I am the offspring chosen to face our past
My grandparents could not cry and their parents could not grieve
Their gardens were empty and their stomachs were knotted
The twist so tight they sank into the ground while the walls rotted

Goodbyes were stolen, identities not built
Time spent living lives not truly felt
Generations before me, beneath me
They have chosen to lay in rest

But the burden does not remain away
Instead it sits with me
It is by my parents blinded rage or my grandma's quiet disapproval
That their uneasiness in their agnony is all of ours to feel

You see, this pain it demands to be seen
It engulfs the children, the lovers, and the sea
Embracing a storm trapping us into repeated beliefs

Legacy blinded by grief has no room to grow until we shed the layers of our mothers forgotten tears,
She was not allowed to cry but I shield her from uncertainty, the world is senseless but I sacrifice charting this land unsighted
Feeling this pain that has drowned generations before engulfs my existence


I scream into the dirt as I break us from this loop of silent agreement where survival is key
I bawl to my blood what they did to you was not moral and the lost mourns have been freed
Because I will always remember what couldn’t be seen is etched in our veins,
Our families blood is my blood that remains


My eyes may sting with ghost but I swore of an existence leaving the world less scorned,
My touch vigilant of the surfaces it reaches,
I welcome my future kin and sing him a story that there is a life worth living and it will forever be freed

In love's tapestry, a tale unfolds,
Where Cupid, the archer, his story molds.
A fateful day, his aim went astray,
The wrong arrow struck, leading hearts astray.


A quiver full of arrows, each with a role,
One for passion, the other for the soul.
But Cupid, in haste, confused his art,
Shot the wrong arrow, tearing love apart.


In the labyrinth of emotions, I found my way,
Entangled in love's web, where shadows play.
The arrow meant for joy pierced my heart,
Yet sorrow's seed grew, tearing love apart.


A tragic chapter, my love story unfolds,
As pain and heartache, in its pages, molds.
Cupid's error, a twist in the plot,
A love story woven, then tangled in a knot.


People say it's a folklore, a tale to be told,
Of love's missteps, where hearts grow cold.
A saga of pain, with a sad, bitter end,
Yet in its telling, generations transcend.


For love's not always a tale of delight,
Sometimes it's pain that colors the night.
A twisted arrow, a love story's bend,
A folklore passed on, from friend to friend.


So, in the echoes of the cupid's wrong aim,
A love story born from sorrow and pain.
A folklore woven in the fabric of time,
A cautionary tale of love's subtle rhyme.

i saw a venue in mind
walking towards the shore
of consciousness once more

many generations of me
splashes among the sea
and it is a heartfelt kind

the echoes resound dimly
i think i hear words
or just an error simply

softly i transverse
in my dreams
the whole universe

awake i am human

The world your parents

keep impressing on you is --


fitting less and less.

The ocean blueness—fades further into the deep
A naked eye—in the needle hole,
threading old skins of past; to sew away
The present self being a stowaway.

Sheds of tears—falling from time to time
The grounds washed—drenched in eroding thought,
as the tears of an experience's memory
I've experienced so many things.

Beauty that is glorious—beauty my eyes attestor to
So seen is life—tasting all bitter sweet,
heeding the stories; touched by them all
Scented by intentions: to vocalize beauty we'd recall.

Swivel politeness—coupled by lessons from progenitor
Wisdom must be kept—holding immense value,
spoken in tongue; lips impart to succesor
Should it flow naturally in life: to your success sir.

Storing up the blessing of sky;
Dry arid season is here,
A drought of love; nature's harshest,
5,000 years of stories,
Silhouette of a rural African experience,
you cover the vastness of her land.

"Tree of life"
Whereas the breath of man was origin,
Folklore; stories of our elders and tomorrow's wisdom,
We are all children of the sun,
Bright skinned under the cooling shade of time,
Time as long as a tree has lived, and lives on.

Lest we be wise to store up our stories,
What will our generations remember of us,
Baobab trunk; store up the provisions, love, stories,
Time, blessings, and fruits of our labour at heart.

Baobab tree; blowing the wind,
A symbol of life in harshest of times,
We adapt to our environment; people all to thrive.

It is our nature.

I was conceived on acid and whippets, the drugs a kaleidoscope of umbilical dreams.
I was conceived on bad luck and lust, from darkness and sexually exploitive childhood trauma.
I was conceived on teenage dreams and difficult childhoods, to black sheep children of 17.

I was raised on addiction and narcissism, a love bomb here and authoritarian abuse there.
I was raised on the chess long game, to lose a piece here means to win at the end.
I was raised on 2000s tv, Lorelei Gilmore my wish for a mother, Rory my idol.

I taught myself strength in building up a fantasy on the outside while my castle crumbled within.
I picked myself up by the tendrils of a lost childhood, by the whispers of good memories, by the hiding places I found in pages upon pages of someone else’s imagination.

And I let it all go at 28. To find peace. To start over. To build myself a new castle with no more haunted corners or echoes of pill bottles or smells of ***** and orange juice permeating the breaths of those who walk these sacred halls.
Rib cage cut open, heart destroyed and renewed, ancient umbilical nooses cut with teeth.

I will no longer fall victim to my mother’s circumstances or my father’s mistakes, I will never have the soul I’ve created look at me and ask himself if he is loved or safe.

I am cycle breaker,
I am generational karma’s worst ******* fear,
I am no longer frightened maiden,
I am fearsome mother.
I am new.

The last generation
asked for success.
Our generation
asked to be left alone.
This generation
asks only to mitigate
the pain.

–Ron Gavalik

Who is the captain, of our ship,
The engineer of this train,
The person in the director’s chair,
The ones that make the most gains?
Our vessel,  a round mass of dirt,
Rocks, the center full of fire,
Water and sand, knowing,
Our lives are limited reservations,
We never totally own our land.
The people should be happy,
It seems like old history,
Many welcomed strangers, to their town,
Introduce themselves, invite them for vittles,
A shot of moonshine, truly kind, not a plan,
To rob, or hurt them, they enjoyed company around.
Every generation, learns, from what they hear and see,
Those at the wheel, need to change direction, a different way,
Robots are we trying to eliminate ourselves, the future will it be.
By The Original Tom Maxwell © 1/30/2022 AD