I shortened my name
not out of shame
but merely to be a hero and save...
you
The embarrassment of not being able to say
and you cannot say this is not true
That when you read my name it confuses you
How the Brie is like cheese
and the Ana is pronounced foreignly
Put together
having no meaning;
To you.
But to me it's originality makes me
me
A shortened name carries a long line of pain
A name that no one can understand because it's always being changed

It's easy to write a poem.
It's hard, however, to write a piece of originality : something where you don't fear people are reading it thinking "Where have I seen this before?".
No clichés, no copying, no integrating bits of your work and bits of others, always give credit where credit is due. Etcetera.
But that's not really what poetry is about.
I guess, in my own words and understanding of it, it's just about expression and ideas and spilling words onto pages that you could never say aloud.
I guess it comes from the abyss within yourself.
Where, in your heart, letters swim in pools of emotions waiting to be saved and salvaged.
And in your mind, they are forming in an orderly line waiting to be made sense of.
Maybe none of this makes any sense.
Or maybe it does.
I once heard the expression : "Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I've ever known."
And that's the **** truth.

I wrote something that I did not mean
When I write that, I feel it’s unseen

In real, I make someone else’s thought mine
Publicize it and leave others to opine

These actually are one liner’s lifted from popular text
I dissemble and exude that I take my life at best

I am the ideal of all humans in my words
For similar situation in real, I am truly reverse

My online life is most beautiful on earth
Whereas offline, I am rehashing in vain to cover up dearth

My posts are full of inspiration and energy
If you meet me in real I am full of lethargy

Why dupe to be a connoisseur and be a commonplace
At least quote the source, give true author some space

Be eclectic and original in expression
Write such that it’s never been done

*Bharti

I can’t hear what you’re saying anymore

Because you all sound the same

What happened to originality?

When poems didn't always reference the sun, tidal waves, and ever abiding seas?

What happened to poems filled with truth, artists that don’t lie

It seems that all art work sounds exactly the same; love, pain, suffering, and then you die

Why can’t you spit the truth across your pages

Why can artists no longer write things about the past ages

How hard is it to let the ink spill-

In such a way that tells what you real feel?

All the ******* lies convincing people your art is... “art”

Well, it’s no longer original, it no longer comes from the heart

Your mind is your own, if you just be yourself you’d see

Not all artist “dot their I's and cross their T’s”

It’s sloppy, its raw and it’s real, breathe truth into your words

Because all we really are is words;

what you speak is everything that’s heard.

Should I wake up, or should I not?
Reality weighs lighter in my sleep of no thought
Oh that what I see would be but mere dreams
Then sleep would be sweet and not a mirage like it seams

Should I get up, or should I not?
What makes it my business when my hand is not sought?
Here in my comfort zone it feels more than home
Why should I take a stand when I can’t change the Norm?

Should I speak up, or should I not?
I wonder if they need to be told things of this sort
It may be I posterity awaits to make the truth sound
And if they heard it once then it is I who should make it resound

Your perception of me pre-existed, you saw black and you felt danger, you saw my skin and with it painted a personality from the prejudice of your mind.

You don’t know me, yet you assume that I am just like every other dark skinned man out there.

So that is why I feel angry when you cram yourself in the corner of elevators, if you could only realize I am the one who is truly backed into a corner, provoked by your ignorance, until I become what you painted me.

With your judging eyes, cautious smiles, and nervous actions you made me this way when in the beginning I was just me. Now after all you have done, and all I have done, I’m just trying to be me again.
I just want to be me.

Everyone’s dead.
But yet some dead are alive.
They become spectators
And stand motionless as life passes by.
They’re the shores of the ocean
Eaten away by the waves,
They’re the leaves of the autumn
Influenced easily to find shelter far, far away.
They’re the rays of the sun
That disappear at night,
But then, they become the darkness
That reminds me of the blindness of their own sight.
Torn apart by forces
they try to find their soul
on a game of hide and seek
they struggle to become one of their own.
They try not to betray themselves
by making sounds in silence
they try to allure the proud white moon
and meekly learn how they can emit some of its brightness

Obedience and defiance are so **** cliché
It reminds me of something all our teachers like to say

"Think OUTSIDE THE BOX"

What box??
Have I gone blind?
Did my originality get forgotten, all alone and left behind

NO

It's not a bad thing not to see
The 'box' is something used to control both you and me

Caught somewhere between my vision of Hell and yours,
I was shown the truest meaning of the place.
Where an eager mind and playful soul is forced to all fours,
And told that they mustn't wear their true face.

They manufacture devils in the name of social grace.
They'll strip you of your pride and **** you to your core,
And it isn't done until you've been cast to the rat race,
Just to be reminded that your life's become a bore.

But I won't be a cog within their cold and ****** machine;
No, I'll never let them chip away who I am for their fair trade.
They manufacture devils, yet have the gall to call me mean.
I say I'm every bit the demon that you ******* made!