but i fear that you’ll think me weird.
but i fear that you’ll think me weird.
He seems like the kind of guy you could hold hands with in public. The kind of guy who isn’t ashamed to throw his arms around you when you’re walking down the street. He seems like the kind of guy who will purposely make loud smacking noises when he kissing you so you can feel a slight tinge of embarrassment and instinctively check over your shoulder to see if anyone is looking.
I don’t know where I was going with this…it kind of just came out some time ago…
She just sits, staring, sighing, silent, alone
No one to help her get over the fact that she’s quietly dying at home,
Shit – she is the real reason that I’m writing this poem.
Blank faces, contemplating, never smiling, forced but not appreciated the way she takes care of another woman’s child and,
The pain that spews from his mouth is anything but mild and,
Wishes taking her back to when she was child again,
Wanting to genuinely smile but then,
Present situations violently hit her membrane,
Wanting to keep her cool but past instances temps to drive her insane,
Her cool was never too cool more like an Iraqi’s bomb,
Explosive attitudes ticking,
She calms, and thinks about her mom,
Trials and tribulations that took place in and out her home,
No one here for her defense or to tell them that they’re wrong,
Voice of a songbird she doesn’t even sing a song,
It’s more like she cries it,
Pushing and packing them boxes with bloodshot eyelids,
She told herself she would always push through the odds when,
They ever met her,
So stealing and raping her cheddar she said to them, “that’s ok, one day I promise, I’ll do better,”
But those noisy nights have never seen cheeks any wetter.
[suh-gey-shuhs] Show IPA
There was a young middle-aged looking man with sandy blonde hair and dark sun glasses. He looked Scandinavian in ancestry and wore a business shirt and trousers nearly about this moderate frame. He walked through the train, holding onto the pole with his disfigured hands. his fingers were unevenly spaced and looked somewhat arthritic. He held each pole as best as he could, as he must have grown accustomed to such a simple feat.
He caught sight of an empty seat and moved toward it. The man next to him with “normal” arms shared a courteous laugh or joke or pleasantry of some sort. They sat side by side, both with newspapers in their hands. The deformity of the blonde man with sunglasses extended pass his hands to his arms which were shortened and seemed to be missing elbow joints. Thus, they stuck out strain in front of him. He maneuvered through his newspaper (as he must have grown accustomed to) with ease flipping through and folding pages with no trouble at all for the rest of his transit.
There was a little Asian girl no more than twelve, whose metal filled smile was always beaming with sweet innocence. Long hair contained in a single low ponytail and bright round eyes behind her small framed glasses. Adorable. She was accompanied by an older while male, quite possibly in his late 40’s. Her adoptive father, maybe. He stood with her, talked to her and constantly made her laugh. He fixed her lunch sack on her arm. She groaned, the way children almost always do when their parents tell them to do something they don’t want to. He looked on her the way parents look over their children to make sure everything is OK to ensure that their bundle of joy is safe and sound.
The water felt nice that day.
We journeyed to the farther end of the beach where other locals hung out, away from the tourists who populated the areas that caught the most sun and had the most access to everything they could buy with their hard earned foreign money.
We laid in the sand for what seemed like hours…the warm kernels exfoliating our skin, my legs thrown carelessly and lovingly across his, my eyes closed, soaking up the feeling of cool air faintly trailing over our bodies. Continue reading
There were three white boys sitting together: one with super curly “jew” hair, the other with more relaxed curls and the third with an “I’m-too-cool-for-super-jew-curls” low cut. The three all wore cargos and tees, two wore open-toes Birkenstocks, while the third wore skipper shoes you’d see on someone who was used to being in a life of privilege on a boat, or yacht or something. They spoke in moderately hushed tones and laughed quite a lot. With every influx of passengers, they huddled into a murmur and then laughed aloud. A girl, with breasts to spare, walked past in a strapless mini with a female and an effeminate male trailing close behind her.
The boys looked on at the girl. The one with moderate curls said something to the others. They laughed. Another set of teenage girls entered. A girl in a mini dress. Another girl in a striped shirt and pants and a third girl in half a shirt and short denim jeans with her pockets exposed underneath. The length of her pockets exceeded that of the actual pants. The boys looked on in wonder. They continued to look at the girls. They didn’t laugh much after that.
There was an old man sleeping, his cane lodged between him and the windowed side of the train her sat next to. His head was crouched low. He appeared dead most of the time, the frail old man. After a few stops, he jerked up, his words garbled for a bit. He looked at his watch.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“8.30,” a woman replied. He grumbled. A clear bottle of liquor appeared from out of his pocket. He took a swig, the faint smell of intoxication scented the neighboring air. He continued to grumble. When the train stopped, he grumbled again, then sucked his teeth. He continued to look at his watch. He would get to his destination late, if that was his complaint. If he truly had a destination. He pulled out his liquid companion and put the bottle to his mouth again. He took a smaller sip this time. Appeased, he tucked his head into his shoulder once more and went back to sleep.