Lost Dreams

She wandered through
Dreaming of crystal clear skies,
Fluffy ivory clouds,

Dreaming of everlasting happiness,
Majestic white horses, fairy tales,

Dreaming of love at first sight,
Nothingness, simplicity, warm fuzzies,

Dreaming of hope that turns into real truth
Dreaming of destiny that exceeds expectation

Under closed eyelids a story begins to form,
Imagination swirls.
Sun peeks.
The dreams are lost to the breaking dawn.

A Grocery Story

Fast and furious-
Like machines.
Take a second and
Look around.
We're real life-
But we act as chess
Pawns.
Letting ourselves become
Manipulated
Into a mechanical state,
The FDA loving it.
Stuck in our patterns-
Cigarettes please!
Add on some Coke,
Double the dose of potential cancer-
Best tasting poison that's
Slipped down my throat.
When will we wake up?
There's no second chances in
This game of Life.

In this game, losing is real.
Losing a loved one, losing a friend
Losing our will power to stand up
Against the higher corporation.
Our cravings engulf us,
The enticing packaging
Of the Double Stuff Oreos.
How does the obesity taste?
Oh, I hope it's good.
Worth the years slipping away
From your life as your arteries clog
The desperate pained looks from
Your children
As your only solution is to
Lose yourself in the bottom
Of that bottle
Seeing no other way out.
Last time I checked,
We couldn't live this way.
No second chances are given in
This Life game.

I want to scream.
Yell out.
I am like a mini agent of the FDA
Perpetuating the ignorance.
Scanning tubs of Breyer's mint chocolate
Chemicals.
Bags of Lay's
Heart attacks.
Doing it all with a
smile on my face.
Let me see how many ways
I can help you die.
An agency to protect
The people?
You give me 20 bucks
And I'll give you something
To rot your brain into
Alzheimer's by the time
You're 40.
Deal?
You tell me whose
Being protected.
There are no second chances
In this Life.

Hi, my name is Kelsie.
How can I help you?
Pack of Marlboro's please-
In a box.
Of course.
Quivering hand,
Supplying them with their
Key to failure.
To the end-
The end of the relationships
Slowly unraveling
Like the packed cigarette
Thrown on the pavement
For me to step on.
The end of dealing with it.
Sad, droopy eyes of the
Small boy. Fed up.
The man's lungs disintegrating
Like the enamel of his teeth.
I hold out the package,
Can smell the faint tobacco on his breath.
Dad please stop.
I can hear the plea.
But it's a gift for you son-
Take a big inhale of this
Addiction.
If my lungs are going to cry,
So are yours.
He's a machine in his pattern-
I'm a machine with a job to do.
Looks like it's not turning out good
For you kid.
No easy pass Go
In this Life.

What will it take?
To get out of the patterns-
The patterns
killing us.
Maybe the head owners of
Overpowering chain supermarkets
And the big shot FDA corporations
Should take a swig of their
Newest soda.
The one they approved
For it's sugar-packed contents
Rotting every major organ
From the inside out.
Annihilating our bodies.
They cry out, but they're too far gone.
And how about they take a puff
Of the new gold brand, and let their lungs
Cough. Like the little boy's do.
I hope the money feels dirty in
Their pockets now.
What will it take for us to
Stop playing this game?
This is life, this is real.
As real as bodies and families and
Complete lives, destroyed
By sickness.
No second chances in this game.
We're keeping the hospitals in business.
When will we wake up?

Cheap meals,

breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Flatbreads,

Bagels with cream cheese,

99 cent donuts,

and sausage, egg, and cheese.

Vanilla chai,

Iced tea with sugar,

Caramel iced latte, and

in the winter; gingerbread coffee.

Memories like donuts

sweet and exciting;

early on the ice,

later in the

back of math class

drinks in hand.

Hot summer days,

going to the beach,

refreshing cold

sand and salt.

Working hard,

and making money.

Every morning,

awake at six,

in to work,

a day in paradise.

Bitter coffee smells,

drinks all day

ice, flavor, sugar,

cream, coffee and repeat.

Changing minds, corrupting tastes

coffee is the drug of choice

morning, noon and night.

Its personal history,

its high school,

its adoration

its Dunkin Donuts.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Cold sunlight outside the window. 

Lowering skies, on the river.

A cold lucid indifference reigned in his soul 

He wondered if he would die.

Small and weak. sitting alone.

Day after day

Kindly lights his soul so constantly beheld.

His throat ached with a desire to cry aloud

in that magic moment

Weakness and timidity would fall from him.

The host and God would enter his purified body.

Gardens, soothing air

A wild rose

She too wants me to catch hold of her.

I Was Invisible for Eighteen Years

I was invisible for eighteen years,

Too afraid of what she might say.

If only I knew how to conquer my fears.

It took all I had to fight back the tears.

My mom told me to ignore it every day,

I was invisible for eighteen years.

I would run away every time I knew she was near,

sometimes I wouldn’t even go outside to play.

If only I knew how to conquer my fears.

She is a bully always mocking with a sneer,

from her rude comments I tried to stray.

I was invisible for eighteen years.

She wasn’t worth all the pain, it is clear

I should have dealt with her in a different way.

If only I knew how to conquer my fears.

Some day I hope I can make her hear

all the mean things she said to me, her prey.

I was invisible for eighteen years,

If only I knew how to conquer my fears.

The Cry from the Blue Room

I have heard your story, and I can’t imagine your pain.
Taken from life at too young an age.
What keeps you in this place of your bane?

The attempt to help you was only in vain.
That room is your prison, an indestructible cage.
I have heard your story, and I can’t imagine your pain.

The faint sobs were once thought as the imagination of our brains,
But your presence is now familiar and no longer strange.
What keeps you in this place of your bane?

Your absence surely caused emotional drain;
Sorrow engendered from your unthinkable suffrage.
I have heard your story, and I can’t imagine your pain.

Loved ones remain close by, still feeling the pull of your chain.
There is no denying you parents rage.
What keeps you in this place of your bane?

You were stolen with the quickness of a passing train,
But have persevered with wondrous courage.
I have heard your story, and I can’t imagine your pain
What keeps you in this place of your bane?

Life's no book

Little Bear

Yes the book

Like warm summer nights

And blueberry iced tea

It brings me back

To a time when things were simple

Where the biggest worry was what I was going to eat for breakfast

And the only heartbreak was that bedtime had come

But just like my childhood and the story itself

All things will come to an end.

So turn the page and get ready for what comes next

Because life is not a book, and you cannot flip back to the beginning.

Kyle Nielsen

I am From...

I am from a hard working blue collar family

I am from a rough and rowdy crowd

I am from the woods of East Millinocket and the potato fields of the Aroostic county

I am from the deer stand and fishing boat

I am from a past where you learn from your sins

I am from a lifetime of filling my father;s shoes

I am from playing god;s greatest sport every friday night under the lights

I am from the blood sweat and tears of two-a-days

I am from working for what I have

I am from loud trucks and 10 dollars a gallon

I am from living the life I enjoy

Thoughts

When you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed,
And if you keep on thinking you'll find out what you need,
A way to let them out, theyll only grow and grow,
those thoughts you keep thinking, need to let them show,

Those true emotions, the ones we always hide,
Cant stay hidden forever, they cant stay inside,
When there's no way out and the only way is deeper,
keep digging in, its only getting steeper.

Giraffe

An African giant towers above the plains.

A sky-scraper with long twig legs,

he moves with grace, balance, and poise

nimble legs moving in powerful strides.

His long neck painted with smudges of brown,

splashed against a textured, yellow canvas.

The creature’s sheer height and colossal size

an awe-inspiring spectacle.

Reaching the treetops, the giraffe feasts

on green delicacies unattainable to most.

Stubby horns and swiveling ears,

the giraffe stands alert--

waiting...

watching...

A movement--

A faint rustle in the grass.

The wide-eyed giant flees across the parched savannah.

kicking up clouds of dust in his hasty escape.

It’s unseen predator fading back into the shadows

as the wandering giraffe returns to it’s herd.

If only you knew

You say "I love the way you laugh."
But if only you knew the way this laugh was formed.
From the nervous giggles of an unsure childhood, from the awkward, the devastating, the scary, the funny, the ugly and the beautiful that this laugh pulled me through.

You say "I love the way the green specks of color dance with the amber in your eyes."
But if only you knew what those specks of green and amber have been witness too.
From the divorce, the suicide, the death, the beauty, and the angry you put me though.
Don't forget the shame and guilt these eyes shed tears for.

You say "I love the way you move with such grace and finesse."
But if only you knew why I had to learn to tiptoe through life.
From the drunken nights you lay passed out on the floor, from the mornings when I would do anything in my power to sneak away, from the childhood that makes my smile crack.

You say "I am so proud of you. I love you."
And my heart shatters my soul ebbs...
If only you knew.

Where Shall We Sail?

Where shall we sail?
Beyond the sea we may find.
What is left of him; we shall not fail

For miles and miles there is no existence of a trail.
We are sailing blind.
Where shall we sail?

Searching to find our holy grail,
What leads us is the strong gust of west wind,
What is left of him; we shall not fail.

Quickly come and look at this gray whale.
A majestic creature that is envied by mankind.
Where shall we sail?

Stuck out to sea with the lack of gale,
There is no peace of mind.
What is left of him; we shall not fail.

The prevailing winds have proven to prevail.
And now the last leg of the trip has been redefined.
Where shall we sail?
What is left of him; we shall not fail.

Moments

Mom is here; now she’s gone.

Best friend, is now no longer.

Goodbye earth; Hello heaven

as it seems

I wish I could see the light of day

everything just seems so dark

I want to know why it’s become this way

please help me find home

I wish I’d stop trying to escape

this way of life brings me down

I need to confront this face to face

wake up from this nightmare

I wish these nights without sleep

would cease so I can rest again

I have to start counting sheep

bring me back to you

I wish I could unplug myself

from these electronic dreams

place this waste upon a shelf

to enter a world where everything,

is

as

it

seems

Internal

Wandering, lucid thoughts fading in and out,

a moment of alarming self realization occurred.

Questioning why one does, yields little solace.

Internal honesty hurts, lie through synapses.

Parts are coded, instructed to be this and that,

an eternal struggle between ego and super ego.

Thoughts learned fight thoughts born.

The taught ideal haunts the now disappointing real.

Programmed for avoiding death, not living past.

Want beyond need, self labeled greed,

a complete mess after food and water.

Chasing an end pushed ever further away,

Define what is good and try to attain,

destined for falling short to an incapacity of selflessness.

Striving to be the person who cares for more

then his square of the world,

but honestly does anything outside of it matter?

The harder the struggle, the more it is clear,

two people are fighting in between the two ears.

Internal honesty hurts, lie through synapses.

For Paul (musicless song to a former mortal)

part 1

I never opened that box.

even when I knew for sure.

part 2

at first you were a machine,

and the cogs meshed

but the snapped crankshaft could not sustain the necessary processes.

and then you were an animal,

and evolution is proven by tragedy.

and then you were a case study,

and I called you “subject 3”

because I had seen this before

and I told myself I understood.

and then you were a shade,

somebody else’s mind

transposed onto my own;

a ghost of a memory of a photograph.

and then you were my muse,

and I danced around you with a disposable arsenal of

fresh flowers and brooding contempt;

I made you immortal.

and then suddenly you were a man.

and then suddenly you weren’t.

but yeah,

I totally got over it.

Eye

I knocked on the door of a house

on the cirque of a mountainside.

A wrinkled forehead with bottle cap glasses

and the smoothest skin around the lips,

welcomed me.

We sat near the window where

she handed over her glasses,

and told me to look down and see

how the ants look in the valley.

Scurrying, burying, constantly going,

only to get

crushed by the bottom of a shoe,

drowned in the flood of the rain,

or swallowed by the throat of something greater.

As we sat lofty,

she tempted me,

with how nice it can be,

to only watch and

never feel the sting,

of being crushed,

of being drowned,

of being swallowed.

Though I knew it would be easier,

to be an eye,

I went down from the mountainside

and joined the ants.

On my descent,

I looked back at the face and saw

where a smirk, a scowl, and a smile

could not grow.

I Am From...

I am from a family where eating out is a picnic on the truck tailgate in the Hannaford parking lot
I am of the Red Sox Nation
I am from cursing upon realizing the 400 yard dash is in meant to be done at a full sprint
I am from my coach telling me to “jump higher” in the high jump, in case I didn't understand the point of the event in the first place
I am from a family where I am sent to rescue the trapped birds that flew down the wood stove chimney while my father hides in the next room
I am from the “plugged in” generation, where relationships are maintained through texts
I am from the hodgepodge of Irish, Scottish, and Abenaki indian roots
I am from the panic of having pressed snooze one too many times
I am from the joy of a snow day yet the moaning about the extra day come June
I am from a family where hot chocolate is considered one of the main food groups
I am from a town where the louder your truck's exhaust system, the cooler you are
I am from a family of early risers when all I want to do is sleep
I am from the due date panic, a result of excessive procrastination
I am from my nana's kitchen, from the smell of a batch of molasses cookies and peppermints in the dish in the hall
I am from a family of tree-huggers and greenies
I am from a mother who doesn't trust dryers, so I am from hanging endless loads of laundry on the “solar dryer”
I am from bimonthly trips to the garage to attend to yet another “check engine” light
I am from the senior year stress of getting into the “right” school
I am from the Jet-Puff marshmallows, Hershey's chocolate bars, and graham crackers around the fire
I am from a town of devoted Dunkin' Doughnuts patrons
I am from friday night football games
I am from PBS shows every day after school in elementary school
I am from endless swimming lessons at St. Joseph's College, and being sent back to level one for plugging my nose when jumping
I am from disastrous cooking experiments with my father on the weekends
I am from summers on the lake and winters on the chairlift up the mountain
I am from the memory of shadow monster, two-square on an unfairly tilted driveway, and "dodgeball" games in the backyard

Underneath

Underneath my shirt is my skin

Underneath my skin is my heart

Underneath my heart are dreams,

concealed by the darkness of my future,

by the expectations of others,

whose constant bombardment is almost too much,

building the pressure like a geyser waiting to explode,

or a volcano before its violent eruption,

they think they know best,

like a politician blinded by his own ambition, and greed.

Do I deserve to bear the weight of so many who have vested so much into so little?

Do I deserve to carry the burden of others past in hope to change the future?

They say the grass is always greener on the other side,

but once you finally climb that imaginary fence,

the grass seems to turn into dirt,

dry, gritty, dirty,

dirt extending into the never ending horizon,

just like the list of problems I face,

once I get over one, more seem to take its place,

like walking on a treadmill,

you feel like your getting somewhere,

when in fact

you’re just walking an endless track,

repeating itself over and over,

like a record player stuck on a song,

life is the eternal process of walking everywhere,

yet getting nowhere.

Onward and Upward by Alena Kiel

(aka the Bennington poem, or what I call “anti- slam poetry”)

It’s days like today that feel ripe with hope.

The sun is out and shining,
cloud-windy days are far
and away gone past.

I’m done with the back and forth.
I’m through living my life parenthetically.

I want to walk down these streets
with my head held high
because I know soon
so soon
I’ll be where I want to be.

What will it matter that I’ve never fit in?
What will it matter that I’m the most
socially awkward person I know?

I can trail those old days behind me
like ribbons, the ones when the
weight of the world hung on me
like ten ton cobwebs, achy and dirty
and disinterested.

I want to run,
free and unabashed
and unafraid
into all these days ahead.

Come on world.
Throw me everything you’ve got:
hope’s on my side.

oh Hai, Ku

It is raining now

I really wish it were nice

Megan loves giraffes

The title of this poem is about as long as the actual poem.

Some say brevity,

is the heart and soul of wit,

but I am just lazy.

The Dishwasher’s Night.

Do not fear the splatter of food.
(Though the pureed chop-suey looks like cat vomit.)
But don’t get the diet aides wet; they think that’s rude.


A bucket of thrown away food sloshing about can ruin your mood,
That mush used to be a biscuit.
Do not fear the splatter of food.


The coffee containers are stained black; too long brewed.
Half of the stuff you see seems like it could be the home of a maggot.
But don’t get the diet aides wet; they think that’s rude.


An earring was dropped into the bucket, could it be rescued?
Never expect a respite.
Do not fear the splatter of food.


The milk seems to have been spewed-
You agreed to all this when you signed that packet.
But don’t get the diet aides wet; they think that’s rude.


Stuffed into the teacup, the napkin has been corkscrewed.
The juice, water, and milk makes a rivulet,
Until the entire platform is strewed.
Do not fear the splatter of food.

A Stormy Eve

It pounds against the euphoria of the night.
A blaze dashes across the starry dome
The thundering sky reveals a face that vanishes tonight.

Waves roll forward to reveal their foamy tips at twilight.
Rushing out, vanishing every flaw in the sand.
It pounds against the euphoria of the night.

Where the moss covered steel glides into the sleekness of the light,
Slicing a path towards a sanctuary.
The thundering sky reveals a face that vanishes tonight.

The children flutter around in their fright
Snatching all their sea treasures gathered at day.
It pounds against the euphoria of the night.

The seagulls look for shelter in flight
Cawing, gazing at the skyline for guidance of their journey.
The thundering sky reveals a face that vanishes tonight.

The view is spectacular at the nautical lighthouse's height
The melody of the storms collide.
It pounds against the euphoria of the night,
The thundering sky reveals a face that vanishes tonight.

If You Could Look Into My Memories

If you could look into my memories,
maybe you could see.

The way that my eyes saw you,
lying underneath those trees.

The things we told each other.
You said you’d never leave.

I told you that I would come back.
It’s a promise that I’ll keep.

But now I can’t remember,
My memory has let me down

The only thing I that remember,
is how you cut me down.

If I could look look into your memories,
what would I see?

If I could look into your memories,
would you remember me?

Safe

I am running all alone

Accompanied by the sullen drone

Of my broken heart.

Then you saw me go by

You know that I am shy

And that my heart is falling apart.

I fell right to the ground

Without the slightest sound

Completely filled with hate.

Then you helped me to my feet

And our eyes do meet

You’re not a second late.

Tears falling from above

Because of hate and love

Quickly rolling down my face.

You standing close to me

The one thing that I see

Bringing me on to a better place.

You holding me so near

Easing every fear

That disrupts my mind.

You talking very slow

Just to let me know

That good we always find.

You take away the pain

The truth is very plain

You heal using your love.

You genuinely care

Much to my despair

I’m the one you’re thinking of.

You tell me it’s ok

Not to fear the day

Because you know I will.

When I’m wrapped up in your arms

I’m safe from any harm

And time seems to stand still.

We stand there for a while

Never with the slightest smile

You just holding me.

Not saying a single word

But your voice is heard

A better day there will be.

From the Perspective of a Prostitute: Written by an Average-Looking American Girl Who Hates Walking By Victoria’s Secret

I look at my skin and see a pallid dish cloth

stained from overuse and too much rinsing.

My hair is snaps and my bones are curl.

Contorting into shapes only seen in center-folds

Night after night after night after night.

What I wouldn’t give for their daily attire

To become formless and billowing in

those heavy robes, cloaking my over-moisturized body.

To become a shadow. Wrap the burka over my shame

looking through mesh and not mascara.

And there isn’t always an eye-covering, sometimes those women are only eyes.

Hands, cloth, and eyes.

1. Eyes

My mother always told me I had beautiful eyes.

Shiny gray, like the clouds’ silver lining.

To remind you to look for good of every circumstance, she’d say.

Somedays, when the sun glinted inside them at just the right angle,

my eyes were pale blue, like the foam of a receding ocean wave.

To remind you that somedays you may feel washed away,

but there will always be another wave to bring you back to shore.

I know you had high hopes for me, Mother.

That you love me for only my eyes, but I hate to break it to you lady,

the world wants more than that from your baby girl.

And I give it to them

Night after night after night after night.

And every morning I feel washed away,

but there hasn’t been a wave to carry me back for a long, long time.

I’m caught in a rip-tide that pierces my side

and the salt water goes in

and spills out of my eyes.

So I think.

Why do those women, across this wave-less ocean,

get to languish behind their veils, knowing

that although they won’t experience our ideal romantic courtship,

or experience any of our ideals, for that matter,

they know that man they have been arranged to marry,

he probably thinks her eyes are lovely. Maybe they’re silver like a cloud, and blue in the sun.

2. Hands

Or maybe her eyes have been covered. Whether by netting or by prison bars,

he has watched her hands. He sees tough, hard-working hands,

beautiful hands,

that will forever serve him and their nation’s God.

Men have seen my hands too I suppose,

though I doubt it has been considered if my hands serve God,

as well as mammon.

My hands are also tough, working in the dark.

And in the morning, also clasped in prayer.

But my hands blend in with the rest of my exposed skin.

3. Body

Those men, you know, the one’s we’re at war with,

we curse them and their bearded scowls and road-side bombs but

they must love their women.

Think about it.

Yes, they take away their speech, their individuality, their free-will

and thats just the beginning of the inhumanity, but to me it seems that the epitome of humanity is respect for the human form itself.

And that is what those women are allowed to keep.

Their form.

Maybe hidden under a burka, but it’s theirs.

Here in this land we have our freedom of speech, our freedom of press, our freedom of religion, freedom of assembly, freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom.

Except freedom of body.

But wait, that is a bad way to put it, because here in this land a women’s body is free.

Free to be exploited. Free to be commercialized, advertised, amplified and digitized.

To be displayed ten-times life size on a public wall

for toddlers to stare and grandmothers to glare.

I cry for the women on that wall.

Because maybe a hundred men have paid for a small piece of my body,

but I remember each time.

The women on the wall will never know how many people carry her body in their head,

how many teenage boys have her on a screen in their pocket.

The masses point fingers at those men across the sea,

saying that they’re the ones who

are trapping their women in a cage.

But perhaps there is something to be learned from the people

we never seem to stop fighting.

Because they must love their women.

They protect them.

Their IED’s blow our tanks, but our lack of sacred appreciation for a woman’s body blows their minds.

I want someone to marry me after only seeing my eyes.

I want their protection.

I want their love.

I want it all.

Without showing my skin.

As They Seemed Before

Woke up this morning and

Things were not as they seemed before.

My alarm clock was broken, and

My room was thrown upon the floor.

But its okay, cause I bet it was a hell of a night before.

I woke to see these for walls staring right back at me,

An unspoken accusation to my broken proclamation

And who’s to blames in a situation where both sides are at fault ,

The fire or the fire starter?

The fire or the one who lit this godforsaken match and burnt this all down,

All of our hopes and dreams.

Leaving nothing but a scar on the land.

So who here is to blame?

I woke up this morning to see,

I had no clothes up and around my room.

So I went to see if they’d been thrown, upon my lawn in a cliché fashion.

A suitable punishment for actions speaking louder,

Than any words that I could ever say to you.

But when I got there not a sock was to be found.

Where did you all go?

Was it my fault for not seeing it there, or

Your fault for not leaving the light on to guide me home?

Only You by Liz Rockett

Since you left me I've been lost.

Loss surrounds me as your arms once did.

The heart that once felt warm, now feels cold and

Dead.

Looking in the mirror,

What didn’t you see?

What imperfection turned you away?

I see a girl, almost a woman, insecure and torn.

Blue, green, gold, black eyes.

Crystal clear from the tears running down

those flushed cheeks.

Memories, laughing, crying, screaming.

Somehow I still love(d) you, despite your imperfections.

The many I saw never once turned me away.

Wishing you could put down the bottle,

or that you didn't need to disappear into that world.

Wishing I was enough, that I could take you away

from everything that hurt you.

I see your dreams surpass your reach,

as you dig yourself deeper,

and deeper,

and deeper still.

Somehow my help wasn't helpful at all.

Somehow it pushed you away,

further with every “I love you” exchanged between,

You and I.

You and I are no more.

But whose choice was that?

Was it you? Or was it you in that other world?

Only you will ever know.

Only you.

This is an Addiction as Well

A chill

burns in my bones. My 

limbs are sediment, still and

silent, propped, framing this log 

of a body

who is cold, cold permeating deeply

and not allowing the warmth of

the fire in to crackle and steam 

away the tired, tired blanket

of lethargy that lifts only at night, in a dark room lit

by two lights, one high and yellow one

close and impersonal, and these legs 

are pillows for elbows, 

these bones are fags 

for the flame. 

Cheers

Here's to bravery.

Here's to a house of peers, bitter and

callously sprawled, ready to pounce. 

Here's to making them laugh--

with you.

Here's to dancing alone

while your friends gossip.

Here's to your own damn drummer.

Here's to walking alone in the city.

Here's to stepping alone

into the dark room for

the light switch. Here's to

facing the demons on the

outside, and then looking in.

Here's to opening up.

Here's to looking up.

Here's to looking your enemy in

the eye, and smiling. Here's

to sitting kitty corner to the beast

(and knowing the wolf put you up to it).

Here's to your courage

Aye, I'd drink to that.

The Rock That Rolls by Ian Hawkes

The Rock that Rolls

It all started with the King.
Come sleep in the Heartbreak Hotel
if you wanna hear, or wait, is that Hotel
in California? Nah. Screw the Eagles,
the British are Coming the British are
Coming in Submarines of Yellow through
Eight Legged gardens and their High
with Help from their Friends, boys
Sticky Fingered with Brown Sugar and licking
the states back to patriotism and avid
reading. Rolling rolling stones. Rolling
rolling rock. Old Time a Rockin‘ Roll,
kinda music just soothes the soul of
the lady who knows the stores are
all closed. This snowballs rolling
faster and faster, on this Highway
to Hell, on this Leftoverture Journey
that started with a million hey hey
Monkees pounding on the fret boards.
Where will it stop? Or will it?
As far as I can see these Barenaked
Ladies are all about Californication,
and if we can shake our heads with
Neverminds and cover Alices
in Chains we can certainly endure
the Slipknot. Its a Chemical Romance
thats too good to give up, a Bullet
for Your Valentine that looks like
it is Saving Able, and even if it
was Breaking Ben-jams and Yeah
Yeah Yeahs through her Radio Head
I don’t think we could even stop.
London is Calling.
The people need their music.
And to those about to rock,
I still salute you.

Rotten

Something is rotten in high school.

The students are candid and raw

Like a slab of rank meat

That has been sitting on the counter for a few days.

The meat is unavoidable.

Something about talking is rotten.

They talk and don’t consider.

Or they consider too much.

They don’t consider that other people talk.

It isn’t just them.

No one keeps secrets.

Caring is rotten.

They talk about things that are useless.

They care about things that don’t matter.

They pry and they tell and they spread.

They don’t

Want to be out of the loop.

Being out of the loop is rotten.

They care because they want to be a part of something.

They want to be involved.

They don’t want to be alone.

They don’t

Want to be out of the loop.

Something in the teenage brain is rotten.

That gushy pink slimy material that should be housing questions

On why the sky is blue and

What happened in history during the 1930s in Senegal is instead

Housing questions on why that girl was crying

In the hall today

Between third and fourth period.

The societal brain is rotten.

It has been poisoned.

It has decayed.

Growing up is rotten.

It is just a stage of growing up,

It is our society growing from infants

To men and women.

It is our society growing down.

Is our history rotten?

Were

Teenagers decades ago acting the same way?

It could be a generational thing.

This is a part of evolution, or better yet,

The beginning of the apocalypse.

An apocalypse would be rotten.

The girls become savage

Like in “Mean Girls” at the fountain.

The whole globe breaks out into a fight.

Knives thrown,

Guns shot,

Girls and boys wrestle and punch.

In fifty years I hope our high school won’t be rotten.

My dad reminisces on the good ol’ days.

High school has changed.

The girls were still gossiping and doing hair

And make up back then.

The guys were still flirting

And trying to be men.

Something is high school must be rotten

In our day and age,

In our society,

In our teenagers.

It can’t be cleaned up.