I belong to no country you may war against and tomorrow’s place I find, for my head, under your military boots, and the roaring thunder of your steel and fire shaking my ground.
I belong to no race when a color mistake can take your reason away, and all your eyes can see is but a shade of who I am; pull a trigger and **** a hue of soul I share with you You’ll never see through you are color blind
I belong to no religion whose choice of god conflict with yours— convince me you think you must and you might with a bullet in my head or a blade tearing my neck apart— what does it take to live in your world? worship you or your god.
I belong to no man no country no race no religion; I belong to you I will never **** you but if you do watch out for the rusty blade you ****** not too deep and I will always be a thorn in your side but deep enough will end up in your heart you also do belong to me.
The white snow falls Onto the dull blue heron, Turning it white. Making it better. The previous heron was filthy Unworthy to be gazed upon By anyone’s eyes. The snow which fell upon The dull blue heron, Dirtied from the mud Was truly a miracle. To think that nature Would even touch that disgusting Atrocious being- No, not being. It is simply less than that. Not a heron at all, Let alone a bird. Barely able to be called a creature, And yet nature still purified it. What a lovely story.
The dull blue heron walks Covered in snow, The waves of which Never stop. Snow falls, and falls, and falls, And falls. The mind of the heron Is clouded. Birds bite into the dull blue heron Like bitter chocolate. The heron cries. Dull blue tears, Fitting of a dull blue heron.
The heron is no longer blue. The heron is now worthy Of being called a creature. The heron is white And has been drowned, As nature And everyone Wanted. If it hadn’t happened, It would have been better For the dull blue heron To not exist at all.
I was 15 when I wrote this as per the date by the title. One of my few poems that rely on some kind of symbolism
Social influence that influence ones belief and behavior, being the sheep idiom in suit of group as inferior identity savior. Compliances and obedience for the hero or nymph resort, names and numbers as taste for pleasure of the court. Instructive expectations in order to avoid looking foolish, becoming strong in unity of the mass psychology bliss. Procrastinations to adhere to moral obligation, bringing out the darkest impulse to justify that situation. Large scale atrocities for the greater good as ideal, manipulated propaganda consequence imperial. The change in response to pressure of social norms, ethical values in humanity political deforms. The mediocrity of conformity and its karmic hungry judges, sentence wretches in time by individual budges. The mental mill keeps on turning with the wind, where fiery spirits blaze by gravity and its many scent. The revolution not out there in golden words brocade, freeing oneself from controlling theories need to be displayed. Being infinitely pliable defines the space to be responsible, and the soul of the world will give ones everything possible.
I find myself caught in recycling not cans and paper and glass but thoughts and actions habits can help but being stuck in the habitual sloshes me into a swamp dank and stagnant.
What if I broke the cycle in half opened myself to hidden reaches of my mental soulful caverns? Maybe this interruption would reawaken my muse from her drowsiness sparkling and sprinkling me with poetic stirrings.