Dec 15
Graceful's picture

What Friends are For

Tears stream down the sides of my face,
My breath no longer steady.
I moved faster than a bullet
But my walls came down anyway,
Crumbling to the dirt,
The dust hanging around my darken figure.
I tried to build it up alone
But new bullets would hit,
Crashing them down again.
Finally out of exhaustion I fell towards the ground,
The sunlight turned to dark.
My eyelids heavy, my body waitless,
The silence everywhere.
But then it all snapped back like a rubber band
My friends caught me as I fell,
They helped me rebuild
Up into the skys,
We beat the bullets
Rebuild the walls.
My mind at ease again,
Knowing my friends will always be there,
This is what friends are for.

Dec 14

Night + Light

I want to drown in you

I want to never let go of you

I need you

I want you

You are my breath

You are the reason I smile

You get me

You are my light

I am your night
Dec 14
sophie.d's picture

A Dwindling River

I was perched on the edge of a worming river
With brown leaves crunched under kids 11 boots
My eyes scrambling in pursuit
Of a flimsy birch boat
Set gently upon the water
A mere wind gust ago. 

My inquisitive blue eyes
Couldn't trace the path of my boat
Supposedly meandering along the river
And voyaging out to sea. 

I took its absence as a chip of wonder
Upon my bush-level shoulder
And took it that my majestic river
Had already swept it out to mermaid coves
To sea groves and I let the boat slip
From an imagination riddled mind
Into the depths of childhood memory. 

I straddled a trickling excuse for a stream
With big musty sticks squashed under Mom's snow boots
And gazed up and down the stream,
Neck stretched with the purpose of greater persepctive.
My wisened blue eyes landed upon a flag of birch bark
Tucked under a red-tinted rock
Dec 14
milliethehippie's picture

Over The Hills

Some call it 'medication'
others say it's for concentration,
The formation of the craving begins to bind.

A weakling takes a pill, the youth are so oblivious
Unknown to the pusher that standing in front of them.
Friends are an influence, so are our idols
"Cocaine in the brain" is the new slang recital.

Suicide is what they ignore
mixing their capsules with tequila,
but once the throbbing cycle ensues,
here come your parents knocking.

They find you
no response from their own child.

Three orbs are what you see as you
come back to life, 
Mom and dad stand over you.

Fear is what controls us, 
a sign of caution, awareness,
or is the rich sensation of one tablet
worth more than your life? 
Are willing to give up your sweet breath, 
for just one night?

Dec 14


I try to write a million things 
and never try to forget falling

Failing doesn't exist at the bottom of the ocean
or in the sky
or when they're sleeping

We are versions of our future selves, 
trying to get by on his smile 
or the warm blankets in the morning,
or the slight ticking from the clock downstairs 

I have imagined myself every night 
waking up,
climbing to the roof, 
finally escaping repeated timelines

There are pieces of myself hidden
in a bag, on the top shelf, in my locked closet

a collection of notes on how to survive the urban wild,
a bus ticket that expires the moment I decide 
my wanting isn't necessary

I'm surviving on possibilities 
and waiting for my chance
Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

All We Are is an Exercise in Free Association

how many?
how many
till that little
taunting label, 
"New Writer"
goes away?
till the algorithm
thinks I am
less of a novice?
how many poems
till I am
more than new?
how many points
till I advance?
how many
can I kill, Chino?
how many --
and still have
one bullet left for me?
Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

Suburban Gothic

We blame our parents
because we can
and because we know
that someday our children
will blame us
and the cycle
will renew
and we will feel
as disconnected from them
as we felt from our parents
and surely they from us
and we will all eat pork chops
and steamed vegetables
in our dining rooms
telling each other lies
and half truths
and trying so hard
not to let the silence in
Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

cyclical. all.

Ding dong
Ring- ring- ring-

Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

Directions for the disposal of the author

Toss me out
in the woods,
somewhere I knew
somewhere I walked
among the trees
and heard the rustling
of squirrels in the trees,
chipmunks in the undergrowth,
heard the high-sweet calls
of robins and chickadees,
the distant squawks
of crows and jays;
let the life all around
sing my elegy.
The Jack-in-the-Pulpits
shall recite scripture
at my wake
to gathered crowds
of weeping willows
and maidenhair fern
in mourning veils,
woven of spider-silk.
Leave me there till
the woodbine grows
over my corpse
and the goldsmiths
and earthworms
have thoroughly
tunneled through me
and I am once more
just soil.
Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

In Which the Author is Pretentious in Every Manner They Can Conceive

I like
to write titles
for poems
like a Victorian
author writing
chapter names,
with twice as many
words as I need
and a particular
disregard for
relating to my content
beyond a
sort of tangency

Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

En Route or an Ode to Boskone

Driving down
the highway
in Massachusetts
(I think, but we
could still be
in New Hampshire)
seat warmers on
NPR playing
over the car stereo,
a cup of
French Vanilla Coffee
pressed between
my denim knees,
radiating heat

Outside, headlights
catch on
dim and dingy
roadside snow piles
ricocheting off
telephone wires
and the mirrors
of cars ahead of us

At my feet
bags of chips
crunch and crinkle
like the
hard, packed
snow beyond
my window

The sky is
winter dark
a deep
like black velvet
with glimmering
crystalline stars

The air
is dense,
time freezes
as if from the cold
and we are driving
forever toward
the warmth
of a bed
and a
new day

Dec 14
J. Scott's picture

All Men Are Cremated Equal

Will you bleed
gold and silver
and green
when you die?
Will your last breath
smell of stocks
or holding
or your third house?
Will your casket
be all the more
with it’s fine wood
it’s rich lining
in some sweet spot
on some overlooking hill
six feet deep
in the same earth
as the rest of us?
Come a little closer
and find out.
Dec 13

Once I Fell

Once I fell
I fell long and hard toward the crashing ocean waves.
I fell from the clouds among the white rose petals.
The birds flew overhead in the twinkling blue sky.
My hair flew in front of my face
As I tumbled head over heels through blank space.
Beneath me a sudden outcropping of sharp rocks
Springing out of the tempest.
The sky grew dark with ink
And rain trickled gently on my face.
Thunder crackled stiffly
While I kept falling.
Closer and closer toward the sea.
Yards away from my death

Just before I reached my death
The pen swooped down and plucked me up upon my feet
Setting me down on the white beaches.

In the other world
Pen scratched on paper.
The writer quickly composed a new part of my story.
My dirt ridden clothes crumbled to ashes
And a white silken dress appeared on me.
Dec 13


when the birds sing and
the sun is hot
and the trees are green-
I'm going to take a bath.

I'll scrub myself clean
to the point
where my skin will have
no memories left.

The skin that covers my arms,
legs, stomach, chest,
back, neck, and hands,
will be soft once more.

One day
I will be clean of this chapter.
Dec 13

I Feel Safe

The sun falls behind the towering mountains.
Leaving fiery streaks of red and orange.

The water washes gently upon the shore
Polishing the sharp rocks and stones.
Waves tripping over themselves in their rush to come home
Until the ocean pulls them back into her murky depths.

The moon peeks out softly from the sky
Waiting for her shift as the watcher of the world.

The wooden dock rises from the beach,
Its smooth wood planks solid underneath us.
Our feet hang in the warm water
And the late summer breeze ruffles through our hair.
Your hand is wrapped comfortingly around mine.

And for the first time
Amid this nature spectacular

I feel safe.
Dec 13
poem 0 comments challenge: Lost

Waking Up

My eyes open
Slowly adjusting to the harsh light.
My head aches
Beeps fill the air.
People are huddled in groups
Talking in hushed voices.
I try to move but I can't.
My body won't do what I want it to do.
Long brown hair falls over my shoulder.
The woman besides my bed gives a shriek of surprise.
Ohhh.. Lania!
She reaches over and gives me a hug.
That's not my name.
My name is...
What is my name?
I can't remember.
It is sitting on the tip of my tongue waiting to be poured out.
I want to ask how I got here,
But I can't.
I can't do anything.
I am just a shell.
A nurse bustles over and explains that I was in a car accident.
Her memory might be empty, but hopefully she will regain it.
I wish I knew what was going on around me.
My body is useless and unreconizable.
Too much work.
I'll figure this out later.


You chose to be bored
not me, you were the one
who decided not to grasp the moment.
Instead you took it as a time
to think about not hanging out with friends
or not doing a fun project. 
You claimed you were bored.
Sometimes when we're bored
we have to think to ourselves, and
know that this moment might be peaceful,
because your next month is jam packed.
So remember when you're bored,
stay positive, and make the situation
not boring, but fun.
Dec 13
Graceful's picture

Silver Moon

The vast empty road
Stretches out underneath the starry sky
Traveling farther than the eye could see
The silver midnight roses line the street,
Its petals carefully crafted around each other.
The moon’s light reflects brightly off of the silver.
My words sit on the tip of my tongue
But goes no further
Only my thoughts create sound.
 I can’t move as the moon takes over
Sweeping everything within its grasp to a shiny silver
I am silver.
A tiny shimmer in the night
I am the silver girl
Lost in this taken world.
Dec 13


Drowning in their false words.
Mutilated promises.
Pressure is upon us.
Clocks are counting down.
Tick tock.
Time is running out.
The stars are
Shining on me
I suppose
This is my chance.
No second thoughts.

Maybe we lost.
But we had fun
True to our word
I am sorry
You are false.
Dec 13

All Alone

All alone
I want to run up to him
And talk to him
But I don't really know how.
His shoes leave scuff marks in the uneven snow.
I laugh half-heartedly at the words around me.
I wonder if that is why he walks away from us.
I don't really blame him.
His hair blows slightly in the winter wind.
In my mind,
I pluck an imaginary flower.
To talk
Or not to talk.
Before I can decide
I need to turn down a different street.
I yell goodby
But he doesn't hear me
Or maybe my voice was just swallowed up by the frosty air.
I hope what's left of his day is better.
Because right now
Even though there are 7.5 billion people in this world
He is alone
All alone.