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 Aug 2014 brokenperfection
pat
tried my best
to write a poem
10 words or less
I was so close
 Aug 2014 brokenperfection
pat
many thoughts of grey glooms and foggy mists
not ominous. It's thick and comforting
alive and awake
for us to take advantage of
I feel one with the mist
I feel proud of its accomplishments
Its energy is floating all around me
a quiet morning, but full of energy
it's sending me things
teaching me how to be
it's clarity fused with positivity
thoughts interrupted by a golden finch
I hope you see yourself in the things that I do,
I hope you see my eyes staring back at you.

Don't think for a moment that I didn't put you there,
Don't think for a moment that I don't care.

Because I do.
I do.
I do.
I do.
Words you never said to me, words she always said to you.

I hope one day you hear my name,
And watch my art scream my pain.
I hope you see my story told,
Finally free, your words getting old.

I have written you down, I have moved you through my feet,
I have sung you out loud, and I have saved you a seat.

So please, come and watch my display,
My performance of grief, I am the author of this play.
This dance, this art that holds your name,
I hope that you see you too, because I do the same.
I am still getting a hang of this. Hang with me.
1991

I realized
We were both born
in rotting soil,
plastic toys fed
by Arabia's oil.
Eyes closed,
ears behest
to broadcasts, we,
could NOT protest.

That was the beginning
of our mass destruction,
but cribs offsides,
we slept soundly,
thanking our stars,
proud to be Americans.

10 years dormant,
the lyrics laid,
enough to stick,
but their irony to fade.
Until grade school,
recess goaded,
as burning buildings
on our side exploded.
The imminent threat preloaded,
in airports we shed shoes,
forever coded.

The broadcast — our center
was the theorem
that planes, oil, and Arabs
risked everyone's freedom.
But when we raised hands,
to ask why, teachers said
hail red, blue,
and especially white.
We forgot our roots,
because the Ellis Island trip
was obviously cancelled.

So we read headlines,
instead of Orwell,
the day 911
called for a police state.
Trusted the government
and ****** Muslims,
the day turbans
meant hijacking planes.
Pledged allegiance
disguised as freedom,
the day war
was declared
on Saddam Insane.

Our flag revealed
a sham feeding flames,
angst-ridden
teenagers
we became.
With raised middle fingers,
instead of hands,
to Green Day lyrics,
**** Amuricans.

Because only idiots
press a red button twice,
when mass destruction is the price.
And only villains
make children orphans,
while victims drown
in New Orleans.
And only gluttons
eat caviar with silver spoons,
tainting forever
a nation's youth.

Entrenched in dunes,
we boarded blind,
to debt,
death, and
jaded minds.
Blamed by perpetrators
in dollars and change,
for a guerrilla war
fought in vain!
Voted Obama,
with Osama slain,
and soldiers withdrawn,
we hoped for change.
PLEASE, we cried,
JUST STOP!
We are CHAINED —
to a bulldozer
that has NO BRAKES!



So the broadcast said recently:
We are losing control
of the Middle East. And
Al-Qaeda is far from weak —
ISIS: THE PHOENIX OF HUMAN GREED,
We just turned off our TV's
and looked up,
the kids who gave up,
thanked Musk — our atlas,
not yet shrugged,
whose vessels of stars
will rocket toward Mars,
from this godforsaken
civilization
built on hate.

And when you tell me, ***,
"We were both born in 1991,"
I can only sigh,
and breath sympathy,
for our dark history.
Thank you Justin for inspiring this poem. I am performing it next Tuesday at Da Poetry Lounge in LA so any feedback is appreciated :)
To every woman I've ever loved:
the pleasure has been mine,
to see you at your most beautiful;
like when I made you cry.

Because loving me wasn't enough
to convince me otherwise,
that your commitment wasn't a bluff;
so I had to scar you inside.
Am I ill?
all the things that I've red at night
in the luminous orange of sodium light
just make me feel like a yellow-belly
for being so ******* green with envy
of all the words that blue my mind
written with those lovely indigo eyes
that burn with a fierce violet flame...

...Somewhat like the sun peeking out of the rain.
I wish that my poems
would write themselves
into existence
sleep rushes by in a way that
resembles a high-balling freight train

everything is comparably just as lost
as the nothing that has been gleaned,
the surroundings pressing into unseen eyes
are murals painted from intricate dreams

the ember-cherries sputter and flit
while smoldering into skin without pain
There is nothing worse
than meeting a musician.

Just go be creative somewhere and
please leave me here to just be.

Quietly.
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