Author: Mallory Smart

Mallory Smart is a 24yr old poet/writer from Chicago, Illinois. She began her foray into writing out of sheer mental necessity and soon found herself the editor of the publishing company, Maudlin House. Her writing is published or forthcoming in Fear Like A Habit, Mirrored Voices, and The Review Review. Follow her on Twitter and Tumblr.

Wi Fi Killed The Coffee Shop:

The morning rush on Clark
crowds the corner Starbucks store.
No seats. No struggles.
Just coffee and unpredictable Wi Fi.
Flooded by feeds about Back To The Future
and what it got wrong. I check in via Facebook
sitting at community tables where laptop cases
carry the madness expecting to be
undone. I would love to die while the barista
asks what I want, even though I rehearsed my order in line.
I find a seat awkwardly as white-collared men try to make small talk,
with this tattooed hipster girl. I shrug it off and we go about our lives quietly,
living the lie like it’s a living room. I’m told other coffee shops aren’t like this.
But as long as the caffeine atones for each
awkward and sexually charged encounter,
I’ll keep coming back…

Just Another Bloody Mess:

Make poetry a bomb inside you
Spew guts and phrases
Be the unwanted geyser of words
Let the world rape you and stay
< / recoil; resist; repeat >

Fugazi Plays To My Insanity In Psych Ward Waiting Rooms

I’m not depressed…just disappointed.

I don’t mind wondering how I got here. But I do mind living this listless existence.

They told me I was holy and then watched MTV.

Guarded by white gilded matrons who took away my cell but left me the headphones.

I head bang to silent symphonies.

Quests for genius in the suburbs led me to corporate structured Apple stores with big lines and small products.

Here we sell souls to mask our mass perceptions.

Instead of learning to spell the words to hear them out, we build white knuckled deities into blood shot evenings.

Form giants into clouds and vice versa.

I left home and holstered my glazed goodbyes into an iPhone six.

Rioted down lanes (not across streets), and
swigged petty remorse in hollowed out poetry halls.

I imagined and glorified the look on lonely mother’s face when she would see her last-born die first.

Mortality is not an empty watch tied to bound wrists,
but a rosary stuck between still fingers.

Drank whiskey/coke and shook catholic nothingness from my bare hands.

Dulled my headache ten times twelve to be sure.

I’m depressed,
But I’m still here.