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Graff1980 Aug 2018
A glass complexion,
distorted reflection
filled with new
shades and hues
of my personal truth.

Silent stares in contemplation
as I stand facing this tense face
that I know so well.

My body smokes itself
as the mirror fogs up,
with the hot water still running
on the other side
of the wet flower shower curtain

I sit back
letting myself be
submerged in salt rich water.

I let my dead weight
pull me under completely
as I listen deeply
to my heartbeat.

Soft drops of water
pitter patter above me
raining down gently
from my shower
like a white noise
generator.

Barely a minute until
I emerge,
sitting still
as my tense muscles
become more relaxed
then they were before
this wonderful bath.
Graff1980 Aug 2018
In poetry
the past becomes
present tense to me
as I try to present it
truthfully.

Sixteen years of pain
burst like a blood bubble,
as I shatter into rubble,
delving deep into
the despair of
parental persecution.

Plaster white particles
dust the tips of my knuckles
as a thin trickle
of dark red rolls down
the back of my hand.

Friends stand around
comforting me.
They do not respond
angrily
to my outburst.

Tears of frustration
stretch down my cheeks
as I struggle to speak,
cause I am unable
to tell them everything.

Even now as I write
in the middle of my
mostly happy life,
I struggle to express
this unhappiness
without allowing it
to consume me again.
Graff1980 Aug 2018
When the stress
runs roughly
over these
current moments,
we look back
to the black pasts
and remember
shiny slivers.

We turn
those dark
and dangerous days
into greener shades
of pastural pleasure.

We celebrate
our own
old ignorance
and call it
nostalgia.

We ride
a carousal
of colorful
what ifs,
and maybes.

Wasting fleeting
opportunities
to make today
better then
yesterday.
Graff1980 Aug 2018
I know that you love them
but sometimes you hate ’em
want to hug them and hold in
all the pain their displaying

Equal sense of frustration
versus a sense of
gratification,
you need to take a vacation
from your human relations,

got the whole population
of this ****** up nation
praying for a release from
their problems and exploitation

and as you struggle to escape them
you still want to save them,
but they act like little children
who worship what imprisons them.
Graff1980 Aug 2018
Old eyes flutter open,
awakened by the sound
of soft water on
a car roof,
and a sharper thud.

Spheres of light,
blur,
breaking the night.
They vary in color
shape, and size,
while thin streams
of liquid slide
down the rear window.

The upholstery
is torn,
from time
and its stiches
being stretched
too far.

Blurred points of pressure
push in on his fog filled brain
as the rain
continues.

He rolls down one window
allowing the pungent odor
of sweat
and old ***** cloths
to spill out.

Another thud,
is followed by
an angry voice
bellowing
“You need to move this car!”

The old man moves
crawling from the back
to the front
disturbing the junk
he has acquired.

With leaden bags
and burning red eyes
from his harsh life
he tries to
start his car.

It will not move.

So, the city takes
the last place
this old man
called home.
Graff1980 Aug 2018
He doesn’t stay late
after school
to hang out
or try to be cool.

Instead, he pushes the pedals
faster than the others.
His heavy bag
pulls him back
and to the right
as he rides
through his route
finishing up
before daylight
descends
and the night sky
beckons him
to peaceful reflections.

Slight streaks of
black ink
stains his hands
and if it rains
the newspapers
are wrapped
in orange
plastic bags.

Newspapers slung
seldom miss
the points
he intends to hit,
merely brush by
the sentinel bushes
that guard his
patron’s porches.
Graff1980 Aug 2018
I present to the world
my impossible
portfolio
of poetically painted
impressions.
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