"do you know where the wild things go, they go along to take your honey"

by Rachel Lynch

i met him with intensity,

and he said never mind.

what is it about a girl on fire that you adamantly douse?

the easier prey are the ones you feed on,

but surely, even they are too majestic for your failing grasp.

only taking what is right in front of you,

didn’t anyone ever teach you how long it takes to build an empire?

a world worth having, a woman worth having - both worth working for.

cities on flame with rock n roll

by Rachel Lynch

The embers of the city light me up, and simultaneously burn me whole.

How can a place so uplifting make you feel gravity like never before?

Is it her conflicting nature that keeps us inhabiting her grasp?

Those of us who believe we live in the center of the world, may also have the shortest end of the stick.

Minimal flowers and trees amongst ample roaches, and a new invasive species like icing on the cake.

Sometimes I don’t know why I love something so pungent and terrifying.

I am averse to risk by nature, so it can’t be some thrill seeking quest.

I must manage to find beauty in the chaos, inspiration in disparity.

Wherever I set my gaze, I am the one who proclaims beauty or defeat.

Perhaps, New York’s magic lies in each one of us,

her humble residents, with eyes beaming for her everyday.

We are a bird and her wings,

New York City and its people.

life aquatic

by Rachel Lynch

We’re all asking, “where did summer go?”

Everyone from the high heavens of the East Village hell, to the sweet storefronts of Williamsburg are imploring the same thing. She slipped so silently through our grasp— no width, no murmur.

If I could annotate more, I would.

But, I myself, did not see her go.

No kiss on the cheek, no note to be found.

We’re all left hustling around in the season’s final heat, confused by the warmth with none of the spirit.

Summer has a special ring to her- a collective meaning, a joyous reprieve.

But we all must smack back into reality sometime,

I just haven’t hit the floor yet.

myself and my artist

by Rachel Lynch

There’s a war between myself and my artist,

a grief that simultaneously separates and binds.

Ours is a cathedral hymn, a song without a dance.

I pour my sorrowing spirit into her grand organ,

and she is the symphony,

the product of my harvest.

And on days when I lack the courage to press the keys,

how can I expect her to be?

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