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i wish i were normal
do normal things when i go out
being attracted to normal people
i wish the way I dress sometimes were normal
i wish for my expressions to be common,
to see the world as it truly is
to have normal dreams,
and a normal state of mind
making me a confortable person to keep around
and a perfectly normal person for being loved.
not belonging in the world ain’t fun ngl
Legs more fragile than glass.
You pluck them off one by one.
This is why the other kids keep their distance.
Messy hair and stained white shirts.
The laughing stock of this tiny stage.
Stare at your feet,
Velcro sketchers covered in sand.
Pensai Jan 22
Alone, cold,
Misunderstood.
Fighting a battle that began before our conception.
Cursed. The physical manifestation of ones fathers mistake.
Emotions removed, confiscated. No longer relevant.
Useless.
Sympathy lost when love failed us.
Patience is the only retribution.
The endangered struggling black father.
On the verge of self destruction.
Restricted from the love of his own life force.
With no direction. No support.
Intense emotions personified by a series of precise phrases representing static progress and consistent negligence.
Our efforts are never enough.
Our words mean nothing.
Our concerns, suppressed.
Our worries, neglected.
Our respect, vaporized.
Our life. Devalued.
The endangered species

The struggling black father...
Depression can be detrimental to a Black Father determined to defy history. Men struggle. Men fail. Sometimes life deals us a ****** hand that takes time to play through. But society has no patience for a man in the process of bettering himself. Especially a father....
I was a piece more or less,
Unfit in the puzzle of society,
Framed and judged,
Broken and scraped,
Torn to the base.

I stood to be the thinker,
With thoughts as the mate,
As the wife is too a husband,
I kept courting with anxiety,
Maybe sometimes with fear,
Or with shame that world-acclaimed,
As the flaws of being me.

I stood there many times,
Neither to be oriented,
Nor to be included,
Just to be accepted with love,
As a poison is to nectar,
I was the toxin to them  
I was discarded and treated,
To purify the viciousness,
An be a part of the deprived fellowship.

I can't stand anymore there,
With the crime of resistance,
To not oblige with the rules,
As a cage is to the bird,
Statutes were the prison,
To my solivagant soul .

Shredded with the conclusions
I was qualified as an outcast,
Neither a human,
Nor a living being
All it was a prolonged-term
As a slave is to the master,
I was chained to the phrase.
To be always smashed,
Under the debts of acceptance.
From expecting to accepting.......
Tam Jan 9
My surroundings
reflect
all of the
craziness
in my
mind.

Where do I start?

Where do I go?

How do I keep
my demons
under control?

Perhaps,
I should
put a noose
around their neck
and
pull tighter
every time
one takes over.

Because I want to thrive!

Who wants to be
lost in
the cage
that holds them?

I want to
articulate words together
in a
beautiful and eloquent way.

I want the world
to listen
as my thoughts
dance on paper.

Freedom
isn’t this
daily grind
society
forces us into…

But, alas!
We must work.  

We have to do something.

Don’t we?

We have
bills to pay
and
children to feed.

Should we
give up hope?

This is unfair!
And, yes.
I’m mad.
I am so…
Ugh!

I can’t find the words.  
Isn’t that typical?

A poet so lost
in thought
that their poetry
resembles a bowl of
alphabet soup
that
spilled onto the page…

Word *****---  that’s what it is.

But, what about this daily grind?

Society slaves
away
at corporations.

Is that my fate?  
Is that what I have to do?
  
Because God…
and
I only
use that as
an expression…

This is not what I want!
  
Do I really have to
slave away
at the bottom
of the pit
before pursuing
all of my dreams?
  
Do I need to
work jobs
that will only
leave me more
lifeless?
  
Oh, and by way…

Why would anyone
want me to
work for them?
  
I complain a lot,
but for good reasons.  

The world
is
cruel
and
unfair.

As children,
we are
full of life,
curiosity,
and joy.
  
Somewhere
down the line,
that changes.

We laugh.

We cry.

We sing.

We shout.  

We hurt.

We play.

We work.

and

We forget about ourselves.

We
become cynical
because of
our life experiences.

We’re told
we are special,
but then
we find others
who are more special.

How
are we
supposed to feel?  

How
could anyone be
happy with this?

And,
I feel like
I don’t make sense...
but
Dear Reader,
please forgive me.

I’m
a ball of
cotton candy
mixed with
a load of sprinkles
on top of a
cake.

I
know
that’s random.

You
don’t have to
tell me.
  
It’s the
thoughts
that came to
mind.

I’m silly.  

I’m serious.

I’m a curious child.  

I’m a cynical adult.

I’m full of empathy,
but
I’m also a face of misanthropy.

I’m a dreamer…
but I get
pulled down
to
Earth
too often.
  
I am light.  

I am dark.  

I am  
one part
“Yes, I can!”

and

one part
“No, I can’t…”

I am
the voice
that
screams within.
  
I am
The Contradicting Soul

and

I
will not fit
into
society’s mold.
I'm a slob.

I wrote this years ago when I was looking at all of the mess I'd made.  

In that moment, tho, instead of seeing the mess as something to be corrected,
I saw it as art.  

I imagined myself painting a portrait of the mess and turning it into a beautiful masterpiece.  

But, IDK how to paint.

So, I wrote this.
This lifestyle is so Un_ fortunate
And the burden that I bear on the regular
Is so Un_ fortunate
So should I go and
Report this
To all of these.. Dead.. corpses?
For my life is like.. An open grave
But this is not the way
That I imagined it
In the first place
Change Coarse
Yo.. I must abort this
And I mean this in the worst way
Cause I'm always being Cautious
Feeling nauseous in the worlds
Cockpit
Showing signs of Neglect
Guess I'm a Reject
Time to hit the Eject
Like invading Martians
In your state of... Conscience
And plus it's kinda common
For me to feel this way sorta... Often
Cause people always try to place me
In a Box
Like in a small Box Set
Like a foreign object
For a Hobby
But I must Object!!
Cause I'm not some freaking object
that you can place inside a Coffin
after you plan... Autopsy
Yo.. I prefer to be the Opposite
And change my position
I must oppose... The Opposition
Man.. I rather live by my own will
By my own Intuition
By my own Prophecy
Much like a lone PrOphET
With a bad case... of Moxie
May call it false proxy in the
Proximity
Which in the case for thee
Apparently
Just may be unbearably
Or at least for Me

Is so Un_ fortunate?
Nolan Willett Nov 2020
Just one, red rose,
Red lips, cute nose,
A smile, bright eyes,
An hour, time flies,
Dancing, the rain,
Car drive, fast lane,
Forget, the time,
Useless, bad rhymes,
A drink, or two-
No, never that few-
The future, the past,
The outcasts, outlast.
Rollercoaster Nov 2020
The day he walked in that door
was the day he was destined to die.
He lay his foot inside the door
and the other one concurrently came out.
He transposed his clothes
but they ceased to cover his body.
The scarlet coat was left hanging
in the closet with his soul.
Indicted with crimes
that he must not have been penalized for.
And bashed by society
with their spiteful words like arrows.
Met his lover
but was parted by the injudicious laws.
Left skint and lacerated
with the epithet of an outcast.
Alien tears fill for him
and outcasts pay their homages.
No statue of air was this man
yet hard labor was all he was given to build it out of stone.
His teacher later delineated him as a blot on their tutorship.
For he was but a tutor.
De Profundis
spoke of his anguished journey.
Victorian times
disagreed with his originality and frolic.
He told
platonic love was all he was guilty of.
Yet,
he was charged with crimes.
Drowned in cries of shame;
and incarcerated to rip him off his passion.
Something was dead in him,
and what was dead was hope.
Hope died first
and then gradually died the passion.
In exile,
his love for writing too deceased.
The daemon inside him
ceased to inspire.
God sent the lord of death
The lord of death
didn’t move around pompously like him.
But came announced,
for it had been accepted.
The wallpaper moaned
upon his untimely death.
For it desired to die
instead of the then mincing man.
He left the earthly plains
for the good have fewer days.
The good die young
as did the revered outcast.
Herodotus the father of history
unerringly expressed the good ones’ misery.
He repudiated to deny his soul
and lived nonchalantly.
He desired all the fruits of the world
so he lived.
Exile ruined him
and rent his ardor.
His meetings with his lover
were interdicted by his family.
He was pardoned
but a century too late.
Along with the outcasts
that lived in throbbing pain.
The outcast deceased when young
but lived indefinitely.
Infinite existence is promised
for the ***** was silver-tongued.
He died young
and roams the immortal planes.
Just like Alan Turing,
Bhagat Singh, JFK, and countless more.
God wanted them
for they wanted to augment their heavens.
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