The Rent is Too Damn High

They sold the youth of the nation to archaic preachers, aging politicians, convenience and currency. Toxic laws and worn-out dogma design our lives and determine our futures. Student loans, inflation, and immovable wages lock us into their work weeks: we serve capitalism now. Brainwashed into capitulation by mass media and the school system: we never had a choice.

My American dream died, but I dream. I dream of life, love, and the pursuit of common purpose: a meaningful existence.

Our revolution has begin; I hope you’re hungry.

Priceless

So you want to be authentic?
You want to live in the present moment?
Murder your past. Choke out memories with your bare hands.
Hack your trauma to bits. Watch half-hearted holidays bleed out.
Ruminate on nothing because nothing came before.

Fuck the future. Your expectations and assumptions are a joke.
Do they help you sleep better at night?
Drown your plans in the tub with your judgement.
Toss in a toaster for good measure.
Free yourself in the recognition that you have control over noting but what you do right now.

Ignore your fears; they’re irrelevant.
Feeble attempts to ease your discomfort with the unknown.
Will anxiety ever prepare you for your death?
You’re going to die and most of us don’t choose when.
Worry prevents you from living.

Inaction is sedation.
Rumination is self-flagellation.
You’re here now. Lose your ego.
Leave your self-created cage. Abandon your screens.
Go Outside.

Every moment you wait for life you’ve chosen death.
There is opportunity everywhere: take it.

Stench

I’d stop and smell the roses, but I prefer
fresh graffiti, gasoline, and paint thinner.
I watch the death and rebirth of the city
as winter wanes and spring has sprung.

Every second, I wither.
Death does not come once and
I aim to die every day.
I wonder when my spring will come.

Not every tree survives the cold.

A drunken night

This poem i wrote in my journal, on September 5. This is completely unedited.

A Drunken Night

The bed creaks, our souls speak.

Your mouth on mine, our bodies collide.

Your soft cries, echo through my mind.

The heat of your touch, the heat of the moment.

Inhibition lost, drank it all away,

Replaced with lust.

And as we satisfy, that primal urge,

Do you even wonder, where we go from here?

My mind is blind, filled with images of you.

The taste of your skin,

The heat of your body,

The feeling of your lips,

Sin so sweet.

Bliss.

My mind now blank,

My thoughts of you,

Between thick sheets,

I leave my soul, my very essence,

Now a part of you.

Winter Lake-A temperature poem

Winter Lake

A drag from a cigarette, fire in your chest.

Smoke enters your lungs, smoke in the wind.

The water will freeze, ice in your veins.

Snow packs, beneath your feet.

To your left stands the girl you loved.

Hair flowing, cheeks red, blood in her eyes.

To your right stands the girl you will love.

Head in the clouds, stars in her eyes.

Your soul screams, your mind breaks.

A storm rages.

Your hands shake.

Reach out, you are drowning.

Warmth.

A hand.

A call.

Comfort, a blanket for the cold.

Her eyes pierce the fog.

They beckon, they whisper.

They call.

And you answer.

Your lips on my lips.

Your hand in my hand.

Our bodies collide

Our souls search the heavens, bound as one.

But our bodies still stand,

Cold, rigid, as the snow falls,

Beside that frozen lake

As winter calls.

The Clock: A sound poem

Had to write a sound poem for my class. This is one i actually came up with, well at least the framework, quite some time ago. The basic idea stemmed whilst I was laying in a hotel bed, texting someone I really care about. Basically i was quite invested in the conversation, so while i was staring at my phone, waiting for a response, i began to write this poem. I did some editing to smooth it out a bit and here’s the finished poem.

The Clock

Here I am, laying in bed.

Staring at the clock.

It’s only reply, tick-tock.

Awaiting your reply,

Here I shall write.

The clock goes on, tick-tock.

So I write thinking of you,

And all your beauty.

Tick-tock, I swear me it mocks.

Blue eyes, crash through my mind,

And flood my soul.

The ticking drowns away.

Smile, brighter than the night sky.

Face of an angel.

You keep the ticking at bay.

Your thoughts mean most of all,

To me a drug.

Tick-tock, it’s incessant.

An addiction I can’t fight.

Try even? I can’t.

The clock remains its, tick-tock.

Now I too am drowning!

Your words don’t come.

Tick-Tock, it grows louder.

Perhaps, you are now sleeping.

Shall I say goodnight?

Tick-tock, it rings through my mind.

How I long for your words,

To sedate me.

Tick-tock! It’s now screaming.

A moment of elation:

A vibration.

Thank you, for the ticking fled.

The high creeps through my mind,

I am now free.

I smile, at your response.

I try my hand at something,

Oh so clever.

Then I find myself waiting.

Waiting for my next hit.

My high waning.

Tick-tock whispers the clock.

Textural Poem

I was asked to write, for class, a textural poem. Here is what i came up with.

Sandy beaches

How could one describe the feeling,

Of sand beneath your feet?

Soft as a field of grass,

The sod farm where we once lay.

Nearly as malleable as clay,

I was like putty in your hands.

As salty as the sea,

Southern winds blew your hair.

A massage, in-between your toes,

Bright pink nails, your favorite color.

Sand in my mouth, gritty,

Our first kiss on the dunes.

Wet now, from the ocean tides.

Tears, glistening, in your green eyes.

Cold at night, your shoulder.

Moon so bright, your eyes dim.

How could I describe the feeling,

Of the love that we lost?

-Peter Brindley