We can’t forget the sunglasses. If we do, we’ll be conspicuous.
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The Man who walked backwardsFor thirty years, Praveen had only walked backwards.Through the city, he spent every day pacing the streets making scribbles in his notepads. He didn’t pay attention to the confused expressions of passers-by anymore.He didn’t care for the comments, the questions or even the accusations of madness. He heard all their theories to why and even their concerns to his ability to walk forwards.He continued to walk on, backwards.Sometimes people would join in and walk backwards alongside him. It wouldn’t take long before they’d give up, realising the art meant crossing roads and dodging lampposts. He’d glance at them pointing their smartphones at his face as they filmed him with fascination, sometimes breaking a smile to let them know he understood.Sometimes he would answer their questions. He walked away watching their confused expressions as they tried to understand his answers.He did explain to a journalist once. He told her he’d taken this vow thir
OverworkedWe set aside a time, one hour for a meeting;our search for a room hindered by our searchfor the solution.Can we set aside a dayfor creation and have a canvas we can all paint onat the same time in the same roomand order ice cream or chip-shop chipswhilst we make our master design?Then do you think we can turn our ideainto a real life innovation?Or do we continue to scavenge old buildingsfor neglected conference rooms oncebooked by occupants no longer present. Dowe panic about the problem and confirmwe are in shit before we've truly understoodthe colour, depth, and complexity of the shit?Do you think we could stick to our plans anddo what we say we will do when we do it? Wego home on time and drink gin-and-tonic ina local beer garden, enjoying the warm sun insteadof an overheated, over-exhausted office.
Machine WindWind tip-tapping againststeel pipesdesperate to attract attention, off desolate rooftops where there's no blue skiesbut the lingering pollution of yesterday's work. The wind infers longing, where they once worked, sweeping each corner in search of their presenceor past existence, a distance too farof just what happened and why now absent.Still tipping and raising the alarm, there must be someone there-a twisted gust takes one more lap of hope. no more than hope.
Walking with a ToddlerSlow he may be, plodding gentle histiny legs. Each stick is a newexploration three steps toanother. “come on” you shout as he trots overgravel laughing delighted at the crunch-crunchbeneath his feetand thereand back again. A dog bounds by, so much energy thatit sparks fear in the little trekker ashe clings to your leg, begging to be lifted.Arms wrapped around his world,he points at the sky, tells you its blue.
The Execution of Judy MonroeIn glamour, in glitter-infested Hollywoodthe movie star Judy Monroe’s almond eyes; coaled melodramatic,tilt towards the camera.She weeps.The executioner motions forward; a tall man, no guardian angel.She watches his movement; spiteful, hated as he proudly glidesto prep for the grand finale.She prays.A prayer to God with no love, each lens focused on her.Black and white replaced by orange overalls.She was found,She was judged,And Judy Monroe will be judgedUntil opulence is extinguished and her dimpled cheeks sallowand her pretty head drops. She dies.When the tall man grazes her last touch,leather grasps her wrists tight.the poison plunges and she falls before them all:behold her final bow.intense silence, release and exhale. applause.
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.Our alarm doesn't ring, it singsPharell beating our mornings'til we remove from our snooze. Weforgot the tink-tinker orbleep-fuck-bleeperand emerge the same.The same commute to work:Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk bythumb movements. Our ears dumblocked into a Will-I-Am trance. Nota glance of the changing scenes; the only birds we see are angry.The same office echoes withtip-tip-tip-tappingof emails blaming others and smack-talking.instead of actual talking. We fall forthe hype of Skype and only Siri’svoice drones narrow answerswe accept as truth. The same playground, huddled corners;Children pick a blackberry instead of picking blackberries, for their late-nightFacebook fights. Words will always hurt see:no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unlessthere’s an app for it.What do we do when stop?Orwell you're too latetook thirty years to demonstrate yourdoublethink and we all cling to the
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
Open WoundsOpen Woundslife is but an open woundalways pouringforever drowining usnever slowingpeople are foolishto think that they can stop usbut they canteach one of us is filled with flawsgood and badwe are differentyet the sameno one can truely seewhat we seethey will never understandthe painthe sufferingthe anguishthere might be others like usbut we are alone
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
bitter.somewhere between his gasping green eyesthere is the lip printof a woman he doesn't remember.she doesn't exist to him anymore(speck of ash in a city that she is),but she does to me.so when he comes home,I grab him by the tieandslam him to the wallandkiss himharduntil the press of my lipsdefiles the grave of a girl who oncethought he was beautiful.
EmoSo what if I'm emo?So what if I cry?I'm not THAT emotional,I dont want to die.So what if I dress in a different style?There's no need to scream and run for a mileI dont like to cut and abuse my arm,I am not depressed,so why cause self harm?Could it be that I am just like you?That I can smile, giggle and laugh along too?Could it be that I am happy with myself?It's just that I am not some pretty doll on the shelf.Could it be that the only reason i dye my hair black;Is because I dont want to be some barbie in a bimbo girl pack.These are the reasons, and I'll tell you why,that I dont look in the mirror and start to cry.I know Im not perfect,I'm sure you will agreeBut I am so very positive,as positive as can beThat Im not like you,Oh dont make me laugh!I dont spend hours on my make-up's maskI'm totally self-confident,Ill smile for all to see.Because the great thing about being emo,Is that I am happy, with just being me.Dont be afraid of who you are.<
on free speechtry to write a poem about politics and it comes out treason. saychange is not the can or the street but maybe kick, or lack thereof.the President says there is no need for panic.the hero fires his rifle into the crowd hoping for applausethe hero was a quiet boy, always such a good kidsee: smiling child frozen on refrigerator doorsee: weeping mother makes plea for salvationthis American daydreamsay news exclusive, say family, or values,say where did all these bodies come from?the President says his prayers go outsay a mute god is better than none at allsay i must be lying or else not telling the whole storysay this ain’t blood it’s kool aid; at least it’s something sweetwho said anything about them? in the dream a man lines his pockets with mouthsand takes a seat, bloated, at the tablein the dream this hero calls himself Americathe President says the same old storysay here, the President is metaphor for progress. or
LesbianMy thoughts wandered back into my fourth grade mind frame.She had beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes,And a perfectly white smile that reflected the sunlight like a mirror.She was a good teacher, mmmhmmm, good to look at,And I even knew it back then,Before I knew I was a lesbian.Roses are red,Violets are blue,Ranbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,And so am I!My thoughts wandered back into memories of Sam, my first girlfriend.She was shorter than I was, with wavy black curls,And with hazel eyes that seemed so enchanting,And she had beautiful pale white skin, mmmhmmm, lovely girl,And I knew it then,I was a pre-teen lesbian.Roses are red,Violets are blue,Rainbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,And so am I!My thoughts wandered back into memories of "coming out".She came out on accident, and 'she' was me,Brave enough to accept the fact that people were noticing,But smart enough not to get myself into trouble, mmmhmmm, that's me,An
.He nestles acornsin the crookbehind my ear,crawls into my collarboneto mound pine needlesbetween myhead and heart.I hope he'llspend his nights here,secrets kept safe in me.
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget thesunglasses. If we do,we’ll be conspicuous.