In the house of judgment
Stands the statue of Libra
And there also stands
A man in a suit
and polished black shoes

Beside him,
A black man in his thirties
With clothes wrinkled and unclean,
but pure within.

The hammer strikes;
The battle begins
To defend a black man
confined by society’s chains
because of white’s vain

The hammer strikes;
The battle ends
All pieces of truth,
shred by lies
and poisoned with vice

Beside him,
The black man is shackled
with chains on his hands
and chains on his life.

In the house of judgment
Stands the statue of Libra
with a balance on its hand, balanced.
But when the man in the suit
looks once again

                                                        The balance tilts more
                                                                                          to the other side.
This was made for an English project, where the poem has to be in free verse and the theme is To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.
I am like those SETI-scientists,
clinging on radiowaves;
noise-melodies from outer space,
questing after truth with huge telescopes
and scanning the visible light with satellites,
seeking desperately the limits of worlds apart,
searching for signs of intelligent life
in the desired-to-know universe.
Just to communicate with the extra-terrestrial;
to achieve certainty: there is someone out there,
someone, who is different, yet alike,
who is able to speak my thoughts
without knowing my language,
who still can easily translate my feelings
into the secret programcode of the universe.
An astral-traveler,
who can tame the waves of gravity,
someone, who is faster than the speed of light
and could eat the distance between us.
To be my interstellar compass;
my one and true guidance,
to help me explore this unfathomed life.
Someone, as David Bowie sang at once,
who is able to believe the strangest things,
who is able to love the alien.
I sit here
I peep through the hole of a wall I call a window
As bullets run out
And burgundy fills the streets

My alarm is the sound of
a bullet fired
the cock of a gun
the sound of somebody's son
hitting into the ground
gurgling-
as he tries to speak through blood.

My reality is foreign invaders
trampling on our soil like they made us
Bombs.
Planes flying overhead
This smog is suffocating us

A constant war that sees no end
Just an influx of discarded bodies

I wonder when I will be next.
Help Syria.
My hair, soft as silk, but falls like rain from the sky.
Oh! How I wish my hair had roots like a tree!
For a restore, I'll fill it with honey.
But when honey doesn't work and I end up bald,
I will drown my sorrows with the help of marshmallows.

It will never grow long like algae, but at least it is there.
My poor comb is filled with knots, the brush is strangled by my broken hair.
When I go to the stylist I say voila!
They say buy this product or that, but my hair doesn't cooperate,
I say enough!
I prefer to waste money on marshmallows,
Then on products without hope.
repost of "mes cheveux" in English because its funnier in English
rain, rain, go away.
I don't want to play today.
I don't want to play.

rain, rain, go away.
when you come it's not a fun stay.
not a fun stay.

rain, rain, go away.
let me have a sunny day.
have a happy day.
Skyscraper,
skyshaper,
skysharper...

Don't mind the fall of ascending
for its gravity does the work for you.

A passageway to this wind tunnel is open now,
yet the recoil is still undone.

Leave the rest to the high-rise end,
and embrace your bound to the above.
Him
Soft
Breeze
Cool
Sheets
Fresh
Linen
Sunshine
Smile

Sea
Gray
Mist­
Sometimes
Storm
Cloud
Beautiful
Eyes

Constant
As
Running
Water

Lion
Fierce

Creative
Passion

Bear
Hug
Infinite
Love
Big
Hearted
Best
Friend

Arrow
Straight
True
North
My
Perfect
Missing
Piece

As
Myself

I

Love
Him

Key
To
My
Lock

Doctor
To
My
Rose

Love
Of
My
Life­

Him
For Matty
You
       j
       u
       m
       p
         start my machine-heart,
Fingers plucking at dust_coated wiring, slick with dark oil

Ear pressed to my bloodless mouth, my digital murmur a mechanical purring

You
       j
       u
       m
       p
         start my machine-heart, fingers coaxing a little warmth
into the epicenter, a tiny nugget of coal from your heart to mine

I burst aglow and I'm a hearth and I belch out warm delicate red-flames.

Make me live, dear
Make me live and roar
This is an experimental piece. It's been a while. Just something quickly whipped up during an hours-long car ride. Enjoy. Xoxo.
Insulated from the chill..
Unless I breathe the ice.

Don't panic,
Just make room.

No one can stop me from entering the doors I've built with my own hands.

I walk through and hear the voices this world whispers,
the worst part is my own words are the harshest.

The devil in my mind I evicted..
Somehow keeps sneaking through the window...

I've seen too much,
and not enough at the same time.

Rounding out my pressure points,
If you touch me I'll feel no pain.

I am better than you..
I tell my ego...
.
.
.
.
.

What a mind trick.
I made a video of this piece performed in a jedi style.. posted on IG & Twitter @timcgilberry
beauteous body
of lines and curves
soft swell of breast
full bloom of hips
secret flower within
bury my heart
in your sweet folds
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