danica-strike-v
Took poetry classes at a young age. Let them blend and flesh out through school years of Junior and High school. Poetry comes and goes for me. / / It comes when I am so emotionally exhausted or less mentally challenged. / / Currently in college, but little classroom practice of poetry since 12th grade. / / I can read poetry and disect it to my hearts content, which is my challenge.
I smile. I laugh. I frown. I cry.
I do all of these and more.
Some of you can see that and beyond the eye,
An area I still inhale and explore.
Several years ago, I told everyone I had no idea:
Who I am, what I am capable of....
If I follow or not the stereotypical criteria,
Or when I'll fully understand that emotion called love.
To this day, I still have no inkling of it.
I look to those beside, in front, and behind,
And only gain information in the smallest bit by bit,
My eyes water, my smile falls, my heart and lungs grind.
Who am I?
A young African-American woman?
What else do you see in my physical eye?
Asain-American? Caucasian?
Indeed I am all of these and more.
This genetic make-up is my own.
But you probably don't see my pleas:
Will I still not know, even when time is grown?
How much time do I have?
Self-actualization seems so far,
Yet so close now that my line is almost in half.
Is my mentality up to par?
Perhaps all that people know most is my mask,
I'm sure they have all seen, smelt, and touched
That casket that makes breathing such a complex task.
Indeed, it is so easy to gain and manipulate trust,
But don't think i have toyed with it yet,
Or even ever, because I crave that social acceptance.
What human doesn't feel that crave at least once to whet?
Patience. Patience. Patience.
Do I have that for you?
Do I have that for me?
Hah, niether. I have no patience for those two;
But that area is where my mask has wealth.
Forgive me for this length,
And the tears on this middle binding.
I say some know me, lies, you know less than an eighth,
And I just love that caring look in your eyes when we're bonding.
I thought I knew.
I thought, I was sure, I believed it was gone...
I am back with no answers not even a few,
But I can ask questions until dawn.
What more can I say to you?
There really is no reason to frown.
I am the poet, I am the rebel,
I am the student and the slacker,
I am the depressed girl who fell.
I am the cutter, I am the life-taker,
I am the raver and the intellectual,
I am the middle child of three.
I am the dreamer, I am the casual,
I am the fight and the one who flees,
I am all of these and more.
And yet, i still don't know who or what I am.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 8:06 PM UTC
Power.
No one can control it.
Not you, not me,
Not the Rich ***** on the side,
Or the *** down the street.
Power is a force you can't refuse.
Power is a sense of pride that you have in yourself.
Power is God.
And you don't have it.
Not you, not me,
Not the Rich ***** on the side
Or the *** down the street.
Your power dwindles,
As the man above you,
And the man above him,
And the woman ontop of him--
Absorbs it all so you're left vulnerable.
There is no time limit to how far it travels,
Just that you can never get it back,
Not you, not me,
Not the Rich ***** on the side,
Or the *** on the street.
He'll dangle it in your face.
Watching you jump,
Fall,
And crash,
Desperate to try anything to get it back.
And as his soap opera you have to be.
Why?
Because he has the power.
Not you, not me,
Not the rich ***** down on the side,
Or the *** down the street
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 7:27 PM UTC