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I am no poet nor elysian saint.
I am nothing more than a
living record of transgressions:
odes and testaments of
tarnished gold intentions.

it is for naught: sincere
folly to search for an
elusive inner meaning.
I cannot ascertain if
any exist. take heed to
proceed with caution

there are years which
answer; providing insight,
clarity, a gateway to serenity.

yet there are the years
yielding naught but
empty questions

   eΒ Β 
    oΒ Β 
Β Β  iΒ Β Β Β 
nΒ Β 

soundlessly across
the starless horizon.

these hands are riddled
with memories of all
that I burnt, broke
and dismantled.

scorch marks
embellish my skin:
lamenting cries tasting
of ashes and insidious intent.

whenever home is no longer
hospitable; the foundation
crumbling under derelict
decay and dilapidated
compassion. empathy
common sense.

where does one begin
unravelling the shards of
broken bonds, presuming
to eradicate the distorted
fragments of fermented
claws, kisses, and teeth?

I am a storm with skin:
volatile, tempestuous,
forever untamed by
human hands.

do not misinterpret
the agelessness of
my Soul as a catalyst
for destruction.
chaos is no longer the
joy in my heart.
June 22nd, 2019

I never meant to hurt you.
please know this.

Β© kalica calliope delphine
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2019
I was in a geography class,
in a country, my parents immigrated to years ago,
after a war waged,
in my city I never knew about.

My classmates came from the Far East,
and Africa.
Some came from Europe and America.
They were brown, black and white.
They were Muslims, Christians and Jews.
A few were documented,
while the rest weren’t.

My bald teacher was so good.
He was asked to leave his homeland,
after he opposed the government with his writings.
I thought he was so happy after coming here safely by boat,
but I later assumed he was so sad.
He got everything but not a life in his homeland.

We opened the book on a lesson,
called β€˜the crises of the world’.
The teacher asked,
where are the crises?
I raised my hands and pointed at the map on the wall,
they are in the East and the West,
in the North and the South.
The crises are everywhere…

-Mohammed Arafat-
When migrants are forced to leave their homelands, art becomes the best way to tell their untold stories.
sadgirl Aug 2017
even in our best
light, we, as humans
are irrepressible

even in bodies
made of stardust,
bodies that aren't ours

at all,
we still are

think, what
is ours,
what is truly ours?

and what is impermanent
as the stars in sky
just ready to collapse?

there are rivers of us
on earth,
there are bodies who has dissolved

into said river,
and filled everything up
into some unholy flood

even in our best light,
we as humans
are irresponsible

isn't it funny
how nothing
is real?
I am seer of thine in Abernathy
but squarely this divineness fore
my essence will describe
with maturation on my side whether
or not this dither fantasize will deduce gold hexagons
that mix a feather awhile and let dolce vita thrive
a supremely superb undulance in ubiquity here.
Ralph D. Abernathy was a Baptist minister who co-founded the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and was a close adviser to Martin Luther King Jr.
Audrey Maday Feb 2015
Is it possible to
Have a pre-life crises?
For I am nowhere near
Yet I find myself deeply,
In peril.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.

— The End —