Its time to pack your dreams away
With your summer hand darling
cause you know
there about to come true dear
Cause we need us in life
You make me laugh hard
I can cheer you smile
Cause we need us in life
Happiness will be spread
Sadness can be shared
Cause we need us in life
A journey wont be that far
A life'll be more than alright
Cause we need us in life
So I gave you my heart
Will you give me your hand?
Are you ready to ride
On sweet and flying high
Falling deep in love
Holding sweet conventions
And being connected in situations
You take me mind off physicality
You make me succeed
I can't even believe
When you touch the right spots
You fucking take my breathe away
And when you touch lower I lose my sanity
But I gang the other half of me
Now I finally see
That It was true to me
True for me to see
Now I need you to believe in me
mentally and emotionally
Girl I hope you know when I give you me promise ring your gonna mines forever
Now hold it together
Cause we go each other so
hold my hand so we walk this world together
Forever out into the
You are bones,
skin wrapped around your
The creation of two,
the miracle of many.
What you are is more than
being told you're a human.
Your the song in your mind,
that won't leave.
The pounding in your soul,
wishing to be dead.
You're everything you see, touch,feel,and embrace.
You know that girl you helped on the train,
when she collapsed,
and you grabbed her before she fell.
You handed her, her cane and she smiled.
When ever she looses faith in humanity,
she thinks of you.
Your the car you bought,
from working at your summer job.
In the backseat of that beat up mustang,
was where you had your first kiss,
while watching toy story at the drive ins.
We are always told we are just human,
skeleton and bones,
trained to demand,
trained to learn,
trained to grow.
But, we are never told we are more.
We are stories, waiting to be shared.
You're part of everything you see,
touch, think, wonder, kiss, smell,love.
You are a creation bound by the universe.
So please don't give up,
cause that means,
so does everything else.
Mr. Publish Man
Mr. publish man, do you know who I am,
Mr. publish man, please tell me this ain't a scam.
I've talking a liking to what you're saying,
I just hope it's me you start paying.
Is this a dream or is it a fact,
I need to know, before I sign the contract.
Don't take a lot of time to think about,
please tell me that you have no doubt.
Mr. publish man, do you know who I am,
Mr. publish man, please tell me you really give a damn.
I hope that you become my friend,
and help my poems become a trend.
This reads like words on my paper,
don't make me part of your latest caper.
Mr. publish man, do you know who I am,
Mr. publish man, please don't email me with your spam.
Sell a lot of books, and go on a book singing world tour,
cause when it rains, it's followed by a pour.
Make a lot of money and sell lots of books,
I got plenty of rhymes and catchy hooks.
Have a lot of fun and hang with my fans,
I've already made lots of future plans.
I'm in for the money, I'm in for the show,
are you gonna help me make lots of dough.
Mr. publish man, do you know who I am,
Mr publish man, please don't make me a sacrificial lamb.
Salem, O Salem what were you about?
It all started in 1692
It was dark, it was cold, a bit of snow still on the ground
People arrested for witchcraft and some sentenced to death
19 people that year took their final breath
People were drowned or killed with fire
some people even hung with rope or wire
Witch trials didn't just happen in Salem
They happened all over the world
The first is believed to be a woman named Angele Babin for sex with the devil
And the last Bridget Cleary whose crime was unclear
I wonder how many of these people confessed in fear
We are monsters of our own making
we cause fear and we kill
Those that do no longer do it for protection
they do it for the thrill
But their is no thrill in taking a life
there was wasn't then and there isn't now
how could you take a life, that is my question. HOW
NELSON MANDELA, NUMBER 46664 IS DEAD; EULOGICALLY ELEGIZING DIRGE FOR SON OF AFRICA, HOPE OF HUMANITY AND PERMANENT FLAME OF DEMOCRACY
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; firstname.lastname@example.org)
Nelson Mandela, South Africa's anti-apartheid beacon, has died
One of the best-known political prisoners of his generation,
South Africa's first black president, He was 95.
His struggle against apartheid and racial segregation
Lead to the vision of South Africa as a rainbow nation
In which all folks were to be treated equally regardless of color
Speaking in 1990 on his release from Pollsmoor Prison
After 27 years behind bars, Mandela posited;
I have fought against white domination and
I have fought against black domination
I have cherished the idea of a democratic
And a free society in which all persons live together
In harmony and with equal opportunity
It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve
But if need be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die,
Fortunately, he was never called upon
To make such a sacrifice
And the anti-apartheid campaign did produce results
A ban on mixed marriages between whites and folks of color,
This was designed to enforce total racial segregation
Was lifted in 1985
Mandela was born on July 18, 1918
His father Gadla named him "Rolihlahla,"
Meaning “troublemaker” in the Xhosa language
Perhaps parental premonitions of his ability to foment change.
Madiba, as he is affectionately known
By many South Africans,
Was born to Gadla Henry Mphakanyiswa,
a chief, and his third wife Nosekeni Fanny
He grew up with two sisters
In the small rural village of Qunu
In South Africa's Eastern Cape Province.
Unlike other boys his age,
Madiba had the privilege of attending university
Where he studied law
He became a ringleader of student protest
And then moved to Johannesburg to escape an arranged marriage
It was there he became involved in politics.
In 1944 he joined the African National Congress (ANC),
Four years before the National Party,
Which institutionalized racial segregation, came to power
Racial segregation triggered mass protests
And civil disobedience campaigns,
In which Mandela played a central role
After the ANC was banned in 1961
Mandela founded its military wing Umkhonto we Sizwe
The Spear of the Nation
As its commander-in-chief,
He led underground guerrilla attacks
Against state institutions.
He secretly went abroad in 1962
To drum up financial support
And organize military training for ANC cadres
On his return, he was arrested
And sentenced to prison
Mandela served 17 years
On the notorious Roben Island, off Cape Town,
Mandela was elected as South Africa's first black president
On May 10, 1994
Cell number five, where he was incarcerated,
Is now a tourist attraction
From 1988 onwards, Mandela was slowly prepared
For his release from prison
Just three years earlier he had rejected a pardon
This was conditional
On the ANC renouncing violence
On 11 February 1990,
After nearly three decades in prison,
Mandela, the South African freedom beacon was released
He continued his struggle
For the abolition of racial segregation
In April 1994,
South Africa held its first free election.
On May 10,
Nelson Mandela became South Africa's first elected black president,
Mandela jointly won
The Nobel Peace Prize
With Frederik de Clerk in 1993
On taking office
Mandela focused on reconciliation
Between ethnic groups
And together with Archbishop Desmond Tutu,
He set up the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC)
To help the country
Come to terms
With the crimes committed under apartheid
After his retirement
From active politics in 1999,
Madiba dedicated himself
To social causes,
Helping children and HIV-AIDS patients,
His second son
Makgatho died of HIV-AIDS
In 2005 at the age of 54,
South Africans have fought
a noble struggle against the apartheid
But today they face a far greater threat
Mandela he posited in a reference to the HIV-AIDS pandemic,
The ANC slogan of 1994; A better life for all
Was fulfilled only
For a small portion of the black elite
Crime and lack of job prospects
Continue to threaten the Rainbow Nation,
On the international stage
Mandela acted as a mediator
In the Burundi civil war
And also joined criticism
Of the Iraq policy
Of the United States and Great Britain
He won the Nobel Prize in 1993
And played a decisive role
Into bringing the first FIFA World Cup to Africa,
His beloved great-granddaughter
Zenani Mandela died tragically
On the eve of the competition
And he withdrew from the public life
With the death of Nelson Mandela
The world loses a great freedom-struggleer
And heroic statesman
His native South Africa loses
At the very least a commanding presence
Even if the grandfather of nine grandchildren
Was scarcely seen in public in recent year
Media and politicians are vying
To outdo one another with their tributes
To Nelson Mandela, who himself disliked
The personality cult
That's one of the things
That made him unique,
Nelson Mandela was no saint,
Even though that is how the media
Are now portraying him
Every headline makes him appear more superhuman
And much of the admiration is close to idolatry
Some of the folks who met him
Say they felt a special Mandela karma
In his presence.
Madiba magic was invoked
Whenever South Africa needed a miracle,
Mandela himself was embarrassed
By the personality cult
Only reluctantly did he agree to have streets
Schools and institutes named after him
To allow bronze statues and Mandela museums
To be built
A trend that will continue to grow.
He repeatedly pointed
To the collective achievements
Of the resistance movement
To figures who preceded him
In the struggle against injustice
And to fellow campaigners
Such as Mahatma Gandhi, Albert Luthuli
Or his friend and companion in arms
Oliver Tambo who today stands in Mandela's shadow,
Tambo helped create the Mandela legend
Which conquered the world
A tale in which every upright man
And woman could see him
Or herself reflected,
When Prisoner Number 46664 was released
After 27 years behind bars
He had become a brand
A worldwide idol
The target of projected hopes
And wishes that no human being
Could fulfill alone,
Who would dare scratch?
The shining surface of such a man
List his youthful misdemeanors
His illegitimate children
Who would mention his weakness for women?
And female journalists
With whom he flirted
In a politically incorrect way
When already a respected elder statesman?
Who would speak out critically?
Against the attacks
He planned when he headed the ANC
Armed wing Umkhonto we Sizwe
And who would criticize the way
He would often explode in anger
Or dismiss any opinions other than his own?
His record as head of government
Is also not above reproach
Those years were marked by pragmatism
And political reticence
Overdue decisions were not taken
Day to day matters were left to others
When choosing his political friends
His judgment was not always perfect
A Mandela grandchild is named
After Colonel Muammar Gaddaffi
Seen from today's perspective
Not everything fits
The generally accepted
Picture of visionary and genius,
But Mandela can be excused
Because despite everything
He achieved more than ordinary human beings
His long period of imprisonment
Played a significant role here
It did not break him, it formed him
Had been a university of life for Mandela once posited
He learned discipline there
In dialogue with his guards
He learnt humility, patience and tolerance
His youthful anger dissolved
He mellowed and acquired
The wisdom of age
When he was at last released
Mandela was no longer
Burning with rage,
He was now a humanized revolutionary
Mandela wanted reconciliation
At almost any price
His own transformation
Was his greatest strength
The ability to break free
From ideological utopia
And to be able to see the greater whole
That those who think differently
Are not necessarily enemies
The ability to listen,
To spread the message of reconciliation
To the point of betraying what he believed in,
Only in this way could he
Serve as a role model
To both black and white humanity
, communists and entrepreneurs,
Catholics and Muslims.
He became a visional missionary,
An ecclesiast of brotherly love
Wherever he was, each humanity was equal
He had respect for musicians and presidents
Monarchs and cleaning ladies
He remembered names
And would ask about relatives
He gave each humanity his full attention
With a smile, a joke, a well aimed remark,
He won over every audience
His aura enveloped each humanity,
Even his political enemies,
That did not qualify him
For the status of demi-god
But he was idolized and rightly so
He must be named in the same breath
As Mahatma Gandhi, the Dalai Lama
Or Martin Luther King
Mandela wrote a chapter of world history
Even Barack Obama posited
He would not have become
President of the United States
Without Mandela as a role model,
And so it is not so important
That Mandela is now portrayed
Larger than life
The fact that not everything
He did in politics succeeded is a minor matter
His achievement is to have lived
A life credibly characterized
By humanism, tolerance and non-violence,
When Mandela was released
From prison in 1990,
The old world order of the Cold War era
Mandela stood at the crossroads and set off in the right direction
How easily he could have played with fire, sought revenge,
Or simply failed; He could have withdrawn from public life or,
Like other companions in arms, earned millions,
Two marriages failed because of the political circumstances
His sons died tragically long before him
It was only when he was 80 and met his third wife,
That he again found warmth,
Partnership and private happiness,
Setbacks did not leave him bitter
Because he regarded his own life
As being less important
Than the cause he believed in
He served the community humbly,
With a sense of responsibility
Of duty and willingness to make sacrifices
Qualities that are today only rarely encountered,
How small and pathetic his successors now seem
Their battles for power will probably now be fought
Even more unscrupulously than in the past
How embarrassing are his own relatives
Who argued over his legacy at his hospital bed
Mandela was no saint
But a man with strengths and weaknesses,
Shaped by his environment
It will be hard to find a greater person
Just a little bit more Mandela every day
Would achieve a great deal
Not only in Africa
But in the bestridden geographies
Epochs and diversities of man,
In my post dirge I will ever echo words of Mandella
He shone on the crepuscular darkness of the Swedish
Academy, where cometh the Nobel glory;
Development and peace are indivisible
Without peace and international security
Nations cannot focus
On the upliftment
Of the most underprivileged of their citizens.
If you won't be here for me in life
Don't come around when I'm dead
You could have saved me
From myself and my sins
Could have protected me from this world I live in
But instead you're off living it up
While I lie here drowning in my cup
Filled with god knows what
But I don't care
Cause it's numbing my brain
Easing my pain
That you've so carelessly caused
And now you say you wish you could pause
Back to the time
When I was alive and well
Little did you know, I was already in my own hell
That you could have saved me from
If you had just cared
Just a bit for me
But now I lie here cold and blue
You're crying over my lifeless shell
Because you didn't believe me when I said
I was in my own personal hell
You let me die
You know you did
And now this guilt has a hold of you
And you're in your own personal hell too
My addiction is spelled out in iron:
Words have been stomped into my fate by elegantly gargantuan feet of Greek goddesses and
in the metal lies every pretentious metaphor and ink-soul-splatter that will define the rest of my existence.
There is no going back
The poetry is here to stay.
the changes the letters have wrought are now normal.
I have become used to looking in the mirror and seeing none of my features for the quotes clumped across my forehead
knotted around the contours of my cheekbones.
My morning coffee will never again just be caffeine and warmth,
but a complex metaphor for love-("being burnt by what you also cannot live without").
Now, I only know what my soul looks like
after it has been typed into pretentious metaphors
and ever since that shivering Thursday afternoon I first picked up a pen-
I look at the whiteboard and cannot absorb the continuing inadequacies of various white men because the stanzas are scattered too thickly across my vision.
But I have adjusted.
I accept that every chemical reaction my brain sets off will have words, a story, line breaks, and lonely Friday nights spent editing my soul into prettier pieces
Editing poems and homework will forever struggle against each other on my priority list
And there is simply no denying the fact that behind everything is words and in front and after there are letters and when glancing sideways and upside down you will find quotes and little sayings and poems,
but it is all perfectly fine.
I will breath in each linguistically-caused tragedy with grace and gentleness
because words are the only way I feel at home in this madly spinning world.
I have never felt cozier snuggled with any human or bed than when I am nestled in the dips and dots and curves of language.
"So," you ask, "what seems to be the downside?"
well, dear reader;
if we are being honest poems aren't real therapists.
and they lend themselves well to madness and isolation
But I cannot bring myself to care...
If words were alcohol I would be that horrible mother they whisper about at the PTA meetings who comes home after work and chugs biccardi on the couch, ignoring her children as she runs around the house screaming and throwing things descending into a state of such lovely and intoxicating madness that she cannot resist another page, another pen, another shot.
If words were meth instead of meth sores I have little holes all over my organs where I have drilled down as deeply as possible, hunting for even the smallest hint of feeling just so I can lovingly string letters together like pearls and polish them until they shine with the brilliant lights of tragedy and love and hate and sadness and nostalgia and anger and lust and frustration-
all of these chemicals we fuel our pens with
because numbness is not an option.
I engage in this substance abuse because I am bloated with so much longing, filled with a desperate ache for all the beautiful things I have not yet experienced,
for those brightly lit 2ams and screaming laughter and being drunk and high and kissing and yelling and the because in this moment we are young and alive and breathing and crossing lines and who gives a shit about anything else?
I write in half-crazed scribbles, wondering,
"Maybe writing about friends and laughter at 1 in the morning as I am surrounded by only netflix and tumblr will make me feel better?"
I am always wrong.
It only makes it worse.
My words are glorious escape and icy blades of stark reality.
Clarity and obfuscation.
Pancreas-cracking pain and model-tall joy.
So if words cause me to ache, beat the world into pieces, sob, and ignore my responsibilities,
why am I so goddamn in love with them?
Because my words are mad
but people are too-
so one cannot look down their poorly-described noses at poems and smugly snort that it "doesn't make any sense"
as if they have brilliantly solved and debunked an art form.
They would be quite wrong.
The words are just a reaction and reflection of the world their letters were conceived in-
and so this fevered world and the expression of its insanity are inextricably linked.
(at least for poets).
the difference between poems and people is that humans are
in addition to the insanity,
horribly unreliable and capricious creatures.
They never stay.
They never stay
But metaphors will always be there to cuddle me in their warm arms on lonely weekend nights
Why writing? you ask?
Because when everyone is gone, annoyed, asleep, or dead and the whole earth has been blown apart;
every city destroyed and great moment reduced to nothingness,
I can still trace poems in the ashes.
You left you imprint on me, by bruising me.
With your fists you wailed on me
turning me cold
Sucker punched my chest cavity to snatch the wind from me
Blackened my eyes, to cause me to see your perception of me...
Caused my lips to bleed, that I might forever remember the way your words could
Your mouth is a military weapon, and with your words you sniped my hope, dreams and integrity
Pinned my hands behind my soul and murdered my young woman hood, execution style.
You left your imprint on me, by bruising.
Leaving eternal, never healing bruises on my metaphysical
These both literal and metaphorical bruises were your love letters to me
The only intimacy I ever knew with you
The only time I desired to call out daddy
Solely in plea for you to release your grip on me
End your constant jabs at my self esteem
causing me to buckle and reach for the emptiness in the atmosphere without any faint hope that you would cease
These never healing scars I trace and follow along the lines of my spirit have all but faded
As I lie, awakened by cold sweats and the realization that I am beyond jaded,
I curse the thought of you
Because you left an imprint on me, by bruising me
Bruises that no amount of frozen steak or peas can relieve
You bruised the very fabric of my being
Causing me to reach out in the night, trying to grasp my shattered dreams of what you could be,
But instead, you left your imprint on me.
And because of it I shutter, quake and quiver at the mention of your name.
Because you bruised me.