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A and I

Every man has his secret sorrows, which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold when he is only sad.”

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow-

“Moment for the sill suffering alcoholic”

…. (Coffee passed)….…..

…..”Desire to stop drinking”…. (Boots walk in late)……

…”Open meeting.”

Alcoholic/Addict………sober 5 years……gets easier….

… day at a time

Alcoholic……. Sober 6 months…..accept the program……. was powerless…..there is a god, and I ain’t him. (Laughter)

Alcoholic/drug addict……sober 12 days……. (Applause)……familiar with low points….love the high points…..don’t recognize the middle.

"New to program. Alcoholic/addict…..Sober 5 days…….possess a desire to stop drinking……reminded of a quote."

9 notes internet poetry poem writing creative writing words whatever submission

my aura is blood orange

10 notes
i like your shoes

     Walking through an airport I saw someone I recognized from twitter standing in line for something. We had been following each other for probably under a year but well over six months. I walked over to her and introduced myself and added ‘from twitter’ to the end of my name. We stood in line and talked. There was a woman in front of us who appeared to be the same age as us standing by herself holding one suitcase. She turned toward the woman I knew from twitter and said, ‘J’aime vos chaussures.’ The woman I knew from twitter laughed nervously and glanced at me. I pointed to my own shoes and made a ‘thumbs up’ gesture to try to tell her that the woman was saying that she liked her shoes. She looked at me and said ‘oh’ and I told her how to say ‘thank you very much’ in French. The three of us boarded different planes. I thought ‘I just talked to a French girl’ vaguely throughout the plane ride.

i like your shoes by bailey simone

15 notes short story short fiction dream alt lit poetry Internet Poetry


"worker ants tithe"

Reblogged from cursedvideogame

I need to drop my journalism class.
I need to send postcards but I don’t have any stamps
I don’t think I’ve ever bought a stamp before
I need to submit poems for publication
But how am I supposed to send a SelfAdressedStampedEnvelope
If I don’t have any stamps :/
I need to learn French
"Vous les vous coucher avec moi? Ce soir!"
Cuz poets no French rite?
I need to go to graduate school so I can get a job
Only graduate program graduates actually have jobs
Poetry isn’t a job

11 notes alt lit internet poetry poem poetry whatever submission


dial 311


by russ rubin

Reblogged from russ-rubin
july 24, 2014


nobody pressed the characters
on their phone the way they
were supposed to today

i am all lonely and washed up
sad like a monday on the west coast

talked about regression at dinner
last night over dumplings
but everyone’s head is an air balloon
everyone’s head is a magnet
(opposing my poles)
everyone’s head is a dumpster
everyone’s head is compost
everyone’s head is a head
ahead of mine

19 notes
Reblogged from allpossibleworlds
Link: one day i'll be ready but today i am not


A collection of short poems, image macros, and tweets inspired by recent life events and feelings and shit.

17 notes
Reblogged from mirissaleja
Last thoughts on Bob Dylan

Dylan, I’m feeling like my head is heavy and my mind is numb,

I know I’m probably just too old, too weary, too dumb,

I’ve long since been laggin’ behind and losing my pace,

In the fast-motion speed of the 2000 .com rat race.

Feeling like I got no place in these United States,

With all the greed, lust, and united hate.

I’m fourth born Middle American,

I’ve been moving slow now for quite a while

I’ve got no motive, no patents, nothing worthwhile.

It’s all making me mad indeed, its making me mean.

I can’t find a place to fit it in in life’s crowded scene.

I’ve never been dealt aces, kings, or queens.

I’m tangled up with more than blues—

It’s more than something I can fix by drowning my voice with booze.

It’s more than something people find on the evening news.

And these grown-up questions keep ringing in my ear

And causes me to think the tipping point is drawing near.

Why am I walking, where am I running?

What am I writing, what am I doing?

On this page I’m lettering,

In these classes I’m taking,

In the minimum wage job I’m working.

With this pen I’m writing.

And the voice I’m using.

Where am I going? Who am I hurting?

How am I growing? How am I dying?


I’ve tried all kinds of drugs—street drugs, government drugs, prescription drugs, hard drugs, legal drugs, cheap drugs, Communist Drugs, Capitalist drugs, rare drugs, and social drugs—

Only to find out there’s no high that’ll do for the healing’

No liquor in the world to stop my brain from bleeding.

Not enough anti-depressants at the pharmacy to keep me from the proceeding.

I need something special, I need something special all right.

I need something that’ll make me see the white light.

I needs something to give my arm the necessary mite

I need something that’ll give my blind eyes sight.

I need something that’ll turn my inside out and change me outright..

Where do I go from here?

How do I know I won’t just disappear?

How do I get the TV’s voices to stop ringing in my ear?

I feel like the rains of my pony are slipping

And if I don’t keep taking my medicine soon there’ll be a hanging,

And I’m losing my grip on the bottle in my hand

All I can really do when I’m alone is withstand.

And berry the rag deep in my face

Pouring tears out trying to forget my memory trace.

But deep inside I know I’m a part of the ten thousand whispering,

The ten thousand whispering with no one listening.


I don’t think God is going to return Dylan.

I’ll just have to falsify and deny what is real

But I’m not trying to hide any weakness I know I conceal

I don’t have to say I’m faithful to pray before a meal

I don’t think the slow train is even coming,

All I hear is the sound of hollow drumming

I just don’t think he’s real.

I’m so tired, with my worn-out wheels

My middle class grief cracked me very hard indeed.

Me, my white, middle-class, white bread breed.

These times are changing much too fast for me to succeed

I’m an idiot you see it’s a wonder I still know how to breathe.

I know I’m not you, Allen Ginsberg or William Blake.

I’ve played my own character without my foot on the brake.

But I can recite easy Dylan Thomas lines when I’m stoned

And the one time I got the courage I made sure I wouldn’t bleed out before I phoned.

It’s gotten dark now for quite a while.

Most of the time I can keep my feet on the ground with mid-college-level style,

I expect none of the gifts wise men bring me to be worthwhile


 “Hey Mr. Tambourine man”

The words that made me want to stand on my own two feet

And made me want to run to the sound of my own beat

The words that made me believe there was something beyond the gold on the front doors of banks.

That filled my head, and made me spin.

That made me fill wine to the top of the brim.

Those were the words I thought about when lying awake in bed.

And made me think there’s an artificial happiness disease up ahead

And made me think maybe it was okay to be me instead of dead

Those were the words that forced me to think and try to understand

Those were the words that made me think before me and my man medicine slammed.

But I won’t talk continuously.

I can’t take anyone disappearing through the smoke rings of their mind,

Only perhaps to the bus station of absolute reality in today’s time.

After the landlord put’s a price on my crime.

I can’t accept what’s on my lips

Like maybe it’s been more than clear that I just can’t fit

Like maybe I should just quit, and come to grips

Come to grips with the fact I may not be who I think I am,

Come to grips with the fact that maybe I can’t pass life’s final exam,

Like maybe I should have weighted out more than just a gram.

Come to grips with the fact that I’m just an ordinary 20-year old boy

Come to grips with the fact that the only thing I’ve ever been was one big toy

But God man, do I really got to be like that? Isn’t there anyone here who knows where am at?

Ani’t there anyone who’s life’s road has gone flat?

Seven billion people on the planet and I’m the only one in this place?

Ani’t there anyone else who feels like they’ve been misplaced?

Like maybe from day one they’ve been a mistake?

But good God man I’ve been taught not to let these thoughts into my head,

I’ve been taught never to think these thoughts, or I’ll be thinking orange is red

And soup is bread, and who’s alive has dropped dead, and the constitution has been misread.

And soon my limbs will be strapped down in a strait jacket lying in a hospital bed.

And it’ll have all started with my ignorant pill head.

God I can’t be like that

There’s got to be something I’m supposed to be looking at.

But I know hope’s just a word in the English language,

It’s just a word that maybe I’ve heard or maybe I’ve tried to reword,

If only I could get out of going through all these things twice

But no one warned me it would all turn out this way

Just now I’m turning into one, giant , teenage-depressed cliché

I’m not so unique

It’s always felt terrible to be on my own, being alone, being everything that’s not a rolling stone.

And makes me sick bone to bone.


I sure do have a lot of gall, being so useless and all,

I mutter nothing to anyone, only to the wall.

The bottle and I take this penny life very seriously

I took my first hit so I could talk about living dangerously

But all its led to is this reflection in the mirror my portrait self-made misery.

I’ve lived the two decades 21st century, but now soon I’m leaving abruptly

Dylan Negativity isn’t pulling me through anymore.

The wind started howling before the third world war

Please tell me I’m not wounded with hatred.

Please tell me I’ve made no big promise on mid-nights broken toll

I know what I need ani’t in a romantic death,

And I know it isn’t with the Washington Politicians

I know there’s no reason for a man to get excited in my condition

I know being a statistic ani’t in my ambitions.

And I know the hard rain the fell was only the sound of magicians

I’m just not there, I’m gone.

It’s terrible to sit here like this and dwell on,

I’m going to make even all these mutants yawn

However you shouldn’t worry I think intriguing and educated thoughts when I’m smoking cigarettes and stoned

If I could only turn back the clock to when God was made

I wouldn’t go mistaking paradise for the home across the blade

I know the masters have made all the rules

I’m not a wise man, I’m a fool

My thoughts dreams have been seen

And like you said they put my head in a guillotine


But I do indeed dream about the door.

So many deep breaths and still I keep looking for the next world war

But I can’t be someone else every second anymore.

I take myself so seriously you see, just now I’m just bragging of misery.

For my own life I try to voice a half-intellectual commentary

But I know there’s no one to beat me, no one to defeat me except the thoughts of myself feeling bad.

I haven’t tasted peace and quiet for so long it make me mad.

Dylan in the final end I’ll lose the war after losing every battle

Please wipe the blood away from my face

I’ve stayed up for days strung out and out of place

I’ve stayed up for days writing and wishing for an ounce grace.

But there’s no one to give me shelter from the storm

I want a satisfying revenge for being born

But where do I look for this hope that’s alive?

Where do I look for the light that’s still on?

Where do I look after the dawn?

For the peace that still exists

For patches to cover the scars on my wrists

For the candle in the middle of a rain storm

For the room with clean air that always stays warm.

For the mountains that won’t wash away

For the magic potion that’ll make it okay to go gray.

For the smile I can wear on the twelfth day,

And for the mind not to think twice about today.

Dylan why am I walking? Why am I running?

Where am I going? What am I doing?

Why am I writing? Why am I speaking?

What should do? What should I see?

What should I be? What should I hear?

I know I’ve been taught not to think these thoughts,

Or let these thoughts into my head and gain ground

But I know they’re always around

I can hear them when my ear’s close to the ground

But I’m on Washington’s Hill, and I know it’s either fortune or fame

And it’s getting hard to blame the government for my given name

Neither Big Nabco nor Starbucks seem to give me what they claim

Maybe I’ve just gained access to too much pain,

But God dammit I don’t believe in any poetry of Jesus

I don’t believe there’s distance breaking down between right and wrong

But it’s these dark eyes that keeps me up nights,

And the light that flickers just after dawn’s first bright.

And the faces that hide just beyond the field of sight,

And I’m doing my best to keep the door shut tonight,

But can I only think in terms of me, black, and white.

And sometimes I wake up from the last chapter of dreaming

Wondering if it really was me in my dream that was screaming

Wondering if the air I was inhaling was too thin

Wondering about all the soldiers and men

Wondering how long it will be before the final amen.

And Inside my University courtyard,

Students hustle to success in single-file,

They tell me how great life will be after a while.

Their books, pens, and calculators under arm,

With this their lives won’t be spent on the family farm.

Their tests known they attend sermon.

Knowledge a layman can hardly determine.

I’ve tried so hard to be read my books, like them I imagined

I think maybe I need something strong to distract my mind

I’m an imitator Dylan I’m stealing you blind

I’ve tried to speak of the future, and draw conclusions on the wall

I’m trying to remember what I had when I was a child I can’t recall

I know it’s only my opinion I may be right or wrong

But I know Love is just a four letter word.

I know black is both my color and my number spilt into thirds

But these are not the time of miracle and wonder,

I don’t think I believe in words.

14 notes internet poetry poem poetry writing creative writing words whatever submission

they zoom in on her nervous eye twitch

and your land lady zah

_ scratch

B scratch

B itch

8 notes poem whatever submission