Pulling receipts blue and crinkled from back pockets
Two lattes (decaf for her, regular for me,)
one tea unsweetened
On the back,
a list of names to admire
Murakami and Kerouac
and Bukowski and Plath
I disagree with Modest Mouse, Bukowski is a good read but he's not an asshole
Because how could an asshole write something that leaps in my heart like this?
But then again- Sylvia was suicidal in ways a teenage girl with a broken heart couldn't understand
And Kerouac spent his life chasing after the mad ones and Murakami was born into the wake of devastation
Maybe it (asshole, heartbreak, deep wrist cuts, always leaving never coming home, WWII)
Is a requirement, the fuel behind the words
_Katie
Scars like train tracks across our wrists
Telling of night spent staring at the ceiling
With a knife in our heart and tears on our cheeks
And demons that whisper behind our spaced out eyes
Assholes
Self absorbed
Genius
Writers
These things seem to all be synonymous
The more tortured the soul
The more poetry slips out
Like a fog in the night
Unnoticed, the lines become our stories
The dreams aren't truly dreams
But rather lines we've whispered
Roads we've traveled
Choices made with the roll of dice
Art comes out of experience
The reason that these lines make your heart leap
Is because at one time or other
You have stood on the same road as Plath, Kerouac, Bukowski
Perhaps the view was altered
A tree or two missing
The street signs have changed names
All the same
You find yourself standing in their steps
You walk the lonely echoing halls of their imaginations
Plath's asylum is your own
Except instead of linoleum and florescent lighting
Your asylum is inside tattered blankets and cold nights
When the morning seems light years away
The click click click of the ceiling fan
Lulling you into a quiet hypnosis
_Jillian
every day when i get dressed, i think to myself "it's almost winter, so I could wear..." and then i remember, it's summer, and i just packed my winter clothes in a box because my apartment closet is too small for them.
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