I’ve learned to slip away after a little while. Enough time has gone by and I detach myself again, become a recluse, drift with the thistledown and hide in the cornfield. I am disguised by bumblebee wings and sticky spiderweb, pale and confused in the middle of the unforgiving river. (I perched on a rock and watched the fireflies blink and noticed that no one ever comes when you don’t want to be alone) When the sun rose I was gone again and maybe then the people I loved left their burdens behind. They feel lighter in my mind now. I remember the stories - the monster is the villain in the end and I’ve been the weird one for a long time. I decide to leave the broken promises, let my words drift off into the trees and be forgotten, find myself lost in a waking dream. And just maybe, when I haven’t seen a familiar face in days, I’ll turn back towards my dying town and wave goodbye.
  3. 1 point
    lancaster county, familial birthplace, your thunderstorms lend me the peace of mind to continue. when i was younger, and wishing to be undone, i blamed myself for not loving god enough. i said i was rotten, and didnt know why. my eyes only knew how to glare because i was scared of smiling, or of not deserving to, or of letting go of that hurt, or of losing my identity if i did. im still scared of dying. that didnt change. and one day, after letting myself stop pretending to be godly, after letting myself love being rotten, just a little, you became a monument to learning the word hate. where would i be without your shame and your conditional love? i had no idea what passive aggression meant until you had a reason to teach me. you remind me how to glare, and how to be undeserving, and thats a kind of rotten too. you carry churches on your back like god is my fault, and sometimes i believe you. it is as if you have come from the past and youre upset the world is leaving you behind, and thats my fault too. you are not a kind county, a home, or gentle despite the rolling fields, neither a place for outsiders nor one to give up a warm body without a fight. you are as lonely as a postapocalyptic movie's deserts, and your cities beg to be left empty and standing and dirty just so theyd fit so perfectly at the end of the world. these cities are paved with bricks and paint and god. you arrive bearing washed out, low-contrast hues of green and undersaturated brown and every photo ive taken looks overexposed. i have marveled at your night sounds, at the tar lines clacking under the tires on the highway, and yet youve never been beautiful. the closest thing to beautiful is the full moon, orange with pollution, rising over the lakes dug out of the prairie and filled then with rocks and fish and water. youre the stadium that becomes a city every weekend, youre lincoln, or youre the storms in the night that put hail the size of my fist through the windows. you are a 754-block coping exercise. just as i let myself love being a christian's rotten shame, just a little, you are as oppressively godly as a rural town with 192 churches on a sunday. you are not made of tomorrows, or of opportunity, but you are definitely just green enough to think so. how frightening you are too, where i am scared of being gay but losing myself in the closet, and afraid of that too. oh, old cheney road, you are the apothecary's witness and a false sense of safety. it could only be the echinaceae, but laying in the ditch on the side of the road is halfway beautiful. without you i would have grown up more slowly, and learned to love myself a little quicker. with you i am nothing but homesick. this is why, lancaster county, you are made of towns of empty architecture and lonely streets, where only the animals and the crooked trees are content this is why you refuse to progress, why you cling to old, tired bigotry hastily rebranded as belief like an beloved, frayed blanket clutched protectively in a fussy toddler's hands. i have praised many things, but for me you are more unloveable than you told me i was. to my eyes, you are a thing waiting to die.
  4. 1 point
    yo hey i forgot about cicada oops but anyways im in nebraska until August >:[ look @ this art i did on my new comp tho hfjfjsksk radish is lookin SNAZZY
  5. 1 point
    my phone won’t let me take pictures anymore because i took so many of the damn trees which is okay because they never really captured them plus things are more beautiful when you don’t see them as often in late april when i drive into urbana sometimes it’s like pink rain magnolia petals like wet cotton sticking to your skin, magenta veins when it’s overcast the trees cast shadows in the street but the sky is still white i’ve noticed when i write poems i always set the scene maybe because i loved the world outside my window before i loved any person he wants to be a writer you know i trust him because he’s a boy with more poetry in him than you’d ever know my gut is never wrong his lips are softer than the petals falling into sidewalk gutters brushed aside by windshield wipers and his music makes me feel the same euphoria that thunderstorms do i can’t shut up about what i love once this little girl with sepal green eyes told me i was a happy person and i realize now that it’s a full circle there a picture of me at fourteen months under a magnolia tree with soft tawny hair and the widest smile so many years have gone by where it’s been missing and now my hair has turned carob and my smile reappeared wider and the magnolia petals spiral down down back to the earth and everything is good again
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