My voice is my bars that caged me ,
My thoughts my cell that are sealed shut,
My body now kept in this living hell.

A voice has power to change with but
An exhale, but winds that blow in a
Certain direction can be stopped as
Others may not like the change
That this wind bring upon it.

A thought can be shared, never
spoken but told over a million times.
But one voice may not be heard but
When one word is spoken a thousand
Times at once it is heard everywhere.

My conscious thoughts were voiced
And now I pay the price that is worth
This hell, for my thoughts became words
And words became voice heard around
The world, here comes the wind of change.

I'm jealous of the moon because
He knows all of your 5am secrets

And your sheets who get to touch
Every part of you as you fall asleep
While I keep a close eye on this empty pillow
Waiting for your weight to keep it warm

But the sun,
She is luckiest of all.
When your half asleep, groggy
And painfully unaware of how
Handsome you look
She kisses your lips with light.

Repeat after me:
I am a Queen, a divine Goddess
There has never, and will never
Be another me.
I have been blessed with
This particular struggle
As a lesson, as a guide.
Every freckle, every scar
Has been delicately crafted for me.
My thighs, carved by the hands of the Universe
My eyes are no less than the burning stars;
I am a work of art, a masterpiece.
Billions of years of careful planning
Have made me who I am.
My existence is entirely necessary,
It is important that I am here.
All is as intended, falling into place
At the perfect pace for me.
All that's left for me to do
Is enjoy this beautiful adventure.

In earlier times a Daughter was born
Who carried the welts of a belt
An oath of no children
By the Mother was sworn

Ten years went by
An she agreed to one
But you must never
Lay a hand on my son

The man felt afronted
By the Oath on his head
But agreed to the terms
His wife had said...

The son was born on
A hot august Morn
But the oath on his head
Was the Mans Scorn

As the Boy grew older
All of 8 years old he
Was told his mother ill
Her Failed sight ner seen

The Boy Had to help
The mother to cook
Taught by her
From recipe books

The Man owned a factory
Where each day he must be
After school his time
Was never free

He must clean
The factory floor
And haul the Rubish
Out the door

By 9 he was working
with 16 ft boards
To help make the slats
That paid for our Board

When ever the boy talked
Of what he had learned
He was ridiculed by the father
And vicously Spurned

He was called
Insane and stupid
Told he belonged in a
Mental institution

He was told
He was a slacker
That nothing he
Did was ever right

The Spite and the Hatred
built Day upon Day
His father argued
With all that he'd say

By 12 the Boy had
Longshoremans
Syndrome, from the
weight of the work

As his spine was growing
It bent the spine as it formed
The Raging went on day after day
The abuse heaped on the head of the Boy

When Finally he left
With his back to the door
For 2 years they never
Heard from the Son

Till he missed
Them and called
2 minutes it took till
The father started again

The son slammed
Down the phone in tears
And wasn't heard from
For another year

Through all of this from 5 years old
He'd been ***** by an older boy
And Held it all within Him
Afraid of his Father he never had told

All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack

It is raining outside,
Everything wet,
Soil, tree, terrace, flower ***, gate, wall,,,,
But aridity stifles inside,
Head, heart, hand.....
Like the fruits of silk cotton tree,
Cutlery ruptures thought
Humanist is slaughters on the street.....
But slayer forget that
In extreme dryness
When fruits of dry Cotton silk tree explode
It’s diffuse
Germinate in wet soil
and grow everywhere,
Humanist will emit all over again!

Oh to be trending with
Praise never ending
For poems I’ve shared on this site.

Likes and reposts give me
Reason to boast -
Justify staying up through the night.

Notifications are
Cause for elation;
The judges DO like what I write!

But a poem too plain
Causes heartache and pain, and
Is often my poor poet’s plight.

No comments, no hearts,
Silence tears me apart
As the view numbers start to get high.

Doesn’t anyone care?
Is it cause for despair?
Don’t they know how hard that I try?

And who really can blame us?
Our desire to be famous
Is a standard set forth at our birth.

Though it’s narcissistic,
We allow some statistics
To define the extent of our worth.

When I group words together
My soul is the tether;
I am sharing a part of myself.

The peril I fear
Is that no one will hear
As the words gather dust on a shelf.

So when the words are ‘bout right
I choose to quit for the night,
Add some tags, then I hit save and send,

‘Cuz when all’s said and done
We’re just writing for fun,  
Who cares if the **** thing will trend!
PwL   March, 2015