April...my early sonnets...leaning on the windowsill as the streets were mad rivers, Mum in bed just behind me--ya, I've long been the nightowl, though how many times I'd hang out with her when I did.
Ah, silver gloaming whose soft light is thence
More yellow than wee baby leaves' detail
Of green chartreuse as rain now waltzes, pale
Yet with that subtler voice in tow, lawns hence
Thick carpets laid out 'gainst grey racks a sense
Of pink like fragile mists haunts to avail,
These naked boughs in lingerie black's scale
Just tinges, April clothed ere nightfall, whence?
O me! The blacktop sports thin puddles fer
A touch of wet, and Friday's hallowed to
Some, good cuz dunno why, as we talk. Were
It taxes or the missiles elsewhere, who
Shall--what? I listen, laugh, want Andrew, poor
As saying is, and recall Mum: all we knew.
Hello, old friends -
Its about time that we met again
To read and hear and cry and cheer
Through stories and poems of
Misfortune, adventure -
Romantic in nature? Perhaps
If I were to find a muse...
But hey, that's old news.
I want to be a part of this place, again
I want to inspire
And be inspired,
To feel deeply, the desire
Of others through the words they have left
To be admired by those searching for depth,
Or strength or will or answers
To what comes next -
I want to feel love's toll upon me,
I want to be destroyed completely
Through genius words of poetic degree,
Through pain and suffering and unbridled fury
Once again to live a brief summary of
Another soul's story - and in return,
To open myself for the world to see,
In hopes that my words help set you free
Just as all yours have done for me...
I missed you all, I missed the call,
The craft in penning glimpses of my soul
And hoping someone else in this
Forgotten corner of the web
Would read my work, where they'd ebb,
And flow in understanding
That my words are the love I have
For those who made me who I am,
When they had nothing to my name,
For those who helped me fall...
And left me in disdain
And yet, I feel not sorrow nor pain.
I know good and bad
Come as one and the same -
So I'll greet you, my old friends,
When paper meets my pen,
Where my thoughts end, and ink begins
It is there that I will rise again.
border towns and underground existence
where does the first world end and third world start?
there third and fourth worlds in every city
on every corner
consequences of occupation
po-lice proxy wars
how we got border towns?
when each neighborhood lies on some border
between white and Black and Brown
Rich and Poor
first and third world
first world the colonizers
third world the colonized
second world the ghost of the genocides
it took to preserve capital's wretched glory
the first world will be the first engulfed
in fiery ruin
Afters the Roars of the Thunder You'll taste the purity of the rain,
After the sweetness of the memory you'll memorize it with pain,
But though every beautiful thing cost more than just a dime,
you have to live those moments because you'll never control time.
And after every lover's deep love he'll be sucked to be insane,
And behind every fading smile of abel there's always some cain,
behind every innocent man in jail there's a freeman made the crime,
And before every person's prayer there's always a bell that chime.
Beside every earth light's flicker there must be shiny a sun,
And besides every dead bird there's someone who fired the gun,
And though every beautiful thing is priced to be priceless,
every abandoned flower trembles And condemned to be lifeless,
And besides every dreamer child There stands clearly no one,
And besides every proud father there stands his fortunate son,
besides Every portrait of regret is a colorless one of sadness,
behind every wink of happiness there's some smell of kindness.
Under The roof of illusion hides a man afraid from the rain of reality,
And under some expensive suit hides a man with feelings-poverty,
And though every beautiful thing is buried under the clouds,
The green grass managed to cover the motions and the grounds,
under every dreams of childhood Rises the misery of puberty,
And under every blossom tree claims one that it's his property,
under every sigh of silence there's a million forms of sounds,
Yes and under every straight line of thoughts there's questions goes in rounds.
From the man running in the streets, "Hi."
From the kind bus driver, "Hi."
From the lady who walks her dog everyday, "Hi."
From the wind that flies in the sky, "Hi."
And the greets of the rising sun, "Hi."
The shouts of the next door dog, "Hi."
To all the way across the world, "Hi."
Dances of the wither trees, "Hi."
Smiles stretching across my friend's face, "Hi."
From the deep inside from my heart, I say to you, yes you, "Hi."
The fact is
It doesn’t matter whether you knew it was going to happen or not
To live with the idea
“It wouldn’t have hurt this bad if I had only seen it coming”
Is truly a false one
It doesn’t matter
It doesn’t matter
It doesn’t matter
The fact is
And you are still left with yourself
It will always be
This is the only promise life will keep