she's a mess.
a repugnant creature who doesn't know how to live a life, merely surviving. nods to everything she's told to do, a wretched sheep following herds of lost souls. how does one never thinks for herself?
he's a mess.
a human with no humanity, lost his every sense to feel. delusional wight blinded by power and wealth, his money-driven grandiose reveries full of portentous capitalism. big-mouthed, greedy mortal who **** after status quo, speaks in vanity but no truth ever comes out.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Shh baby girl, it'll be okay
On the cold wooden floor she lies,
Her small body trembling with fear,
Three nights before Christmas.
Her eyes clenched in terror,
As a rough hand moves down her body.
Her silent sobs cannot be heard.
With her mother in the next room,
A 4 year old girl's innocence is taken,
Just in time for Christmas.
Shh baby girl, it'll be okay
A 6 year old girl alone with a friend,
Locked in an old dark shed.
Unfamiliar touches cross her body again.
A friend whose touch in no longer kind,
One little girl who is trapped inside her mind.
Another set of sobs that are forever silenced.
A little girl who was discarded,
A broken toy.
This little girl was nothing but used.
Shh baby girl, it'll be okay
A young teen speaks the truth,
She sits in a chair
Before judgmental eyes.
She speaks of a man
From many years ago,
And of the friend she used to know.
The eyes just narrow tightly and scold,
It's the little girl's fault,
She should have yelled out.
These eyes don't care that the man was armed.
These eyes don't care that the girl was strong.
These eyes defend their son,
The one who is in jail for molesting his sister,
But as his cousin, I don't count.
These eyes defend their daughter,
The one who was violated herself.
They said I was overreacting,
It is I who was the bad judge of character.
To this day, there is a little girl,
Trapped and trembling,
Scarred and scared.
Trapped forever inside her adult body.
Shh baby girl, it'll be okay
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
thrown into new understandings
given earth beneath my feet
taking what love I encounter
falling harder
never faster
I grow from unbridled, invasive flowers
seeking uncontrollable laughter
escaping the soulless sorrow
I am wild, free
but still broken
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
I am not stupid
Little do some people know
Just because I act
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
Thoughts at night are centered around you and how I wish you adored me in the same way I adore you.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
Twirling on moonlit streets
where their shadows entwine
simple as falling water,
in a world without time.
The scent of lilacs arise
a true epitome of spring left
on their fragile fingertips.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
you ask me what it's like to be black
and i'll tell you it's a warm soulful fulfilling feeling
like a pair of new Chucks on the hot pavement jumping scotch on a busy summer day
eating cool iced pops and not ever being afraid
and smelling the warm carmel cake cooling on the stove
and the togetherness on a Sunday evening in grandmama's home
but you ask me what it's like to be black
in america
and i'll fall silent of conversation
because as you see history repeats itself
i don't understand why there is still need for explanation
in deep adversaries and hateful unappreciation
here we stand to be questioned by an authoritative negation
and ignorant folk,
why do you ask me such things?
why are you people mad?
why is it about race?
and i'll ask you, why does the caged bird sing?
is he not entitled to his song or his wings?
as green as the earth and as blue as the sky
i will only explain to an ear willing to listen
to a being with a sound heart and a firm mind
because as God as my witness we were created as equal
and for that given right we must die?
i will sit back and in turn ask you why;
i bet you couldn't say
and maybe we will all learn the answer some day
so join me in prayer will you?
join me as i pray:
*to the children of Chicago
who can't go out to play
to the sons and fathers of
Missouri and Florida and New York
who will never again see the light of day
to the mother's pain that may fade
but won't ever go away
to the hateful people and their hateful words and their hateful ways
God won't You heal their pain?*
they're so hard on us, Lord
now we're hard on ourselves
and on our knees we have fallen
needing guidance and help
because it isn't about being privilged
or living for the light we're consumed in
being black in america is no longer about being accepted as black
it's about being accepted as human.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Blue,
This is the color of your eyes.
Hope,
This is what I see within them.
Black,
This is the horrible bit of hatred and sadness in the center of them.
White,
This is the color I see them swimming in.
Red,
This is the color that comes in tendrils beneath the pools of white, a sign of restlessness.
Love,
This is what I want to see in your eyes, and yet it is the only quality that I cannot find within them.
Perhaps I am a fool.
I hope I am a fool.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
we all do it at some point
our skies darken
our face fall
our sunsets end
we become adults
our parents become equals
our stress levels rise
our blues become grays
we lose what we once had
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
1. Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly; who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC