Searching for A Sunshine

One man sits at his quiet window, enhabited by dead, self-deprived plants. A "Bloomberg for Brooklyn" sign hangs over his cracked building with a bad, sour aftertaste. His world lives liflessly though it continues it's cold melancholy breathing. He is a plump man who wears a lonesome, white, ripped t-shirt that looks more like an elderly milk-crate

than something you'd wear on your blubbery torso. He, so engrosed by his watching, consistently forgets to wash his clothes. His milk crate is accopanied by stained ,burned-out slacks that are obviously too small because he adjusts them constantly. His little apartment up on the 11th floor, room 123B, is always silent. Without moving he has a

subtle understanding of the world. He lives in the imminent darkness, watching the people laugh, and the drugs be dealt, the fights be fought, and he knows, that they know they know he keeps silently watchung, through his old, whispering, crud-covered windows and under the pale grey sky he know the sun will rain down.

Intention: I wanted to just see the perspective of this person and sort of understand who these people are. Their so lonley but I imagined the way they would feel about the world and I sort of wrote it from an outside being. I just feel like those watchers don't act and don't do anything so I thought about who they are, sitting and watching the world go by and understand that these people are people too and are just like us despite their otherworldly way of understanding the world i understand that it's more comlicated than I ever expected and understood.

WE

We/together/can see/how we believe/in what we/know

going to go/

          as low/

                    as we can flow/

constantly throws/

     our past to tow/

our boat that rows/

                         off to the bow/

wrapped around our opinion's seeds that we sow/

and blow/           with the deer and the doe/

     happening to and fro/

our life's fo-show/

                    But it's all yo/

past/

Because/We/together/can be/and yet believe/in what we/feel/

because we're all for real/

the deal's/

that are made to kneel/

          to the teal/

blue ocean's begin to keel/

over in laughter that yield's/

and yet keeps rolling it's wheel/

as we seal/

                              to walk on

But yet we/seperated/can flee/the anxiety/in who we/represent

under a tent/

of choatic rent/filled but bent/

cold house where the symbolisim ment/

the oppisite of what was sent/

to your mind who's dissent/ is about to repent/

as you admire the dent/

in your 

mind/and complete seperation

Intention: My purpose was to just to embrace this whole feeling of togetherness and sort of randomly bring these seperated misleading rhymes to the poem to sort of contradict the extending idea of togetherness and just sort of be the opposite of who I am and sort of I don't know say something that's just irritating to the whole world and just to write from the opposite perspective of me because I find that interesting and easier to express than other things.

The Musician 

Black and brown dirt, covers the ground's hurt, it's trampled wings, the broken things, antiques and new, items wasted blue, and black and white, men and women fight and prosper and dart and part on this center a representer of how chaos is in our everyday life, and along with the constant inevitable strife that makes the garbage can, and the postal box pan, out on this sidewalk, teen talk, here, the homeless men drink beer, we become honest this corner will always change, rearranging, itself despite, the uncontrolled drunks right, to return like a raccoon, watching from sun till moon, he lives here, he knows Shakespeare, but his beer, and bottles captivate, and relate him, to the imperfect world,he curled, up into his own addictive shell, his hell, that's his block from reality, he must be relying on me to tell his storyhis plea, fro insanity, painlessly, irrevocably, mindlessly, timelessly, rhymelessly, he, is wasted been tasted he's late again, and his only friend, is around the bend, his dreams are gone, only spawned, this distraction,

with bore after bore,

his torn, he was born,

a genius who's metal illness made him lose the way,

pay,pay,pay,pay,

up,

death in a cup, constantly wanting more, his war, to fight with all his might, he struggles to get off of the street, to hear the beat, of the feet, getting out of his sear, to dance to the music and poetic writing, biting down, harder than he did, when he was livid, in melodic, beauty who's tonic, has made him who he was because, his life isn't a waste, or a dysfunctional sour taste, of sour depression, his expression, of how he's so distained, and pained, the cold has rained,

 and poured, gored to death, worse than meth, he is a musician

Intention: I wanted to write this poem to try to tell a story and express my feelings about someone in need who had a story to tell and a feeling and experience to represent and to tell us something we haven't heard before. I think he's troubled and that's what makes him so interesting and dynamic. It's really cool and interesting.

white.