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That feeling you get

when you wake up to rain in the middle of June.


You can get rid of the people that make feel this way but

You cant stop the rain
You could move but be serious


There will always come a day when

When you wake up to rain in the middle of June


Smile hard
be the sun


© Christopher F. Brown 2017
Kamblamian May 2017

I often wonder if i truly act as ****** as I feel
Why dont you learn how to live your life

Why dont you learn how to live life

We all seem to know the drill
#f
Julie Grenness Feb 2017
Fresh is the air in the morning,
Flowers my garden are adorning,
Feral cats in the day are yawning,
Fun in your eyes I am adoring,
Friendship is our glory,
Full of maybe a new story,
Fantasies are for the creating,
"F" is the letter I am relating..........
Feedback welcome.
I get it now
They think I'm you

Black
Is only the color of your skin

Black
Is not the culture you love
The people you associate with
The people you share a bed with
The people you represent

Black
Is only your name
Is only where you come from
Is what you claim around family

Black is you
Long as you are the only one
Long as-if there could be such a thing-the best one
Long as you are in charge of the rest

I am Black because Americans don't understand
An African born outside of Africa is still an African

I am Black
I am African
I love the reflection I see because it sees me

Truth be told:
I still love you
Even if you hate everything that stares back at you


© Christopher F. Brown 2017
Trump ******* us all
but did he really?

The South followed suit on its promise
Yet the heartland had a change

We would like to say:
“He doesn’t represent America.”
But doesn’t he?

Profit above all is the capitalist credo

Racism: to divide the people and keep them disorganized
Sexism: to divide the people and keep them disorganized
Xenophobia: to divide the people and keep them disorganized

Hasn’t that always been the American way
Keep the neighbors distracted with one another
Keep the neighbors fighting one another
While you rob them blind
And their children
And their children’s children
And . . .

Trump speaks
For those that see government only as a tool for furthering business

Trump speaks
For those that were born into a position of privilege
For those that find it offensive when their privilege is pointed out
For those that can construct legalese so their privilege can never be denied

Trump speaks
For those that believe something determined by genetic or socio/politico/economico construction
Not effort of their own
Imbues them with divine right
Imbues them with heaven’s mantel
Imbues them with a destiny that is their burden to make manifest

Trump ******* us all
Trump doesn’t speak for America

Historically
Morally

Doesn’t he?

© Christopher F. Brown 2017
The only thing they are worried about is their reflection
Who cares if they're dead or dying inside

ab shot for the gram
*** shot for the snap chat
**** pic for the dm’s

Some of them
have gotten to the place where
Their selfie
is their self

The only thing they are worried about is their reflection
Who cares if they're dead or dying inside

I could be hypocritical and say im not there
but then
how would I know it exists
You find your way
The way does not find you

*** shots on the Time Line
full nudes on tumblr
live shows on connectpal

The only thing they are worried about is their reflection
Who cares if they're dead or dying inside


© Christopher F. Brown 2016
Shouting
In places where people try to force them
Not to hear

Quiet
In places where people try to force them
Not to listen

**** them
Set them free
Watch them fly wild

They are indigo, X, and Y
They are naturally Tech savvy and more intune with all that is natural
They are everything but what they know they want to be

**** them
Set them free
Watch them fly wild

Love

Love has never been one of their considerations
They have never bothered with the fantasy
They were born knowing
Grew tall and mighty watching

No one ever loves a genius child

**** them
Set them free
Watch them fly wild.


© Christopher F. Brown 2016
LEARN FROM THE OWL!
Many of us think of the owl
As a foolish, ugly fowl:
It can neither strut like a peacock,
Flaunting colourful plumes,
Nor, like the shy nightingale,
Sweetly sing, every spring:
But the sages of ancient Greece,
Seeing  the night bird's virtues rare,
Said nothing foul about the owl,
Admired its bright round eyes,
Sharp and keen, able to see its way
And fly in the darkness of night:
Eyes, quite strange, looking not sideways,
But always straight and always right
And quickly turn its agile neck
And see all things happening
Behind its back as  well as front!
In all directions ,the owl can see
But, from different angles do we ever see?
Boastful humans, full of pride,
Who speak ill of the humble owl
Can scarcely match the skilful owl,
And a poet who loved this little bird, wrote -
"A wise old owl sat on an oak,
The more he saw, the less he spoke,
  The less he spoke the more he heard,
   Why can't we be, like the wise old bird!?"
                  *** M.G.Narasimha Murthy,
Hyderabad, India.
A moral tale
Sometimes we just want to hold it
because it warms us

we can't decide
it might be bad for us
When the air's whispers are warm and the moon refuses to entertain

we can't decide
it might be good for us
When the wind carries chills and the sun searches for its shadow

we take it
into ourselves
knowing the potential harm
wanting the promised help

Sometimes we just want to hold it
because it warms us

©Christopher F. Brown 2016
Tatiana Aug 2016
Everyday he used his tools
to work on a fence.
He hammered and sawed
and hoped to God
that he would not cause offense.
To his neighbors,
to his friends,
he just could not let them see
how much he had let his yard
become overrun with weeds.

His heart was too weak
to deal with the stares
of people who said they cared.
So he built a fence
that was ten feet high
around his yard
around his mind.

He hammered in that last nail
to the beat of his pounding heart.
As the clouds gathered overhead
and he realized that it was getting dark.
He pushed himself up hastily
but he tripped over his own feet.
His hands covered in splinters
while he felt his heart shatter
he dropped to the ground
ignoring the clatter
of the wood and the nails
that flew from his hands.
His crippled heart skipped a beat.

The rain started to fall
and he forced himself to his feet.
He sprinted into his home
as his splintered heart hammered
in his shaking chest.
He sat down on his couch
forgetting his tools outside
and the whole mess.

Weeks then months then years passed by
and people who wandered the streets.
Saw a fence that went up one night
start to decay before their very eyes.
...
"What happened to the man who lived in that house?"
"I know the answer."
"You do?"
"*I do."
Here's the poem for the letter F in the alphabet. This series is going to take such a long time but I'll finish it because I was inspired very recently to write more so I will.
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