Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
An anger boils inside them,
like a bursting lava,
making sounds of hidden pain,
and mixed emotions,
causing them to never smile
and technically,
who smiles when they are torn apart,
Just mannequins, though humans never cease to cry,
It makes my mind go vivid,
as I hear a thousand gunshots,
with these slingers so committed,
aiming guns at all these children,
from the slums, living in poverty.
No food to eat, and mothers, fathers,
all addicted, consciousness intoxicated
Alcoholics, junkies, hookers,
scrap collectors, non-supporters,
half of them are living with no,
life support, they can't afford,
to live without their souls,
seems like they need the Lord,
I see their bruises;
dead like mannequins...
living life so clueless,
but constantly they're used.
I see their wounds, they're bleeding, lying there in pain. They seem so numb, as though decaying...
And wounded by the hand of their oppressor, but they suffer,
while their wounds all look like bulletholes,
If only we could hear their cries, as though they were alive, if only mannequins were breathing, living,
don't you think we'll see, see the many bruises given by this life and all she gives, despite their wounds appearing hollow,
like they're bullet holes,
of sorrow,
they hide it with graffiti.
Every time a new tomorrow...
Moved around like mannequins and clothed by another,
meant to stay in one position; bite their tongues so they won't speak. They'll never know their cries or bruises,
their painful, deep emotions,
but the world will never know why_
mannequins don't choose to cry.
oil
The oil came deep, 
from underneath.
the earth could bleed,
her blood was black.
But men knew not_
they pierced her skin.
It all seemed fair,
but deep within.
She cried aloud,
and gasped for air.
They took her oil,
and left her there…
a lifeless, wounded, fragile heart.
Who greedy men had ripped apart.
They closed her wound with her own soil,
but she kept still, and acted proud.
While greedy men took all she had,
without her blood, her soul would rot.
She'd never get her heartbeat back.
How sad she felt…
when her own seed,
had caused her soul to suffocate.
She could not breathe
If she could not bleed.
She stayed so long, so celibate.
They were not pleased,
with gold, nor land…
They needed more,
they needed more;
went within their mother's core.
They took her oil and had it sold.
We never regret being insubordinate,
but she has room for those torn apart,
despite their hearts so full of hate.
Their tears are the hurts of the heart.




They cry not knowing,
she is watching, listening,
concerned of their well-being,
while they're busy scheming;




Her seeds are all planted,
but haven't all blossomed.
Her streets all connected
but paths are divided...




Though there's lights that always burn,
there's a thousand souls who mourn.




But she cries for those who hurt her,
and loved them like a mother.




Still we lacked to love her fully,
with three hearts like an octopus;
once she were three times a lady.
We love her enough, the haven for us,





Though infested by ***** rats,
and all seem like, a big mistake there's,
so much hope inside  Flats...


Despite our flaws of being torn apart,
We never regret being insubordinate.
born in chains I could not see,
heart was pure and mind still free,
but as the time had passed me by,
I noticed love and peace say bye...

I read; without a shadow of a doubt,
I wrote; beyond a shadow of a doubt.


Life was cruel and life was cold,
Words were calm and words were bold.


I fell in love with constant pain,
that left my heart and soul in vain.


I became humbled each time I read,
and immortal each time I wrote,
I became modest in times of growth,
and I shall not die although being dead.


For my words would live forever,
and my stories they'll endeavor.
These young folk who'll come along,
who found a place where they belong.


In times of hate and sorrow, guilt...
my poetry would be their guide,
that's why I love this poetry inside,
coming out this heart and soul rebuilt.


I wrote poetry to save those mourning,
so they'd fine love in life each morning.
The title is poetry spelled backwards.
She's in love with an alcoholic,
I find it a little scary,
that people can go and gossip,
not knowing what she is feeling.
Abuse that she has to face,
his anger she have to taste.
Her life is a metaphor,
but to him, she remains a "*****."
I wish I could tell you more,
when her man is a carnivore!
who re-arranges her face
then people pretend they're blind.
He loves it when she is crying--
she hates it when he's in commit,
her love doesn't have a limit;
evil will keep on winning--
the humble won't do a thing.
I find this a bit ironic,
how someone can be romantic
but ends up hallucinating--
with hate and a bottle ***.
To him, he's just having fun.
But he is the guilty one,
who never appreciates
the little that she might do.
When the only mistake she made,
was loving an alcoholic.

--------------------------------
Oh how they made us love these chains,
we wear them everyday.
Our boys are cuffed and pulled away.
We'll never see a change.
Whether wearing them around our necks,
or close the gate at night.
We put them on our pitbulls just so
we can see them fight.
The story's just beginning,
these young boys don't know a thing...
They'll never know the days our,
ancestors were chained into a string,
then they were thrown in the sea.
Until they pulled each other down.
Oh how they fought against the ocean,
how they swallowed only water,
till the lot of them would drown.
And their souls arose to heaven,
staring down at them in chains.
That's the story of our people,
a people who just love the chains,
they're blinded by captivity,
and lack to see reality.
They're homing pigeons flying,
such a lot they cannot be,
might seem as though they're walking,
with no chains, they're still not free.
Our children go to prison,
act like kings, but they are dying,
in those awful chains,
they're not able to see.
Faces on the wall,
they hung our faces on the wall.
They love us, but they left us,
they were kind, but end up vicious.
They'd invite us for a picture,
then they treated us like dirt;
their love is worth a thousand words;
and soon we're just a memory,
a picture in a frame...
Though they miss you time to time,
they always see us on the wall.
but you won't ever get a call:
they cried the day when we were born,
and cry the day we're dead,
then they suddenly get happy thoughts
when staring at our pictures.
But they already forgot about you,
ignored us like an eight-ball.
They don't miss what's left behind,
they hung our faces on the wall.
I was taught to write poetry
not by man, nor educationally.
We never had the money;
spent most of what we had,
to feed each belly in our homestead.

Life was hard, but became not an excuse,
though our circumstances differed,
but our stories all related,
when written down; this pain became our muse

Our eyes drew energy from our surroundings,
and we used our struggle as inspiration.
Our words told a story the same as paintings,
defining who we were, despite our miseducation.

I was told to write poetry,
so our descendants may know our history,
so that our heritage may not be forsaken.
Immortalizing words already spoken.

Our voice when we're no longer around.
We wrote because we loved creativity,
and this helped us even in times of captivity.
It was our cry when we couldn't make a sound.


I was tempted to write poetry,
to express what it meant to be free.
I'm afraid she'll never be healed;
she had love, now this she'll lack.
A potato only turns black
when the skin is peeled.



He stripped her naked,
and she trusted,
every action but he never hesitated
to take all that she held sacred.
He turned everything to darkness,
now she's no longer a princess.



He was only filled with greed.
But he took her to his room,
Now she carries the little seed,
of the devil in her womb,



With the vision getting vague,
she's infected by a plague.
He caress her every muscle,
as if she was a puzzle,
then he broke her into pieces,
until a nightmare he releases.
He spent time to make her numb,
but too bad the girl was dumb,
he been acting like a charmer,
but intensions were to harm her.
He was smooth operating,
she couldn't help but to believe him,
he was honest and a gentleman,
exactly what she needed,
but little did she understand,
she'd be manipulated.
The man was on a killing spree,
her left her too with ***.
Often yet not frequent,
I'd see this young delinquent,
An exact image of whom I were most recent,
So to say that I stare at my past thus avoiding myself at that instant.
That very moment,
Ne'er ought I insinuate that my thoughts were so constant,
And the actions thereof were so persistent,
to stem that I were too naïve and reluctant,
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••
I smell fear and mediocrity,
A custom made identity,
Whose motive is hypocrisy,
But shattered visions surely die;
And dreams are battered through a cry,
Its meaning stands a mystery,
As if it were but one big lie,
I stare at this delinquent through that foggy window's eye.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••

Amidst the abyss I hear his accent.
The voice of a believer whose innocence could fly,
But they clipped his wings because their arrogance had left them stagnant,
Closed minded individuals who lacked to imply;
This was the coming to his emancipation out of imprisonment,
Of being disallowed the privilege to try,
Sadly these spectators were Incompetent and Complacent,
Who forced the world to remain gullible to fortify.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••

So I stare as he drown himself in the disbelief that he will never cease the moment.
Due to the horrible fact that his chances were denied by a corrupt system,
Despite him filled with talent and wisdom,
Ignored potential as an aborted infant;
I heard the echo of that infant's gentle cry,
And imagined it sleep so peacefully,
Its origin were to me a mystery,
A beauty this world could never deny.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••



But eventually they'd want it to die;
As if they were driven by jealousy,
Deriving through each century,
Owning each man with a close minded mentality.
Woman with no strength of few,
but many; you're the mountain dew
of which a river's made anew...
Woman we adore you.
You were moulded to give birth,
made from Adam's very rib
so that man his wife shall know
and Inside you "life" could grow.
Woman we adore you,
bone of our bones,
and flesh of our flesh;
you have something no man owns...
you're fruitful and timeless
and you were called: "woman,"
for you were taken out of man...
to become one flesh and hold his hand
...to be a blessing in his life,
loved and honored as a faithful wife.
Woman we adore you,
your inner strength exceeds you;
made from dreams of man,
not specks of sand.
All were made of dust from earth,
but you made from God, since birth:
a defender, a nurturer, and mother
a comparable helper,
for man,  from the heart of Adam
...to be made into a work of art;
from rib, so you won't break apart,
fashioned by the hand of I AM.
Inspired by the book of Genesis, to celebrate the birth of women. In the form of a poem
These branches are a shadow,
of the roots we see not grow.

Leaves turn brown in time of spring,
the patient earth knows everything.

Earth embalms the tree with soil,
keeps it strong throughout the toil

though the tree may lose its beauty,
It were not left unattended.
Fot the loss were temporary,
and the tree stood liberated,
the heavens found it worthy
though a younger tree ascended.

It was once an old, forgotten snag
...once blossomed but still died a log


And although the tree departed,
still the secret's not unearthed...
This poem involves what's happening to earth's trees.
before the world swallows you whole,
leaving you barely able to exhale all that continues to weigh you down,
or inhale all that is destined to cast away your inner conflictions.

just...
breathe
Next page