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?A question mark tattooed on my forehead.
Still so many questions.
Why is it so difficult to live but even so much harder to die???
And you’ll remain a dream to me.
But I’m gonna enjoy every bit of it.?
08-08-20
My mother told me to leave my mark
wherever I went.
When I asked her what did she mean,
She told me,
How she wanted me to leave
my name and my brand
as a symbol and signature
of my 'identity'.

'Identity', how would it look like...
Will it be tall so that it can
reach success even without climbing up.
Will it be hour-glass with curves
large enough to be liked.
Will it be fair so that it can be lonely too.
Will it be rich so that it can purchase Bugatti and Bentley.
Will it be smart so that it can create its success if it is not provided with any.
Will it be beautiful so that it can make people stop and stare.
Will it be kind so that it heals and saves what has been killed.
Or will it be soft so that it weighs every word before it speaks?

But then my mother told me your identity is 'you'.
But I cannot become my identity because I am not a signature to be looked at or a mark to be left.

So when I looked up in the dictionary
I found how mark is synonymous for
1.Stain
that I got on my sweatpant this morning.
2.Bruise
that has covered my neck like a mosaic painting.
3.Scratch
that has been carved on my legs by my own hands.
4.Blemish
that I have thrown on my parent's name and 'identity'.
5.Blot
that has covered my pages and hands because my pen is broken.
6.Scar
that stays on my heart.
7.Label
that I have put on myself and let others call me by it.
8.Identity
that I do not have.

My mother told me to leave my mark wherever I went.
But, wherever I went,
I gained one.
Ylzm Jul 2
Sine qua non and election's affirmation
Knowing the unwritten and unrevealed
But, alas enlightened eyes see not its kind
Adrift in sea of strangers bearing the mark of man
muteD Jun 27
not a flicker, nor a flame.‬
‪always invisible, unknown by name.‬
‪so now it is up to me‬
‪to leave a mark,‬
‪to go out with a bang‬
‪and leave my art.‬

‪-mD‬
There was this tweet that told us to write based on the picture that had attached .. it was my first time ever doing something like that and I only did it to see if I could.

Honestly I wish you guys could see the picture. Nonetheless, I’m really proud of this especially since I haven’t written any poetry all month.
As often is the case…the “word” that beckoned came at dawn,
and, as the slave this made of me…I rose to heed its call.
The early morn intruder that aroused me from my sleep
was begging for appeasement from the room just down the hall.

Self rebuked and chastised for the many times I’d lain
and disregarded - recklessly - the little voice I’d heard,
I stumbled down the hallway, and I slid into my chair,
then cracked my knuckles wide awake, and pounded out the word.

The uninvited word…that found its way into my head.
The alphabetic prowler who’d intruded on my dream.
The tiny bunch of letters that would disrespect my sleep,
and join - without permission - my creative writing team.

Ordinary? Yes! But tiny universes dwell
in certain words and phrases we all use from day to day.
And…as a poet…I’m inclined to meld these little bits
to cast the clear and simple “desperate truths” I mean to say.

Every language has them. They are common…and routine.
They’re easy to pronounce…and understood by one and all.     
And I will always ply my trade in verse with “simple terms,”
to forge my gems of wisdom, in the room just down the hall.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve waked up during the night and been tortured by a particular word or phrase that simply begs to be woven into a new poem. I’m sure that many poets and lyricists have had this same experience. Far too often I’ve failed to get it jotted down, and been haunted for several days by not being able to rediscover that little “gem”.
Here’s a common story in the world of would-be writers.
There’s not a thing about this tale that…sadly…isn’t true.
Your manuscript is finally done, you’ve proofed it several times, and, after waiting several months, your editor is through.

You try to represent yourself to publishers you feel
are sure to love your work - based on their advertising claims -
Only to discover that they’ll only take submissions
from writers who have agents…or already famous names!

The mem’ry this evokes in me is terribly parallel.
So clearly I still see the fleeting figure that I chased
That Sunday afternoon we gathered, as we often did,
to play our favorite football game: “Two-hands-below-the-waist.”

Only nine showed up that day (we almost played with eight),
but brother, Marty, called a friend, and so, we had our ten.
We became concerned when Marty pointed at the end zone
and told the guy, “If we can get the ball to there…we win,

“But…if somebody touches you - two-hands-below-the-waist -
you have to stop…the ‘play’ is done…and then you start again.
In 4 attempts we need to move the ball down - 2 white lines -
to get another 4 attempts…it’s called a ‘first and ten.’ ”

Everybody realized this guy had never played,
but Marty’s team would get him…after all…he’d called the guy.
They could only hope he’d do the things they told him to,
and probably felt that…if they lost…he’d be the reason why.

I remember, vividly, quite early in the game
(it couldn’t have been ten minutes since the playing had begun),
They sent him down the field about ten yards to catch a pass.
He actually caught it pretty clean…and then began to run.

We’d fin’ly lost possession only ten yards from their end zone,
so…consequently… Marty’s guy had ninety yards to go.                  
I thought I had him cornered when I went to make the tag,
and how he got away from me - I swear I’ll never know!

But “get away” he did…so there I was, in hot pursuit.
And, as it was expected, I was quickly closing ground.
After all…my room at home had trophies wall to wall,
and most of them for track...I was the fastest guy around.

But as I tried my best to close the gap on Marty’s buddy
(and I was running very hard - I thought my lungs would bust),
Just as I was getting close…he shifted into high…
and even at my strongest pace…he left me in the dust!

A very average looking chap…he didn’t seem the type…
yet, there he was…the fastest guy that we had ever seen.
The makings of a super star, yet no one knew his name
before the day he blew our minds…and that is what I mean

When I proclaim the foolishness of closing ears and eyes
to anyone because you simply…do not know their name.
Those you’ve never heard of might contribute something special, and I assert - it’s often wise to…let them in the game.
This piece is based on a true story from back in my high school days - in the 60s. A foreign exchange student, from Africa, named Jimmy Gee, (sp?) who I'm sure had never experienced "track", ran away from me, a blue ribbon track stud, like I was on crutches. It was awesome! I hope he's done well.
One hand over the blade, another over the face
Breath in deeply and take a swing
Ignore the screaming, feel nothing
For he is smiling
For what you are sacrificing

So take a drink, have a sip
Pay no mind to what drips
Your mind has gotten dark
Your soul brands his mark
Hold your tongue and tell no secrets
For ignorance is bliss
Here in the apocalypse.
Ylzm Apr 15
When love grows cold, we buy and sell
For we rather ******* than despair
—the fighting spirit empowering the Beast—
But love waits, in pain, crying silently unseen
No exchange without the mark of the Beast
Driving to desperation and worship
Those who live by their wits and arms
COVID19 will expose who these are
The Foody One Apr 14
Leaving you
was
heart-breaking,
soul-breaking -
Everything-breaking.

But in the end,
I’m happy
I got to love you;

You got it, too:
to love somebody -
doesn’t fade from view.
© 25/03/20

Remembering old grief.
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