the world is getting too bright i cant tell that something isn't right something else is dripping from the tears in my skin you told me not to let the darkness in in but you left so what's the point let's set fire to this joint the matches are there no need to stare reach into my pocket nothing you can to stop it not anymore i'll start this chaos i've got people to brainwash this is what happens when you abandon me i told you but i guess you wanted to see burn down the room decorate your tomb gave you my heart but you decided to spend it gave you life now it's my turn to end it
Civilized life is rigged, O land-dwellers! With landmines hidden in trails of Society's doctrine, 'Too often is it stepped on, Too often does it explode.' Blowing constitutions to smithereens, Where you then rummage within your nucleus to piece together your scattered jigsaw, Misplacing your natural elements, Overcasting your ability to side with beauteous aspects in simplicity— Of those ethereal-resplendent butterflies. Disillusioned on land thus is you(the complex you).
Let go— Rise above your materialistic graves— Walk on air! My kindred wisps Walk on air!
How can you say you hate them? And not realize the irony How can you hate your own race? Do you not hear in yourself “that’s a part of me”? You attempt to distance yourself by making jokes at their expense. Try to disguise it as humor, but I can see past your pretense. All of your white friends, whom with you wish to blend, Will follow suit, then use you as a scapegoat by saying “Nah, it’s cool man. I have an Asian friend.” Don't you realize, with your own words you're cutting yourself down Don’t do this to yourself man, you are not a clown- To be laughed at and mocked Neither are the others whom this ridicule has flocked Be proud of who you are, and from where you came. Pass yourself off as a joke and others will do the same.
"The instructor said: Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you- Then, it will be true. " -Theme for English B by Langston Hughes
Ten minutes. Is that all it takes? To pour a piece of my soul, Onto this page?
If it were up to the schooling system, I could write and write and write. But not a word of it would be True. Not a word of it would be me. Not a shard of my soul would be seen.
If given the chance I could write for hours Page after page Verse after verse No need to stop or slow down I know that my own Voice, I have already found.
I could talk about the love, the hurt Anything others wanted to hear. Or I could write about absolutely nothing. Does writing about nothing count as something? If the words on the page mean nothing to me, Should I still be congratulated on the "good" work that they see?
My eyes are dead as I am praised for the work I forgot I wrote. Because I didn't mean a single note. This sometimes makes school simple. If I say what they want to hear, Then I pass and move to the next class, While graduation grows near.
But what if I lose my Voice? As so many others have. I think that I would go mad.
Ah, it would seem my time is up. Tell me then, Was ten minutes enough? Did I place a piece of my soul in this poem? Or did it mean nothing to me, As so much of our educational writing does.
The first stanza was a prompt given to me by my English teacher. He then told us he would give us 10 minutes to write anything. This is what I came up with.