Forever is waiting
For the popcorn to be ready as
We sit on a couch
With holes that know
Too many secrets. No words
Have been said but everything
And the movie is starting
Best be quiet.
The universe end?
Hopefully, I think
By the end of tonight. That is
Assuming I muster the courage
Or bravado to tell you to get the
Fuck out of my apartment. The credits have
Been rolling since you curled into my
Arms. Do not misunderstand my flexing – it
Is not for you
I think; you and I have overrun
Our welcome. So I tell you in words
I cannot help but
You do look ugly
When you cry. But I do also
In moments when everything is swollen
Except for your heartbeat
As it skips like stones on Walden pond
Thumping against a worn tired sweater
That smells of your mother
As you dream on moonlight
By the kitchenette
The sun was caught orange and hot in the corner of the sky
Burning skin and rubber into asphalt and melting brains that drip
strawberry ice cream pink with salty sweat
down curved noses
pooling in cupid’s bow before sliding past parched lips
into the devil’s doorway
becoming fuel for fire-breathers and flames
that only tickle the house they meant to burn
And nothing moves but simmering heat
Off the streets in slow blurred lines like ghosts straining out of floorboards
keeping them wilted
Until, like a gust of cold wind before a rainstorm
Their grandmother gathers them up home
Frantic among a world of drips
To kick off the birth of Walking Is Still Honest, here is one of the most honest poems of the 20th century. Remember, you can submit your own your work to be published as well.
“The Road Not Taken”
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Walking Is Still Honest is a publishing press under Nostrovia! Poetry, a small press dedicated towards promoting the poetic community as a whole. In order to help further this idea, W.I.S.H was founded.
This press has a goal to publish poetry “as honest as walking”. We want poetry that speaks the truth. Simplicity is a beautiful thing in poetry. When a poem can be written as a conversation, be accessible, be relate-able, then something beautiful is occurring.
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost has survived so long because it’s so relate-able. Everyone has been at a point in their life where they happen upon a “fork in the road”, and a decision must be made.
Which road are you going to take?
Follow the submission guidelines to send your poetry in.
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