hold up, something is brewing on coals of commotion
story unfolding as cold as the northern ocean
don't ******* worry about the big-to-do
this buzz is my buzz and it's not meant for you

hold on, something is wrong you stumble all around
i'm only here to be a witness if happiness is found
soaking in the hopeless on stones as your bed
you said it once, but kept repeating what you said

ruthlessly using confusion to do your own abuse
then wallow in the hole left by what you just used
fluids in the northern ocean are so deaf and mute
cold water never knows how the truth can pollute

Built on land stolen from the natives
On the back of blacks who were
stolen from their own land.

Indigenous slaughtered like the buffalo they herded
Rounded up and marched into unwanted corners
There to starve until oil was discovered
And it became time to march them again.

Blacks who were declared to be less than human
Denied the right to do anything but work.
Families that were like grapes in a cluster
Ripe for the picking off of the best ones
And no thought given to those left behind.
Premiums paid for those enceinte,
Harbingers of the two-for-one sale.

Righteous blindness is a national disease
That overlooks the broken teacups
In the mad pursuit of tea.
That cannot see the trampled flowers
In the race to make perfume
That reeks self satisfaction
At the carnage left behind
And waves the flag of liberty
At those the cause enslaved.
                              ljm

I take my family photo albums
And pin those ghosts down to the walls
I keep running to my past trying my best to bring it back to life
always thinking “there’s a real life haunting.”
when I see myself any younger than 19
I take my family photo albums
And try to pin down your love
as if I’ll be able to see the warning signs
if it’s been written on the walls
I keep running back to my past like an old wives tale  
half told truths slipping through hands
and passing from mouth to mouth
Landing on my dinner plate filling it all the way up
I take my family photo albums
and wonder “why is it?”
I do not recognize who is staring back
I keep running back to my past
trying to find out everything about who I am

- I've been trying to find clues about who hid me away

What am I supposed to do with all
Of this
Unhinged
Passion —
Okay, calling it passion is a stretch.
It’s boiling ******* anger
For my own existence.

What am I to do?
Share it? With whom?
Who might appreciate?
Even if they do,
I’d probably be dissatisfied
About something.
I’m sure of it.

Why am I so
Existentially dissatisfied?
At what point will I think
Anything is enough,
Or worthy of my
Approval?

Does it need to destroy me in order for me to respect it?

I’m making myself sound like a *****.
Really, I am
But a self aware one.
Like, I realize that I’m a pretentious *******
And I hate myself for it,
So that you don’t have to.

Why do I long for attention,
When I am so
Disgusted
By it

Just pathetic,
It’s like I think
the window which I’m looking out of
Makes me better
Than those who have a different view.

Sometimes I wish I was stupid so that I wouldn’t think I was better than other people.
Or at least stupid enough
To ignore my own hypocrisy.
Why the ****
does it always come back to
That story about
The flowers for that dead ******* rat

Is it too late to get a lobotomy?

On a wall at the end of my street
Are cryptic letters that do not make a word
Painted in brilliant, angry colors,
They create a code I cannot read.

Appearing after a peaceful weekend,
Do they portend a maelstrom due
Or do they simply say “Hello’
To those who speak that other language.
           ljm