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T daniels 17h
I enjoy staring into the divine
and listening to the empty spaces of time,
fossilized under the ash of ages.

Valleys full of silver and gold
a world to innocent
and old.

I've tried to convey my fears,
afraid of how the future will feel-
will that word "feel" be extinct like a High culture from antiquity?

Will feeling be past its prime?
perhaps only in mine.
History is old, but there are many stories that never got told,
There are things that no one will ever know,
I ask myself why the world is this position, what build up made this transition?
History books stitching bits of information together,
Missing so many pieces, they placed things where they wanted, told the teachers and they taught it, and we all bought it
But now I can’t help but to dawn on it.
Lies mascaraed the truth, we’ve beaten people black and blue just so you can do what you do,
This whole country was founded on hate,
No wonder so many people are stuck in a negative space,
They say we have freedom but there is reason none of us are speaking up, we’re stuck,
Tied to money, like cinder blocks on our feet, we sink,
Our foundation made of our ancestors bones, we sit on top of it like a throne of lies
You’re on the top of the pyramid no surprise, how many people did you have to step on to get that high?
You’re low, beneath the ground, **** bound, I don’t even believe in it
But the way people are getting treated is way beyond out of convenience,
It’s a repetitive, destructive sequence,
Screaming at high frequency
Can you see?
Or are you as blind as they’ll let you be.
I wrote this thinking about all the ancient knowledge that was lost, and I was thinking about the native Americans, big industries that take advantage of people, and animals, greed, all the hate in the world, The education system, a lot inspired this poem
We’ve mastered the vast oceans,
we’ve conquered the open skies,
we’ve dominated life itself.

We are our gods;
our grasp will soon reach even the stars—
humanity is victorious.

It is amusing though, of all things we have achieved,
we still are burdened with hatred and deceit.

We still imagine ourselves as queens and kings,
amongst lesser beings.

We practice prejudice, we as a society hate equality.
We are still afraid of what we cannot comprehend.

Before we subdue the stars, can we at least quell our hearts?
Halfway her mind changed.
Perhaps she saw something new.
Fallen angel flew.
“I am the descendant of survivors,” I think as I reflect on the lynching trees.
I think of the pain, fear, and cautiousness that my ancestors experienced in their lifetimes.
The normalcy of it.
I think of how far we’ve come.
As a nation: one inch.
As my brothers’ and sisters’ force: eons.
There is so much pride I feel in their transcendence. I am here because they learned how to survive.
I wonder was it through power? Cowardice? Hiding?
How much does it matter? Isn’t there strength in whatever method works?
There are so many generations that did not make it. I am one of the lucky ones.
I get to live out the dreams that my ancestors cried out to the stars,
The ones they whispered into the void of a tunnel lit by a single flickering light,
The ones they inhaled from a friend after they bubbled up to the water’s surface,
The ones that danced in the breeze like the leaves on hanging trees.
I have the honor.
I have the pride of knowing they survived fear and turmoil for me.
The past is dark and grim, but the future is bright because now I hold the light.
Sometimes when people ask me what it means to be African-American, I tell them
It means to be lost.
Displaced from your real home; tribe; ripped from your roots --
But does it?
When I look up at the stars that may have guided generations of them,
Sometimes I feel as if I can see some of them blinking
Watching over me.
from Mozambique to the belly of the queen mother Afrika,
we were born soldiers, strangled from the arms of our mothers,
strangers to our engraved fathers in their early graves,
starve and strive in the command of our commanders,climb
and fall hills of many mountains, with countless bodies i carried
in my arms, moved from one camp to another, with blood of my
comrades fled in the river, as crocodiles tumble and roles with
them, they scream and cried while we crossed to south Africa.
a refuge toe to giant Afrika our queen mother, this has become
our home too, regardless of the chaos we've rendered. i know no
memories but nightmare in the surface of Mozambique, they see the beauty of its minerals and crops, the tremendous sea and scattered
informal settlement for farming left by my people to south
Africa, but in true essence i see graves, grenades, and guns
buried in the bodies of my comrades from Mozambique to
south Africa and the struggle in between
Austin Draper Dec 10
New era, Bravely Big Blue, and Recently Ready Red. Fear comes next, of man. A Boogie man. As the Boogie MAN had announced that they would create their own demise. His tactic? Using the very ideologies that they held dear to make a weapon that comes close to destroying their own ideology. Exploiting difference. Saying that others beliefs would spread and make it so that they could no longer play nice. Cat and mouse. The startup and the Puppeteer. Raced now. Not only in weapons, but in their smarts. They tried to be smarter than the other as a way to one up the other. As that would teach them a lesson. A global, dangerous and very childish game of chicken. Trying their hardest to be better in every conceivable way. But striving too close to the sun caused one break. And the other irreversibly down the path of Ethical Egoism and Horrible fighting. Skirmishes and war of the Color thoughts. A color preference, how to color your thinking. The patriotic Blue, and the developing Red. Blue hated red. Blue and red look bad together. They’re such different colors. Different enough colors to fight in an array of places, each. A jungle, and a peninsula. Sad fights for the colors. Good people fighting for colors. Brave people. They fought to paint the world their color. It wasn’t impossible; red and blue took out their violent Black and red neighbor. That was different after though. Black and red, two color division. Division, like the land of the used to be black and red. Separate, the and bordering the two, sadly fitting. One side colored Red and the other Blue. Say to color other worlds their color, and to rain terror and fear. An explosive with a horrible temper, childish colors. Blue didn’t play nice with theirs. Sad, I am sad now. Summing up literal people’s deaths with a **** color analogy seems disrespectful. But I hope to show that the colors were so clear and each feared the other. Having their color pollute the globe and **** others. Having them create a place where no color would exist. Duck and cover, their philosophy if the other color wanted to teach a permanent, self-harming deadly lesson. Blue was free, and Red strong. But after fighting monsters so huge who knew how it could have turned out. I’m just happy I have an internet connection and a nice home. My life was changed by brawls of colors, and it still is. Somebody else has adopted a different hue of red this time though….
Talking about the Cold War I guess. Just a prose one.
Pagan Paul Dec 9
Henry VIII was a deluded monarch,
he could never have ruled the Earth,
for he hasn't seen his **** for years,
hiding beneath the bulk of his girth.

And wobbling onto the battle field
is not the behaviour fit for a King,
he would have to sit nursing his cysts
and hoping the ointments don't sting.

His eating excess was cause for concern
but his syphilis remained largely unseen,
and one really has to feel so sorry for
whomever it is that is currently Queen.

His penchant for young and younger Ladies
made him a stranger to baths and soap,
and his bed hopping antics to sire a son
bought him much trouble from the pope.

© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)
Irreverent look at history :)
Desire Dec 5
We all got stories.
Stories are life's language;
language impacts perception - our
own, others, and nations.
"Stories dispossess, stories malign,
stories empower, stories humanize,
stories rob and break dignity,
stories repair whats broken..."
Single stories are scanty.
All stories, stitched together,
complete the composition of you.
Many stories matter - yours.
If your life were a book,
what would people read about?
We all got stories.
Share them. All of them.
[they MATTER]
XIII. Making History
Inspired by Chimamanda Adichie's speech, "The Danger of a Single Story."
Originally written/posted: 20181202
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