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Kayla Hardy Mar 2019
Budding with excitement and seemingly pointless fear,
but I held a new life in my hands shown through a *** of all my savings.
My eyes dart wildly in awe of all the different cars,
big ones, small ones, new ones, and foreign ones.
Everyone smiled at us - the dealers and the other buyers who walked out with
shiny, new vessels as if it were nothing.
Nobody knew this was our fifth dealership, even we pretended to lose count
maybe this time we’ll leave with something.
I know they can see how badly I yearn for a car of my very own
that I can say is mine,
that I worked for it,
that I can watch age through the years.
I am not black.
Prince ea said it right,
That’s what the world calls me, but   it’s not me,
I didn’t come out of my mother’s womb saying “heey everybody, I’m black”,
No. I was taught to be black,
And you were taught to call me that, along with whatever you call yourself,
It’s just a LABEL.

See, from birth the world false feeds us these LABELS,
And eventually, we all swallow them, we digest and accept the LABELS, never ever doubting them.

But there is one problem,
LABELS are not you,
And LABELS are not me,
LABELS are just LABELS.

But who we truly are is not skin deep,
See, when I drive my car no one would ever confuse the car for me,
Well, when I drive my body, why do you confuse me for my body, it’s my body, get it!. Not me.

Let me break it down,
See, our bodies are just cars that we operate and drive around,
The dealership we call society decided to label mine the Black Edition,
And with no money down that is zero percent and no test-drive,
We were forced to own these cars for the rest of our lives.

Forgive me, but I fail to see the logic or pride,
In defining myself or judging another by the cars we drive,
Because who we truly are is found inside.

Listen, I’m not here to tell you how science is concluded,
That genetically we are all mixed in,
And that all human species doesn’t exist,
Or how every historian knows the evolution of all human beings that was invented in the 5th century  and it has worked perfectly.

No. I am not here to lecture.
I just wanna ask one question,
Who would you be if the world never gave you a LABEL?,
Never gave you a box to check,
Someone please answer that cause i'm still in the dark,
No. We would be one,
We would be together,
No longer living in the era of calling human beings people,
These LABELS that will forever blind us from seeing a person for who are,
But instead seeing them through their judgmental, prejudicial, artificial filters of who we think they are,
And when you let an artificial label define yourself,
Then my friend, you have chosen smallness over Greatness and minimized yourself,
Confined and divided yourself from others,
And it is undeniable fact that where there is division there will be conflict,
And conflict starts wars, therefore every war has started over labels,
It’s always us versus them,
So the answer to war, racism, sexism and every other –eism is so simple that every politician has missed it,
It’s the labels,
We must reap them off.

Isn’t it funny how no baby is born racist?
Yet every baby cries when they hear the cry’s of another,
No matter their gender, culture or color,
Proven that deep down we were meant to connect and care for each other,
That is our mission,
And that is not my opinion,
That is the truth in a world that has sold us fiction,
Please listen, Labels only distorted our vision,
Which is for  half of those watching these will dismiss it or feel resistance and conflicted,
But, just remember, so did the caterpillar before it broke the which shell and became the magnificent butterfly,
Well these labels are our shells and we must do the same thing so we can finally spread our wings,
Human beings were not meant to be slapped with labels like groceries and supermarkets,
DNA cannot be regulate everyday,
We were meant to be free and only until we remove them all,
And stop living and thinking so small,
Will we be free to see ourselves and each other for who we truly are.
An inspiration from the great Prince ea.This goes to everyone out there, as he said, "we are not LABELS, labels are not you and labels are not me, Labels are just labels.We must reap them off".
Jamy Jun 2014
This car dealership coffee and styrofoam cup,
Makes me wonder how I'd live,
If I were to surrender or run,
Everything seems so paper here,
So two-dimensional so thin,
Suburban castles could be blown away by reality's wind,

I wonder how the people still exist,
Cardboard prop ups,
Nobody knowing the world or love,
Just what propaganda has told us,
Nobody realizes we are not alive,
Slaves to the modern idea of conformity and strife,

People claim find god in glory and wealth,
Along with a prescribed happiness,
But god drifts in the air and in the sea,
She is the desert breeze and the rain of spring,
Wars rage over unknowns rulers' precedence,
Rather than breathing the carcinogen air of humanity's present,

And I just watch,
Drifting to come close to living,
Loathing to come close to loving,
Mentally deteriorating to come close to reality,
Dying to come close to faith,
Dying to come close to an escape,
Dying to come close to clarity,
To life,

If I were submerged in the dirt,
I'd be held by god,
And embraced by Allah,
Consumed by all deities who are one in the same,
And loved for what stories my disintegrating bones told,
Rather than my fresh faced human skin,
Rather than my cardboard exterior,
Rather than my papered mask,
I'd find life by dying,
And faith by death,

So ask me once more why I smile through my cancer bearing 7 minutes of heaven,
In this paper mansion of a business,
Ask me why I let the caffeine soak through my veins and over stimulate my heart,
From this industrialized styrofoam cup,
Though you already know,
I'm only doing what we all are,
Trying to find out how to exist,
Only I've realized it's not about life,
It's about the exit.
Passes not by a day, that many an e-mail
unsolicited for would not stray--
from only Christ knows where--into
my SPAM folder. Some do sail
there to have a prurient stay,
bringing along many a memento
in an argosy of raunchy piquant pictures.

Some convey commerce, insurance or banking
messages; some the cargo of relationship
carry; while another an ad of ******
bears, still another talks about dealership.

Yet stood out Twain. Two diverse
SPAM e-mails have been berthing,
with goatish gaits and sharkish smirks,
in that folder unrelenting and unswerving.

One SPAM e-mail reads: "Why wait--have
an affair with a cheating wife today."

Sweetest SPAM!

Gorging myself on this fetish
fare free of charge. Kittenish
jades, serve me thy dainties of
dalliance enough!

To rock and roll, rolling in the hay,
making merry heaves, does ever crave
this rebellious flesh--yet, this randy
SPAM e-mail's offer offsets much the mind:

"A cheating wife" desiring to find--
for reasons amourous--a dandy,
a sort of cad.

Wondering muse: "A cheating wife"?
What a magic life!

Another SPAM e-mail says its own thus: "View
my pics. Lonely married women--
view **** pics." Indeed and true,
they grip with a serious sudden
poke the soul, like pangs the heart,
those three momentous, wrecking,
wretched words: "lonely married women."

Though content spicy and Libidinous;
yet maddening.
Secret meals seemingly are delicious,
but have a fiery taste.

Where--on Earth, in Mars, or in Hell
are they? Here, in this world they dwell.

Thought marriage is a blessed haven--
a heaven of unfeigned love and lasting bliss.

How could one be married and yet
be alone in life--lonely, who has
crossed over singlehood's borders,
nor is she a widow for bereavement?

A husband did his queen abandon
for a fresh-fangled pawn,
flying away with that new
dove--frittering his fortune away,
as she chirps love in lust songs anew
into his donkey's ears; flattery
displayed, a groovy
guise--

playing ducks and drakes with his riches

until his substance ship sank, like Titanic,
colliding with an iceberg of folly
in the deep of adultery:

making a muck of his wealth.

The flirtatious dollybird no sooner
flitted, then flew abroad at last,
leaving him to drown in the murky
waters of his wreck.


Returned the prodigal man to his hearth
in a sad pickle, with one shirt, one
jean,
and a pair of snickers, to the ever
gracious ***** of his loving Missis--
like a sinner contrite to Jesus.


Whilst a sudden grass widow, his wife
did not covet the companionship,
comforts and copulation
of another flagship--

but was committed to her
vows
to that fun-tossed lugger--
despite the billowy waves,

praying he'd come to his harbour.


The women howbeit in my SPAM folder--
those "cheating wives and lonely married
women", are like Lady Portiphar
pining and yearning for Joseph.

Unread.
Unreplied.
Tanaka Mupinga Apr 2014
Digging through the pile, always looking for a match
Some thing to stop the pain, some kind of fix or patch
She knows not what she needs, but searches nonetheless
She knows not what's her goal, she does not reassess
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

She often finds a fix, or finds some thing to use
No logic when she looks, why search when you can choose
The only parts that fit, only work for a while
The only parts that fit, are at the bottom of the pile
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

The dealerships still open, her heart it still does bleed
When will she stop this search, they'll sell her what she needs
Money's not the issue, for everything is free
Money's not the issue, I'm sure she would agree
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

Now she starts to panic, the salvaged parts were cheap
Knows not what to do so she falls over to weep
She realizes now, the junk yard parts all break
She realizes now, she's made a huge mistake
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

Thinking clearly now, she knows where she must go
The pains already stopped, her face is all aglow  
She knows what she must do, the junk yard she must leave
She knows what she must do, and what she can achieve
Now she's shopping in the dealership, where everything is free
Now she's shopping in the dealership, the dealership is me.
Crushing from a distance only gets you so far...
murari sinha  Sep 2010
volga
murari sinha Sep 2010
( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands,  a feather from the pea-****’s tail )

Volga - 1

there might have been some provocation
on the part of the  rat’s bible  

it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters  
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming  
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush

the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less

how much is it necessary now
to ****** the blue-hue  with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream

would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market

before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles

Volga - 2

the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems

as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of  the blue and yellow pyramid

and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls

how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board  

Volga – 3

the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it

if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night

all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down  

so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes

so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning

Volga – 4

to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little

is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub  
will enter into the circuit-house

and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island

Volga - 5

coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw  
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind  the rice-rain
from the cirrus                                                

the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality

the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid

is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving

manuscript of the basement of a well

the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected

in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat  vehemently  
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs

they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song

to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required

notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of  the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen

here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well

on its one page lies the faulty  crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …

within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken

if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land

let us have one game more
DP Younginger  Nov 2014
Hindsight
DP Younginger Nov 2014
My shoelaces flap side to side like one of those car-dealership inflatables arms-
My veiny stompers pump puddles of pure procrastination from perceptive sprinting-
Underneath the tune-buds, I cannot hear my sneakers scraping the scrap rocks of gravel-
To my left- a hooting owl habitats itself in a hushed game of charades-
To my right- a slick tree frog flies freely from a lofty leaf and lands in the lagoon-
Elapsed images of elastic languages fill my mind with everlasting wisdom-
Entertained by the watercolors, my canvas curdles and secedes the state of mind-
Pressing harder- the curtain continues to close as I chase the condescending daylight-
Pressing softer- the tuner in my temple turns into a terrorizing shriek from my tibia-
antony glaser Apr 2012
In the morning the mist arises
but some will say it is
yesterday's hubris.
I dont have an attic
to wayleigh communications
or require windows
to twitch gingham curtains
so the deep chill
void remains.

A debutante passed by my uncut grass
but she was no better served,
a dream interview with ******* Club
turned sour, this time of year.
At least she hasn't endless dealership openings
or humoured the word "exhilarating" in interviews
when inventing a rich Stepfather.
Like me there be few visitors.
Thirty  stubborn years will pass
but at least she know the meaning.
The pride of the morning.
Phi Kenzie Jul 2018
Exchanging or replacing an old automobile
can be an intensely emotional experience for anyone
I still have the license plate screws from the first car my mom sold
although I didn’t care at all when my dad sold his car first
I remember crying at the dealership when they took my mom’s Toyota
I don’t even remember my dad telling us he got a new Ford
backseat on the left, behind the driver, was my designated spot, still is

I kept them in an empty Hubba Bubba OUCH! Gum tin, the screws
sometimes I’d open it up just to hold them
and wonder why I’d cared so much about that car
Divorced parents and abandonment issues meet in this look back at childhood

— The End —