Long before de Blasio took office, New Yorkers of lesser means were being pushed to the back door not just of their buildings, but of the city itself. The mayor has been clear enough on his priorities. The question now is whether the residents of this city will allow him to proceed.
I love coffee. I sometimes get excited at night thinking of the coffee I’ll get to drink in the morning. Coffee is reason to wake up. There are other reasons, of course. But coffee is the incentive, at the very least.
Wow this theme song is long
THE ANIMALS THE ANIMALS TRAPPED TRAPPED TRAPPED TILL THE CAGE IS FULL THE CAGE IS FULL THE DAY IS NEW AND EVERYONE IS WAITING WAITING ON YOU AND YOOOOOOOOOOUVE GOT TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIME
I drip apologies like a leaky faucet. When I open up to you, I immediately follow it with “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that.”
Like I’m apologizing for feeling.
Like I’m apologizing for telling someone who cares about me how I really feel.
When you tried wiping away the tears I left on your shirt I whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
Like leaving a piece of yourself on someone’s sleeve is something to be ashamed of.
Like showing yourself in your rawest state is something to apologize for.
I stain your lips with the word sorry and leave the after taste of endless apologies after we kiss.
This poem is an apology to all my wasted nights saying sorry to people who never deserved it. Saying sorry as an excuse to stop fighting. Saying sorry for things that did not need an apology followed by them.
This poem is an apology for never saying sorry to the one person who deserved it most: me. I’m sorry for not valuing your actions and feelings enough to let them live without killing them with an apology.
My older brother received a call at two pm on a Thursday,
That his roommate from college
And best friend from high school;
Overdosed and died,
Last Wednesday night.
My brother is 25 years old.
He missed three days of work, sat at home in the dark,
And cried for the first time in six months.
This is not poetry.
My father is very, very sick.
He sleeps for seven hours,
To build up a half hour of strength,
Just so he can pick me up from school.
He hasn’t been well in over a year.
He prays every night, “Thank you God, for making this happen to me, and not my children.”
I am swallowed in fear,
That soon enough, he will go to bed,
And never wake up.
This is not poetry.
There are thousands of people,
just to have one more day,
In hopes that it will get better.
You people glorify sadness,
and long for your death,
because apparently life,
is just too much of a burden.
Wake up, your ignorance is sickening.
Your life is thousands of times more beautiful,
Than your death will be.