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Mose Oct 2020
I’m scared that I have nothing left to speak of.
All my poems pour art of misery.
Making statues of our grief.
Filling the museum of my life’s ruins.
They tell me to smile it will make me more pretty like the art on the wall.
So, I paint love I never seen.
Polishing myself to be left on the shelf.
The art sees more truth than I.
Being loved for what is something I don’t know of.
Crossed legged, fingers intertwined.
Praying was a virtue I could only dream of.
I just needed to plead with someone other than myself.
Knees marry the ground as I have with my loss.
Who am I passed this pain?
Begging for an identity even if its not my own.
Ask yourself who is the lead character without their role?
Is there a story even to tell?
So, I reflect everything that is shown to me.
The art and I are only a muse.
A showcase of words that cannot be spoke.
An example of what could be.
A life in the mirror of what should be.
My art on the wall is painted with misery & so am I.
Afiifa Jeylani Oct 2020
Scramble for Africa,
Like pieces on a board game
North, south, east and west
Plains leading every way.

They don't have Bibles,
they don't have faith?
Perhaps it is time
we teach them of our ways.

Let us begin by erasing their past,
let's take some of their artefacts,
hang them in our museums;
admire our murderous past.

Afiifa Jeylani ©️
Truth hurts but lies ****... Happy Black History Month from London
Meysa Apr 2020
you tiptoe around them
as though they are museums
paintbrush in hand to dust their
egos
veil in hand to clothe their
insecurities
but tell me,
how do the exhibitionists serve you?
- the exhibitionist is a person who behaves in extravagant ways intended to attract attention, often a narcissist.
Peyton James Feb 2019
From agony fell I, to listless dreams,
Forsaken moments, bleeding memories,
A forgotten web, pulling at the seams,
The burnt out star from Heaven’s treasuries.
Remembering the span of wings in flight,
The depth and breadth of oceans underneath,
Awakens sickly thoughts of human might,
With pins and glass to keep me from the heath.
The glittering of stars, I’ll never see,
I’m blinded, shackled, prisoner for life,
Impaled to wood, “This butterfly was free!”
The epitaph to nature’s bitter strife.
        And yet, by heaven, I think my charms rare.
        My beauty encased, nothing can compare.
I think a lot about pinned butterflies.
Yuki Jan 2019
We are all museums
of anger and discontent
and we feel obligated to
show our artworks
to the world.
Kellin Feb 2018
Here is to the wreckage we are.
The strength of war running through our veins,
Bruises that burn our insides,
The hollowness of our right chest cavity,
The hurt in our eyes,
The loneliness,
Let me make museums of it all
Kellin Dec 2017
You saw museums
in me
where
I saw empty hallways
Aaron LaLux Oct 2017
Mumok Museum

What am I doing in Vienna,
staring at art as the world burns,
in city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that seem rather uninspiring,

where’s the inspiration gone,
why does everything seem so tiring,
it seems we’re on the verge of a collective mental breakdown,
the system’s short circuiting and could do with some rewiring.

Why does every rags to riches story I know,
end in an overpriced designer outfit all alone?

Why is Consumerism followed like a religion,

we don’t worship Jesus we worship Visa,
good credit better than good morals,
we don’t praise Muhammed in a daze with TV Dramas,
no Buddha just computers no real friends just PayPals,

and maybe that’s why we’d rather be blind than see,
maybe that’s why we hide in museums behind sunglasses,
but would you rather have expense tastes than be free,
because when you’re behind any type of four walls you’re trapped,

where in a Federal Pen with Madoff or a Penthouse with Paris in Paris,
either way we’re victims of our own restrictions trying to buy some more time to be,
but we’re running out of credit the banks are collapsing the recession is relapsing,
so why even try to by when we know not so secretly that only Love will truly set us free,

see,

the best things in life still are free,
and yeah liberation is expensive and self renovations are extensive,
but freedom is priceless,
and it seems that the Love Pyramid is the only pyramid that’s not a ponzi scheme,

because we are all equal even if we’re not all treated equally,
that’s why some have no clothes while others wear designer denim jeans,
but these Diesels are too tight on my thighs and this macabre carnival has no prize,
and I can do anything I want with my life but sometimes all I want to do is breather,

breathe,
breathe because this lifestyle is expensive,
but freedom is priceless,
even though they market it and try to price it,

I just,
want to find a place to relax and release,
all of this,
fck their politics,

fck their programs fck their projects,
fck their agendas dressed in artificial splendor,
fck their treating human beings as objects,
fck their consumerism culture of capitalists,

I just,
don’t know what else to say,
I don’t know why I’m at this museum in Vienna,
hiding on the top floor on a Sunday,

on the 5th floor I just want to give more,
just want to gift these words then make my escape,

just want to be alone,
but also want these words to be known,
but where do you go when you’re tired and over it all,
and you just want to rest but don’t have nor ever had a home,

hello,
could you please pick up the phone,
I’m calling because I still love you,
and I want to come back even though I’m already gone,

on the top floor of the Mumok museum in Vienna,
on the 5th floor to be exact,
and yeah it’s true that I don’t know where I’m going,
but what I do know is I don’t think I’m coming back,

online and off track,
writing more words that rhyme,
then any other living writer,
and that is an actual fact,

and yeah that’s a fact,
but I’m going to follow that with a question,
before I forget,
let me just ask what I am doing in Vienna,

what am I doing in Vienna,
staring at art as the world burns,
in city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that seem rather uninspiring,

where’s the inspiration gone,
why does everything seem so tiring,
it seems we’re on the verge of a collective mental breakdown,
the system’s short circuiting and could do with some rewiring.

Why does every rags to riches story I know,
end in an overpriced designer outfit all alone?

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
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