The secret place

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Take me to your place
of catacombs and such,
where the darkness makes the night seem day
and whispers turn to screams

Take me to your place
of fields of linoleum,
where penguin suits and cocktail gowns
make little girls dreams

Take me to your place
of cemented pillar streets,
where the dust blows down the alleyways
and it fills you with despair

Take me to your place
of endless little things,
where you laugh yourself to sleep at night
because no one else is there

Take me to your place
of bolted doors and locks,
where petulance is the game you play
when you cant find the key

Take me to your place
of all the broken mirrors,
where the symbolically cracked reflection
is the only one you see

Subliminal Criminal

beautiful poetry from Maya Tsekenis.

In a dream like state
I get whisked away
Any place is better than this
A brighter corner, on a different day
I’m a sad, sad girl
And we never even kiss
 
Better times existed
Between us, I insisted
But lately,
You make me plead
Don’t ever come through babe
You never really do babe
The self-styled gangsta,
Nancy Sinatra
Put well when she crooned
Because I’m pretty when I cry
Could that be the reason why?
Considering it’s me you are going to lose 
 
I was led to believe
I sat atop your pedestal
Your true love babe is reserved for the chemical  
Rest your chemistry and lay the focus back on me
There is still potential…
Don’t be so skeptical…
Your love is elliptical 
I won’t be so cryptic though 
 
I’m all in for you, babe
I speak the truth, babe
I still love you, babe
It’s in the way…

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Rent in arrears

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She catches a bus and a train,

then walks

through two miles of rain.

In a truck stop she waits

on people

to order food

and speak abuse,

the steaks not cooked right.

Wash the dishes,

scrub latrines,

finish by three.

Can’t miss the bus back home.

She arrives alone,

leaves cold spaghetti out for her boys

they’ll be home at four

by then she’s out the door.

She catches a bus and a train,

then walks

with her knee that gives her pain

from kneeling on the tiles

all night,

stocking shelves

up and down the aisles,

but not tonight.

In the door he waits,

yells abuse in her face,

tells her she’s late,

no more wage,

that’s warning number eight.

Walking again

in the rain

with her pain

she catches a bus and a train.

Climbs the stairs

level six

she can hear her boys inside.

Keys in hand

in front of her door

there’s a note,

She reads through the tears

rent in arrears…