Jun 25
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song of silence

All we can hear are the sounds of our feet walking on in the silence.
We tread lightly, but our thoughts are slipping away. Our feet don't stop. They keep on walking.
We don't know what might be ahead, but at least we know where we've been...
So the children looked up to the sky and began to sing...
And the people danced in the silence that followed, orbiting and spinning around like planets falling off the face of the earth,
Their true essences and dreams spiraling out into the universe... because maybe somewhere someone was listening... maybe somewhere someone wanted to hear what the people had to say, 
Because maybe they were lonely,
And maybe that was enough.
So, all the people looked up at the same sky, and said their names,
Because those were the only things that belonged to them.
And the world felt a little bit closer, and the stars shone a little bit brighter,
Jun 15
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The ocean highway

There was a boy who lived in the little house just off the highway.
The house with the chipped red paint and the overgrown backyard that ran wild and reckless like a jungle.
It was what the boy liked to pretend it was, anyway.
He was just an explorer in the center of it all.
It didn't even matter that he was in shorts and a T-shirt most of the time. 
They were the closest thing to explorer clothes he had. They were the only clothes he had. It didn't matter.
The cars on the highway, if you listened closely, always sounded like the roaring waves of the ocean.
The boy had never been to the ocean, but he liked to imagine that's what it would have sounded like.
I think a part of him knew.
Or at least his mind was always far away.
Sometimes, when he was asleep, there would be an accident on the highway.
Then there would be a lot of voices and flashing lights.
Jun 11
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I remember my old block

Somewhere on that block was my house.
The one with the chalk drawings out front, that washed away every time it rained,
Or were spray painted over with the hose.
The one where my feet tapped their way down the pavement,
Inscribing the souls of my shoes in the concreat,
Sneakers shuffeling on the side walk in  a game of street hockey.
I watched it from my bedroom window when I was suposed to be asleep.
The sound of feet keeping time and acustic guitar playing in the house up stairs,
Never seemed to stop.
I could always hear them,
The way I could hear my neighbor watering her plants in the early morning,
And our backyard neighbors with the highest fence,
Speaking French.
I would watch them through the fence when I got boared.
They almost always seemed to be playing their pool. I was jealous of that.
Apr 25
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concrete flowers

Flowers are rare in the city.
I mean the kind that grow naturally.
The kind that aren't re-potted in some flower box,
or sitting in jars on the front steps,
or cared for on rooftop gardens.
I mean the kind that grow up from the cracks in the sidewalk,
The kind that push their way up toward the skyscrapers,
with delicate stems,
and fragile petals itching for a glimpse of the sun.
Everyone should look for the concrete flowers of the world,
surviving against the odds,
dancing in the breeze,
and just waiting to be noticed.

Apr 10
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The call before a sound

The call for help sounds like a siren,
Rising and falling like the waves of the ocean.
Tossing and turning as you lie awake in bed,
Unable to quiet the storm that's raging in your head.
The call for help sounds like birds going silent,
Like dark clouds right before it's about to rain...
Like the flashing lights and reflections streaking past you on the subway,
Your fingerprints marking up the windowpane.
The call for help sounds like feet tapping against the ground,
Like the drumbeat of our souls engraved in the pavement...
Like lost dreams forgotten on the fire escapes just waiting to be found,
Voices always asking for us to "be patient."
The call for help is not an immediate action,
It's like fire that's about to catch flame...
Only waiting to happen. 
The call for help can be found in small ways,
Like on broken bottle caps that glisten,
Just waiting for change...
Mar 31
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the friends who stay

    Max turns to leave, lifting his face up towards the endless sky, which somehow seems to be a reflection of his own dull, grey eyes, and letting the raindrops beat down on it. He feels the rain as it drenches his skin, his baggy T-shirt beginning to cling to him as he slowly becomes soaked through. His hand's clench and unclench as he waits to cross the street, eyeing the pedestrians beside him with the sort of loathing that stares you right in the face. 
Mar 22
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The silence before you speak

The silence is small,
Forgotten in the chaos.
The pause of barely a heartbeat.
A breath between the words,
A frown a second before the smile.
The little moments that make us wonder what you're really thinking,
Why there's always a calm before the storm...
Why I can always tell when you're lying because your left eye always twitches up to the ceiling in the space before you speak.
The moment before you open your eyes...
Or you wipe away the tears before you think we've noticed your crying.
I know  those are the moments you tried to hide before anyone else sees,
Or notices the awkwardness or glances.
You've become pretty good at making your thoughts practically invisible now...
The little details that tell a whole story,
In the silence before you speak.

Mar 18
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Upside down and backwards

Isn't it weird he's always laughing?
Shouldn't he realize that there's a time to make jokes and a time to keep them to yourself?
Why does he not seem to care whenever serious stuff happens?
Why is he always the first one to break the silence when something bad happens with some dumb remark and a cheesy smile?
That's what people say about him.
Sometimes their comments are meaner...
Somedays he looks more alone...
But I always thought I understood him.
The fact that tense situations make him uncomfortable, I mean,
That he doesn't mean to laugh when something's sad or awkward, but he can't help it.
He's just the kid that can't stand the silence.
Humor is just his way of dealing with the bad and the scary and hard things, 
But it isn't his fault.
Mar 17
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On days like these

Life is always different in the movies.
When crisis comes there's always a hero.
When the underdog has it rough,
he somehow manages to find the kind of friends that everyone wishes they could have.
When someone dies it's always more dramatic than in real life.
When the shy, quiet kid starts singing, their voice always sounds perfect.
Suddenly the quirky kids are the cool ones.
Everything seems so obvious.
You've figured out the mystery before the main character has, because they're always the last ones to know.
You love the characters and their stories,
But then there's some you hate. 
If you care enough you'll always end up feeling sorry for someone in the end.
I wish you could do that in real life,
That you could know everyone's side of the story.
That you could have best friends like Ron and Hermione,
Or a family as cool as The Incredibles,
Feb 10
zazu's picture


He plays his air guitar for an imaginary audience,
Craning his neck back and closing his eyes,
Pretending to play an especially high note...
Bopping his head in time to the consistent beat in his mind.
Longing for the feel of the spotlights glaring down on his face,
To hear the crowd cheer...
Screaming the words to a song that he wrote,
Extending their hands to hold him up, as he does a trust fall off the stage.
He's paralyzed from the waist down.
To anyone else watching, they don't hear what he hears when he plays his guitar, or imagine what he does...
But if they could glimpse inside his mind
And be alongside him whenever he hears the electric guitar blaring from the radio,
Then they would understand that, really,
He's already a Rockstar.