express yourself
Aug 27

Daydreaming

It's a
Intrinsic disease
They told me,
A unfortunate byproduct
Of a
Non-lucid mind.
A mind of someone
Who is discontent
With the real world.
Well,
If that's the case,
I don't mind
Being sick.
Because in a world
Scarred by dark roads,
Dark choices;
It's okay
To look up at the sun
And imagine
Happy little fantasies.
 
Jul 14
15hensandarooster's picture

Ah! Bouvier De Flandres!

Jun 11

you without me

Jun 06
Shenali writes stuff's picture

You and Me

You and me
We are the same.
 
Something about us echoes
Subtle tremors tracing the arches us of our backs
 
And I do believe
That we share something
In this fragile existence.
 
Stop,
don’t let those petty lies
slither off your tongue-
I know you can hear these foreign whispers that settle into the air
Like dust.
 
Your hands and my hands
 have been dipped
Jun 05

The Gray Days

There is art in my throat.
It has clogged my airways
and stolen my words.
It continues to float on up,
promising me beauty,
but as I open my mouth
or extend my hands to create,
they expand.

The ideas in my brain run rampant
and I debate whether or not
the art or the artist is in control.
Gripping me by the hair,
my music jerks my head around
like an impatient child
pulling at the reins of a horse.

Jun 04

God

I saw a man once getting out of bed, pulling back his rumpled covers and dragging himself into the bathroom, stepping into the shower of his one bedroom apartment
imagine his childhood tub with water beaded on its yellow-stained sides
He showers quickly, lathering his balding hair with watermelon shampoo
Turning the water off, he dodges the last ice-cold drips and wraps a towel around his middle
Wiping the fog off of the mirror he flexes at it
whispers
Jun 02

That Song Sounds Like Blueberries

Could you play that one song?
You know the one I’m talking about.
You know,
The one we blared from the car stereo,
With all the windows rolled down so all could hear.
The song we would play picking blueberries;
In that all natural,
Weed choked,
Berry farm.
I want to be reminded of the times
I would pick four flats to your two.
I want to remember the day
Where I traversed the fields,
To see where you were,
May 10

You're Not A Crooked Kind Of Person

May 03

Remember?

Remember that hike?
Where the three of us stood at the bottom
Of a beaten path
That was nicely laid out
With stones and markers?
Remember how we all laughed
At the prospect of taking the easy way out,
And took a path invisible to all others?
A path hidden by
Plants,
Jagged rock faces,
And lack of markers.
If you fell,
You’d have a bed of Vermont green to cradle you.
Remember how when we screamed?
May 02

I'm Not Scared, Not One Little Bit.

Staring her in the face seemed to be the truth,
The belated and undeniable truth.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love it I do
The instant burn and flash in a loop.
Though it can get old and tired and bored,
The same thing over and over, the same old chord.
Though when she stares me right in the face, 
I don't even flinch, no, I don't even pace.
And she says ‘you needn't have fear’
I believe her, and invite her just a little bit near.
May 02

Across the Meadow

It wasn't much more than a quarter mile,
so we decided not to drive, instead we raced like children.
She slapped me on the shoulder and took off running.
The words "tag you're it" rang through the air.
So I chased after her across the meadow that lay
between our current position and our grandmother's old house.
As the game of tag progressed,
we ran in loops and circles in order to catch and avoid eachother,
Apr 29

Spring Day

Apr 26
poem 0 comments challenge: Road
dreamincolor's picture

Separate Ways

We have walked along the same path our entire life.
Its always been straight with no twists or turns.
Never once have we had to choose which way to go,
there was never another way.
Then the day came.
A fork in the road.
One veers left into the forest,
while the other bears right leading to a city.
We look at each other, unsure of what to do.
Thinking we always knew how to stay together we nod and begin to walk.
Apr 24

Summer at Aunt June's

(Illustration credit: Ava Kendrick, Waitsfield, VT)

The front porch,
where Aunt June would greet us
as we tumbled out of the old Subaru
into the dry dust of her winding, country driveway.
She would be sitting in her Adirondack chair
drinking an iced tea
and wearing her pink straw hat.
It was always summer when we visited,
always that squinty, humid kind of hot
that only a popsicle and a kiddie pool could cure.
Aunt June had both. 

The kitchen,
painted the same shade of blue as Cinderella's ball gown.
Aunt June would tell me to fetch her some ice cubes for her tea
and I would stand in front of the freezer with the door open,
letting the cold air roll over my scrawny frame.
There was no air conditioning in that old house.
Aunt June always said the heat kept her joints from getting too rusty.
Eventually I'd hear her call from the porch,
"Anita, what's taking so long?"
and I'd yell back, "Coming!"
as I'd scramble to fill a glass with ice cubes.
I'd pop one in my own mouth and crunch down,
making my teeth ache,
a price I was willing to pay to briefly escape the heat.
Apr 22

Let's Grow Old Together

I was just sixteen 
when you said 
"Let's grow old together."

I stopped what I was doing,
whatever I was doing,
and felt a smile
spread across my face,
reaching all the way to my eyes. 

"Okay," I replied,
with every part of me 
believing what I was saying. 
 
Apr 18
Fiona Ella's picture

Apocalypses Arrive Quietly

Apocalypses don't come smashing down from the heavens, 
destryoing civilization in one easy wave of fire
and sending everybody into a frantic scramble to survive twisted political ideals 
and stay alive. 
They don't steamroll over people's lives, 
destroying political and social concepts all at once. 
They don't dry the Earth up all in one giant cloud of dusty red smoke, 
leaving us on a Martian desert land full of prehistoric beasts. 

Apr 14

She Felt

She paused
she looked
and unlike anyone else,
she felt. 
 
Apr 10

American Return


Long beyond the swollen,
commanding flow of the
Mississippi, in the far, unknown west,
lies the quaint
and hopelessly secluded town of
Driftwood Springs, Wyoming.
 
Not much has changed since my departure,
which may as well have been
a lifetime ago.
Orange-haired
Margot waits at
the Wild Cactus Diner for me;
sitting behind the wheel of Dad’s
once-scarlet ’72 Chevy.
Waitress apron still on,
her shift must have just ended.
She grins, cigarette between lips,
as I kiss her cheek and whisper,
“Hello, little sis.”