Musty muggy Washington June evening: A bedraggled begging man is sitting on the side of the road, styrofoam cup in hand, bgging for a way out of his life, following the people passing by with eyes like a flyaway receipt caught in the wake of a speeding taxi.
My sister and I brought over our Mediterranean leftovers, handed it to him with a smile, expecting a heartfelt yet hasty thank-you, but no. He met my gaze with unwavering veracity and crammed 60 years of his history into the minute I stood to listen.
I’m a retired alcoholic (good for you), but didn’t play my rent this week (oh), it’s alright but looking to get rid of my possessions, take this baseball hat, original wizards’ cap (thank you very muich sir, are you sure-?) yes yes no problem- er, do you have a dollar for the subway?- you see, I’m a poet, write for the local paper, I have a copy, hang on, yes, here-
“excuse me, sir, but what do you think you’re doing? that girl is 12.
“how twisted is your mind that you feel justified to shout obscene things at women half your age?
“you have no right to talk to her that way. what she does with her body is her choice and no matter how much systematic desensitization society puts us all through, it is never ok to think otherwise.
“no, it’s not a compliment. a compliment looks like excuse me, ma’am, i was casually observing you and happened to find you very attractive. thank you and goodbye. not this profane BS you’re trying to pull.
“bet you didn’t think anyone would contradict you, huh? so used to using your words to leave girls standing speechless staring after you, what did he just say? well here it is.
Young Writers Project. I can't believe less than a year ago I didn't know this site existed. Now I am always logging on to see if my friends have posted anything new, if anyone has replied to my feedback, if the latest edition of The Voice is out. To me, it's a place I can be totally honest and I know that will be met with nothing but positivity. It's nurtured my writing so much taught me it's ok to mess up the first time, taught me my actions have a consequence, taught me poetry doesn't have to rhyme. And I feel we all know each other even if it's through a screen, because words have bridged the gap. It is constant refuge to remind me I'm not alone. A place to be heard. A way to escape education and gain some knowledge. Because in a world where youth think of writing as a burden, we know the truth. After all,
So you say you can hear the stars. You claim they whisper your name how it echoes through light years to reach you standing in the dark. But the stars speak ancient languages of balance and burn. So you say you are made of their bones. You're sure their dust pumps through your veins making you blaze bright lifting you up away from the rest of us. But there are 26 trillion miles seperating you and them.
The stars bear the weight of wishes out the bedroom window thousands of unanswered messages they do not care to read.
The stars carry the burden of countless poems over the years writers romanticizing their celestial beauty while they are millions of miles away.
The stars host the strain of lovers who continue to claim their elegance speaking them into each others’ eyes, they exhausted after being "rewritten" so many times.