Jun 14
happydancer's picture

End of school year stuff :)

As we slip into summer break soon, I just wanted to express that school in the past year in the pandemic has been incredibly difficult and that everyone here deserves time to themselves this summer to do things that you love! We all may still have responsibilities this summer that we have to do, but still, try to find time to do things that make you happy this summer. Be proud of yourself for everything you have overcome this past year and for the amount of strength you have gained. For me, this past year has been a constant struggle between me trying to be productive and just being exhausted (and I'm sure many of you feel this way as well!), and saying this to all of you is also just a reminder to myself that we all deserve a break. I'm not sure where all of you are at with school right now (some of you may be on break already, some of you may not), but I'm wishing everyone best of luck for any exams or projects that you have for finishing up the school year.
Jun 13


I sigh for you when you look away
As if I wasn’t the one who set a fire to my mouth
In case you turned to kiss me- 
As if I wasn’t the one who offered to be your creation
Or to be your equal 
Or to be anything you needed me to be,
As long as it wasn’t in love, not with you-
For I am not the man who created my idea of self worth,
But a creature stuck between him and myself
Hinged on anything in place of what you offer

I sigh for the things that you enjoy 
As if I wasn’t the one who denied them for myself 
In case I fell for them like you did for me-
As if I wasn’t the one who spoke poison of the things you love 
Not from my own hate
But from the hate of another man,
Who holds his power through my guilt-
For I am not the man who created my idea of love,
But a loving man all the same
Even if all I can do is care for you 

I sigh for this
As if it were my own secrets,
Jun 11
aegent's picture


Seen as some sort of twisted demon
Some monstrosity of incalculable evil
Bringers of death

They cannot sing the way others can
Throaty cracks caked in a croak
Echo through the trees

Flying effortlessly
A blur of black against a sea of blue
Soaring through the air

Their memory bounds past those

Remembering faces
Those who have done them wrong
Those who have done them right

A society named a murder
With rules
And throaty croaks that have meaning

They are mourners of death
Calling out to others
To respect their fallen

Bringers of death
Twisted demons
Of incalculable evil
Jun 09

Easier That Way

It’s pretty harsh out here
Dancing in the real world
Fighting to appear
Normal, effortless, without fear.
Mindless games
Playing through each ear.
My’n isn’t special
My’n isn’t new.
A story that’s been told thoroughly through.
She’s plastered, posted up on the walls
Forced and figured to speak to you all.
Tired heartache, beats so slow.
One day you’ll open your eyes and know
She’s lost and won those mindful battles.
The ones where no one can see her shadows.
She creeps and crawls all In the walls,
As she cries to the wail of the sirens which call:
You aren’t perfect
You aren’t white
You aren’t that Asain
the mirror in front of you telling you so,
It’s hard to see what qualities really must go.
Pale to tan then tan to pale,
I’ve wanted it all since
I had failed
Jun 08

Truly Alone

I wrote this during Writing With Reuben. Really fun workshop!

I have learned what it means to be lonely. 

Staring at my phone screen,
letters all in blue, 
silently begging for a reply. 

Seeing a group of Shiny Happy People 
dancing through the streets while 
my own feet become h                    h
                                      e                       e
                                        a                       a
                                           v        and           v
                                              i                           i
                                                e                          e
                                                    r                          r
Jun 07

My chapped-lipped, checked-out, dance-pop ode to retail

I was a model employee at the mirage factory.

Moved through the bland-faced clothes racks with swagger,
The cumulative bite of two dozen hangers on my arm;
Noticing everything but speaking vapors. 

Too female from the neck down in my black top;
Five-foot-four with a white lie.
So they talk down,
Snap fingers, click tongues, demand.

Just last week--

My throat burns with artificial honey
As I watch my neighbor sell
Some death-trap crap-card 
To New Americans, 
their accents rich and resonant.

Fake-woke headbands on my first day,
Fake-pride t-shirts on my last. 

My Dear Associates, the only motive is profit. 

The faint crooning covers
fill our heads with TV static
Managers fluently changing our channels
So we'll never quite get context on a scene

A business optimized for distraction,
Jun 06
GirlInEverytime's picture

Home is a strange thing

Home is a strange thing 
It’s a feeling 
An idea 
A place 
A person
Home has always felt far away to me
More ideal than reality 
But right now 
Right now there are fireworks in the sky and people cheering far off
Right now I feel home 
I feel the idea 
The place 
The person 
I am home with bare feet on soft grass
I am home leaning against this sign 
“Town this way” and “Home here,” it says 
Well, that’s what it seems like right now 
And isn’t reality just what we make it out to be? 
Isn’t reality just the things we see through eyes that differ from everyone else’s?
Isn’t that the beauty of it? 
I don’t notice that I am crying until I taste the salt on my lips
It’s been too long since I’ve been home 
So I watch the fireworks go up in bursts of color and trail their way across the sky 
I hear the people cheering but I don’t envy their happiness
I am home.
Jun 05
poem 0 comments challenge: Makeup


to thicken nonexistent lashes.
Racoon eyes,
mascara running from a nonexistent gaze.

to cover the "imperfections"
to blend into the world of "pretty" people. 
concealer awkwardly re-applied in attempt
to match the flawless beauty of another
he sees as pretty.
Ruby red lipstick,
to lure in a catch.
Bloody smile,
ruby red lipstick
coating gnashing teeth.
holding back a scream.
Mourning a fish
who swam upstream. 
Jun 04
poem 2 comments challenge: Nice

Little Sebago Lake

The gravel crunches under the car as we turn down the winding road beside the lake. 

I glance out the window, watching the boats fly past the shore. 

The car pulls to a stop as my brother and I unbuckle our seat belts.

A black blur dashes up the stairs, her tail wagging vigorously. 

My cousins are close behind her, already yelling to us, recounting a new story. 

I hoist as many bags as I can carry onto my arms, walking precariously down the steep set of wooden stairs to the house. 

My grandparents and aunt wait in the living room as I dump everything in front of the fireplace and go around giving out hugs.

I turn and pull aside the screen door, stepping out onto the deck. 

My eyes scan my surroundings, taking in the familiarity of what has come to be a second home. 

My cousins and brother soon find me, and I join them, laughing and running down to the water. 
Jun 02
mm2005's picture

Friendship of Wind and Sand

A friendship of opposites. At first thought, it seems unusual, yet possible. We have all heard the age-old saying, “opposites attract,” but does that apply to friendships? Opposite friends are the best kind of friendship; an opposite friend is there to balance you, keep you honest. One is outgoing and loud, while the other is relaxed and calm. The balance is needed, someone to tell you “no” or “that’s not the best idea,” your person to give you the advice you never even thought of. Your weaknesses are your best friend’s strengths; if you need help with anything, you have the perfect partner to fix it. A friendship of opposites is less like fire and water and more like wind and sand. Water and fire are mutually destructive; water will extinguish a flame, just as fire will boil water away to nothing. Wind and sand go together, yet are very different. They have things to each their own, the wind has air while sand has earth.
Jun 02

This ocean, This life

This morning
woke up early
just to see the sunrise
Down through the 
sleepy town
arm in arm
with my best friend

The sky looks like
stained glass and
our voices like magnolia blossoms
to an old guy talk about how
he's never missed a sunrise
not in 37 years

Today I
face the ocean breathe deep
watch the waves
forming geometric patterns as they
meld with the sand and rock barrier
that keeps them from
galloping down the streets
of the little town

this ocean, this life
this is where I come from

Take photos and 
boogie board
seashells blooming
under our feet

This evening
examine my
sundropped skin
rub on aloe vera
towels crumpled on 
our hotel floor
Look at the pictures we took today
Jun 01

*sighs in gatorade* ahh how I miss you

It’s 11:24 again
Everyone’s asleep
I tiptoe quietly to the doors

As I shut it ever so slightly,
in front of me,
aka my next door neighbor
aka the girl of my dreams
aka the most gorgeous person in the world

As we walk towards each other,
I gaze into you
settling my palms 
underneath your cool neck,
eye to eye,
smile at the ready

I missed you
I missed you more

I missed you the most

Nof if I missed you first

Hand in hand,
we walk in the half-lit darkness
submerging ourselves

We walk extra slow
because our time together
is running out

The night wind
brushes your hair 
into my face,
how limitless it was
May 30


"America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing."
     - "America", Allen Ginsberg

When the calamity reaches its culmination,
and space-bound aluminum coffins are rife with bodies
like ours, will we wonder how our livestock created
isolated labels to our detriment? Seven worlds separated,
yet our nation united under (one) God, but when God speaks
all that comes out are holy (nuclear) verses.
Under these phrases we educate our youth, they are
ordered to be the embodiment of nationalist bald eagles.
We become little toy soldiers puppeted by His divine hands. 
Red lipstick stains, white pure skin and blue jeans.
“We the people” are blinded by Slater's industrial smog. 
“We the people” allow our men, our people, other humans
to be used as targets. Fathers teaching their young boys
to shoot at burlap potato sacks and bean cans in backyards. 
May 29

summer wednesdays

Click the title for the .mp3 file!
May 28
Jada R's picture

Road Trip

Staring out as the world whizzes by 
It all blends together if your eyes stay open long enough
All the colors become indistinct blurry blobs
With your forehead pressed against the cold glass you picture
Not an arborous green landscape, 
with sagging power lines that trace the sky,
But tall skinny buildings, pressed close to make room. 
Laid out in blocks, seemingly inches from overflowing
Skyscrapers – as you look up.
With your head thrown back, facing the horizon, you slowly spin
But you can’t see what is happening a few blocks away
You can’t close your eyes and inhale crisp air – it’s all old, stale, reused.
You can’t feel a breeze not produced from exhaust pipes
You can’t just lay in the grass and feel the earth breathe
But your eyes open
You see the familiar blooming colors sprouting from the rich, fresh earth
And yet the world still whizzes by.
May 26

Riting Wrules

I've often thought that riting wrules were wridiculous
How strange that pears were paired and pared
A widower should make widows, not the other way around
There is no such thing as a made up wordie
As soon as you say it
It's stitched into stories
There are so many words locked away in little birdie-boxes
That are not dusted and wet-wiped and polished as much as they weary well should be
Alice was bandersnatched but I
I was snicker-snatched
And when you kiss me with lemon rinds on your lips
My heart is zingly
Overmorrow you will say a word and perhaps it will be gobblygook 
But it will certainly be more spellbinding than whatever you're saying today

May 25

Cotton-Candy Clouds

Earlier this evening,
I saw cotton-candy clouds drift by,
Making their way across a taffy sky
Twisting and swirling like lollipops
Practically bouncing off the rooftops.
And as I gazed upwards,
I could feel the grass at my feet,
A lovely shade of peppermint green.
And the marshmallow smoke puffing out of a candy-cane chimney
Along with the rock-candy bushes
All of us gazing upward 
At the cotton-candy clouds in the taffy sky.
May 24


You see, his body never made it
To the city of angels.
Lit by Purgatory's divine lights.
Oh, he would have loved the sight.

To see chaos rolling in masses.
Down the boardwalk and past the ocean,
But his body did not make it there,
Therefore he could not see their despair. 

He wanders the yard when night stirs.
Sits in the garden beside his beloved's favorite.
An Iris painted in his ravens curled dream,
An Iris coddled with early morning sheen. 

He marvels at the drooping wings
In all of their midnight-colored glory.
Oh, how he wishes the mourning dove a raven.
Oh, how he wishes to see his lover again.

May 23
Maria's picture

Playing records on the moon

At night I dream
Of what the days will be
Of the place I take,
When I am not fearing every mistake.
The cloudy nights,
Where stars remain hidden,
I take on these fearful dreams
And untangle the strings of my every thought.

When the stars rise from the depths of the hills
And the moon is no longer an all encompassing surface,
But a spiral from which all light finds a purpose. 
It is then, from the safety of my bed that I wind up the curtains. 
I am bound to stay awake. 
To watch the sky dissipate,
And fade as the morning eve rears its head. 
But before the freckled darkness leaves.
I find traces of hope in the constellations,
And pretend that I too have a place in the sky.

I’d slow dance with you on the moon
To records too sweet to be true
And sing softly:
“ Whether together or a part
You’ll have my heart” 
To a person not yet known,
May 23

I am from potatoes

I am from paper and ink,
From swiffer jets and tearless shampoo
I am from a calm house on a calm street that jests at sanity as a wolf in sheep’s clothing masquerades as safe
I am from petals and sea-tumbled glass
I am from spinning stories like silk and from a river called denial
From samarah and elisabeth and bernstein bears
I am from the liars
And the lovers
From “put your hand down, you’ve answered enough” and “you’re fine”
I am from blue wax dripping down tapered candles, and the tarnished brass of the menorah, and from pine sap trickling onto unexpected fingers
I’m from Colorado, Poland, and from honey and tea
From the people who made a fake country, ruritania, a fake position, ambassador, and a fake newspaper to sneak into the Nuremberg trials and spy a bit of justice, the journal run out of a broom shack, and the boy left hiding under a porch as the masked man waltzed away whistling