I've seen blood dripping from the willows.
Seen it rolling in drops down the cheek
of a young girl, not long in her adolescence.
The confusion was the worst part. She
didn't know why she was dying. Alone.
The ****** grass beneath a lost friend
But the white man knew. As he pulled up. his trousers, a savage grin on his face
as he rubbed her agony over and over...
She lays. Fragile. A heart now gone. A
beautiful life now stolen.
The sun sets as the man walks off.
He is thinking about his wife and kids.
His other thought is how he put just
another slave where she belonged.
A butterfly glides through the willows today.
It floats and lands on the outstretched
hand of a dead girl.
It looks towards her face. Another river
running red. Another of God's
master works removed from life's rhythm.
What is a racist?
Wow, you are so wrong on so many levels.
This is just another hater account. Your
words drip with nothing but hate, and not
even the pure hate which rots and
corrupts. You speech slander which so
many have already turned into a
monotonous cliché, and the strength is
Like the ticking of a broken clock, it needs
to be thrown away... the hands of the past
revitalised and used to smoulder love and
passion to change the worlld for the better.
Not for anything which has already come
before so many times like a domino effect.
Your mind seethes... That is a strength I
could use, but not in the robotic symphony
you so currently speak in mindless refrain
over and over like a badly written chorus.
So I ask you this. Is hatred what you really
seek? When what you hate is a length of 1
millimeter deep, and what really shows
through is the heart behind that darkness...
But is it the darkness you really hate? Or
do you fear the strength of that dark skin.
Do you fear that the new day, the past
slave becomes the future master? It seems
to me what you really fear and hate is not
the colour of a black person's skin.
But really the cage the white man fell into
when he enslaved them in the first place.
Not often do I boast about my own writing... but this one is good. Perceive the darkness...
I long to hold a can of worms.
Corruption in my hands.
A seething rain of gnashing teeth
to filter through the lands.
Or moths to claim the skies and clouds,
in darkness they shall reign.
And silence shall endear the earth,
the fields and barren plains.
I long to view a memory
of blood, and heightened screams.
A wail of such regretfulness,
it lingers in your dreams.
As the days grew cold and quickly
life begins to freeze.
I long to be the life-force that
resembles your disease.
I long to be a single tree,
the last among the ruin.
Or maybe just a frozen rose,
the last on earth to bloom.
How do I find the pathway to origin?
I have searched all the pasts of the past,
and held onto the past longer than necessity.
I have seen an awakening turn into a darkening
of clouds, as breeze sharpens with each gust
and this brain yields to... what?
In the distance I see a reflection. It is
emerging to me, and waves into a
silhouette of shapes and confusion. Who is this? Is it bravery I see? Or just imagination.
Do you even hear me?
Do you even listen to a fool such as me?
What God worth following would answer
the wretched of the world. Me, and me, and... I. And I alone have abandoned the
God within myself..
I had a mercenary as a muse. I think she
left and seduced a better writer.
Should you debase, the structure in place,
which seemingly lives here without a trace?
Or see with due cause, the untimely flaws
which poets detect and mold without pause?
What are we to do? I have a wide view
of what should be done in poetic tune.
But the fools of today would take that away,
and tell us rhyme has long since had it's day.
Just imagine a while, each scribe has a style.
Is it right for them to blindly defile
a brave institution, which came to fruition
long before they even held an ambition
to fight against rhyme. To fight against time.
Oh... to see their mad schemes is surely a crime.
So I ask of my muse, 'What way would you choose?'
But she turns away, for fear she should lose.
It sits, plain to see, conveying to me,
a message that writing is drowning... silently.
If you relax your pen, step backward and then
you'll see the rhythm the world is, and when
you finally see, the things I can see...
maybe the world will truly be free.
The world is a **** travesty!
(Pencil pusher in a suit seeks a talented
personality. Has many references to
personal opinions. Will **** d*ck for
My question is this. Are there any voices
left at all? Any fingers with which to
Are all the poet's really dead and extinct?
And only hopeless left, extinguishing the fire?
(Young teen seeks ways to vent rage.
Picks up a pen, writes about false suicide attempt. Cuts self for release. Will remove shirt for attention)
What happened to the singers of the past?
Did they all get lost in the crowd of rejects?
Is a spot on a page really considered art?
Makes me confused and very perplexed.
(Old man seeks renewal of old hobbies. Picks up a pen and writes. Shows people,
and is accused of radicalism. Will read
basic works just for love)
Am I wrong in my view of this world?
Has my heart truly died to all life?
Is it wrong to see flaws in existence?
Is it right to think difference has died?
(Young boy seeks love. Will allow self to be groomed and abused for attention).
Injustice. Ridiculousness. Absurdity.
It is wrong to be radical? To be free?
Will I let you chain my uncontrolled soul?
Nah. Never. I like being me.
I have seen my share of the world and its kicks,
and I tell you my friend... it is not a pretty sight.
Racism is put on the back burner now.
No more black against white.
For the world has resorted to grey and death.
They are not people. They are just... normal.
While the romantics. The real rebels,
and the sympathetic of life are abnormal.
I want to read a really great scope of life.
A philosophy of hope on art and song.
And although there are many who are useless,
I pray they raise their voice and sing along.
So join me in this final, last embrace.
The truth of life that many have ignored.
This young guy just seeks a world of artists.
A place where sight and sounds can be adored.
And then... contented guilt.
Oh to feel the pulsating vibrations once
again. The chaos of her fruit. The lust
of her delight.
If only... nothing.
Her ripples led to destruction. Well, a fertile ending of all things good.
The cry in the night.
The tears of a girl.
The loneliness of desire.
For each wave of madness ended some
other pleasure. A glee long since regretted.
We called him Josh.