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Brycical Jun 2014
I believe my parents think they're speaking for the rest of society when they tell me that
being a poet,
to live by writing
isn't financially sound.
They tell me I could not make a living doing that,
as if I am not already making a living,
as if money is needed to pump blood through my veins,
admire a cloudy cream orange sunset atop a hill
or taste the lovely chai & chocolate covered lips of an air nymph.

They tell me that if I don't get another job,
I will have no money, that I will be broke,

as if there's something to fix.

My parents, who speak for the rest of society tell me
I will be dirt poor should I not find a job and make an honest wage.

Luckily I love being with Momma Nature
in the dirt;
being grounded--
planting seeds,
occasionally smoking tree,
just seeing the transparent process of nature
as opposed to the hidden secrets we're not allowed to see
in our food thanks to the lobbyists & their poison tongues.
If that isn't enough, I fail to see what's more honest than poetry..............................

I'm told money makes the world go round,
though I fail to see how a million or even a billion paper notes and coins can push this big 'ol blue planet around the sun.

I'm told without money, society will collapse,
but I suppose it was bound to happen when you build something with such a flimsy paper thin structure.
I also remember we humans seemed to do alright until the invention of currency.

I'm told by my parents who speak for society that without money,
I am nothing, a nobody.

And well, I don't see how that can be true,
cause I'm getting to know each and everyone one of you as you are me,
and I think all my friends here and around the world would agree
that they at least know me, which means I ain't nobody.

My parents and TV tell me that without money my self worth should be zilch,
but most days I wake up feeling like a million hugs
radiating through me, around me, with me
as I see the difference I am making in the eyes of some of you today
and those I have already spoken to.

Without money, I live free,
Bill Hicks once said, "If you think you're free, try going somewhere without any ******* money."
  Jun 2014 Brycical
Fah
The intention of deeds need no intention at all. The drive, the force that powers the sun is the same force that powers the very actions that we take.
In all it's glory it asks for no reward, other than the privilege to be.
deeds
  Jun 2014 Brycical
mads
I lay on my back, absorbing the pressures
Of the rocks beneath me, I breathe.
Eyelids resting on now blind eyes, I feel.
I stretch out as high as possible and hold it...
Allowing each fingertip to tingle, arms fall.
A rush of blood and my eyes snap open,
I see colours never known to man,
Unpaintable by all extremes.
Now, I sit cross-legged
Rocking as the wind sways.
The small clearing expands, opening up,
I see more now than two 1800's explorers
Ever did as they searched the world for forgiveness.
Looking up, it has grown dark
A deep blue, a deep grey.
It proceeds to rain, closing my eyes,
I open my mouth as if to speak...
The taste of wilderness rushes in.
Heavier, precipitation grows,
Heavier and birds begin to scream,
Landing at my sides, eyelids open...
I remain still. Screaming songs so intense,
The birds, they start to dance.
A pair with the tango,
Three with the jive,
I smile... I'm alive.
Beckoning me to join...
We danced all night.
The story behind this is no more complicated than I wrote it during an English exam, nevertheless... I'm failing English and my HSC.
Brycical Jun 2014
One moment,
I'm held in a sensuous tango embrace,
our lips a tongue's width apart.
Passional, honey lavender breath
melts me, caressing my cheeks,
licking my ear
When suddenly I'm smacked on the ***.

God is a terribly cheeking dancer partner,
likes to keep me on my toes.
inspired by Rabia.
Brycical Jun 2014
She once was a funky unicorn--
we both midnight animals,
occasionally I'm a sufi moon baboon!

We wear cloud wind trousers--
surfing dusk persimmon & rose air,
laughing ecstatic dances as we rest.

Nighttime tricksters we are,
southern denim night blue ***** she sings,
peppermint thieves shadow-monkey sways in breeze...

Our gracious words of thankful creativity
dance in the wind,
lollygagging off into the sunset....
For Fah.

Thank you for dancing with me.
Brycical Jun 2014
Brisk--
a slight whisp of northern wind
rustles rainbow dewdrop grass,
around me, blooming trees
breathing deeply inward,
their fresh foliage is an assortment
of all green hues, a relief
from the freezing, chill drab grays of winter...

Dandelions splotch [arts of the grass--
nature's lazy Jackson Pollack homage.

The sun seems brighter,
the lighting a stereotypical 1950's Leave It to ******-esq TV show.

Here I sit,
wearing all black under a tree;
the only thing colorful about me is the gold writing
on this Pilot jet black pen dribbling these words
in gooey black ink.

I woke feeling uneasy & forlorn,
like rising from a haunted bed.
Not sure why...

Even the dogs in this park trot
with brighter velocity.
A small grey/brown Scottie yipps at me,
as if letting everyone know I'm an anomaly
on this otherwise perfect day.

Part of me wants to scream
at all the people in their colorful neon running garb
or shimmering salvation Sunday cloth,
but another part just wants to jam this pen
through my ******, straight into my heart
& let the ink & my crimson, iron-rich blood seep
into the ground,
because those are the closest feelings
I've found to express something there are no words for.

Sounds like it might be one of those angsty
cloudy type days.
Brycical Jun 2014
The gray sky opens,
pumpkin yellow & strained peach hues faintly illuminate the air,
trumpeting forth the hazy, drained sun.

I know how the sun feels.

A flock of seagulls yip
around this park--
a few half-asleep morning people **** on their ciggys
in drab dark clothes
as their bubbly & bright eyed four legged companions trot around.

Not sure what I'm  looking for this morning,
or what words can best describe the tattered tapestry
of what's inside me right now.

I just came out for some serenity.
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