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the truth
It's simple, It's sweet

no one can handle you
expect you

you're transformed by these words
these thoughts
these emotions
you're shackles

you write the story

and I, What I want

the truth
It's simple, it's sweet

for us, you and I, to meet
by chance
one day

when time collides

in a corner cafe
maybe at the bus stop

I read the story

I'm transformed by these words
these  thoughts
these  emotions
my shackles

and you, What you want

It's simple, It's sweet
the truth
Love crooned to Fear
"Hello my dear,
what shall be of our dreams?"
Fear replied
"They shall be naught
but memories of our
slumbering hopes"
Love shook their head
"Fear, my sweet,
when will you learn?"
Fear sighed,
"Perhaps never my Love."
"Oh Fear, you're shackled to
yourself. Let go, Fear,
my dearest."
but Fear was afraid
and could not unlock himself
for his Love.
Love wept,
for loving someone, is the truest
love is one of the greatest fears we experience.
“for when the mind has no solution to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement, the poet’s desperation equals theirs”

The Bus Poet Stop “The Glass Shackles” ^


~this one for Eliot York, who gave us a great gift - opportunity~


The mandated city buses are largely denuded of passengers,
so the drivers, peruse the enriched, enforced silenced life of the
streetscape, and as they pass, call-out a fisherman’s plaintive wailing,
“here we are, where are you, do we exist?” Too few nibble “I am!”

Bus Poet Stops, stumbles on an older writ, now seemingly prophetic,
once again, he is back, living in a glass shackled confinement,
his 16th floor perch, besmirched, the mirthless empty outside well matched by the isolation inside him, a new kind of shackling bereft.

For these glass shackles are not new, but different, the glass is poorly blown, cloudy, pockmarked with air bubbles entrapped, useless
for fresh breathing, many containing a question mark, some ask
what, others when/where shelter, all, harsh pleading tones, why me?

“For when the mind has no solution” poet wrote in twenty eighteen,
unaware that this predictive value would return to rent & render mean,
his composure, no longer a savior, now he weeps copiously for thee,
those that he, in prior life, came to save, now too, another faceless face.

no, no!

Your writing saves self, and a thousand more, you infiltrate, penetrate     our conjoined quiet, giving name to each of our unsalted tears, no fear poems that make us say, Merry, Merry to us all; God bless us, every one! Bus Poet head-hung, shamed, pained, looks away, mask-covers-gratitude.

Rough and tumbling times, we discount ourselves blameless, but voices
say time for gifting varietals of solace mysterious, this! is your business!
words, instruct to touch, to transport us on a poet’s bus to Delirious,
enable arrival+survival to destiny’s destination, “for all, a good night!”

Fri May 1
twenty twenty

in anno autem coronavirus plaga
from NYC, the. epicenter
Łëïçkî Jan 22
Maybe I should leave him.
I can see the pain settling in his eyes as he stares me down eyebrows crinkling in pity.
"Why don't you fix your sleep schedule?"
It sounds like code for,
"Why don't you fix yourself?"
I tell him I can't. I tell him that I've been trying.
But he can't see it.
The shackles, the ball and chain.
The shadows that appear even when there is no light.
He can't hear them.
The demons in my mind whispering self hatred.
Maybe I should leave him/
I can't explain to anyone what I am, how I feel, what I'm doing.
I'm tired of trying to explain, exhausted from trying to live a life that I don't want and trying to change.
What a cruel word.
What a sad reminder that pain is all I possess.
I shackled myself and I should leave.
Before I shackle him too.
I dragged the one light in my life through the mud and he paid the price
Mary Frances Nov 2019
I love to see you fly freely
without the shackles that bind you to me
without the thin red string that connects us
without the belief that we're meant to be.

I love to see you fly freely
with all the love I can give
with all the wish I can whisper
with all the smile I offer for your dreams.

I want you to be free
Not looking back to what you'll leave behind.
Free from worries of what should have.
Free from worries of what should be.
They ask, why care so much?
Simple, my ancestors blood and bones
are the foundation of this nation.

But that isn't your blood or mine?
We have come a long way!
True but broken chains
don't free us from shackles,
and half measures
can’t get us across the finish line.

If you hate it so much leave!
In case you missed point one
I'd much rather fix what's broken.
I want to make sure that the stacked deck
is reshuffled. That kids don't have to grow up
in war zones, where the only way out is debt
or a casket. Where people don’t get to profit
from the very thing that took others freedom.
I want a playing field that all can use,
where the rules make sense and the enforcers
are kind. Where I'm not the oddity
for never having been behind bars.
That people realize that there's more
to our culture than our bars.
I'm over the 40 acres
I want 24 Oscar's. Maybe then I'll see
myself on more than just ESPN and MTV.

Others have it far worse than you!
Well then let's elevate them too.
A rising tide raises all ships.
So let's create a flood that washes
out the hate. When will people realize
that we aren't enemies. That the system
crushing you is already destroying me.
If they can put people in cages for where
they were born then Eastside or south
of the border are just bad hands we are dealt.
I don’t know how to fix it
but I care too much to be quiet.
So thanks for reading my thoughts,
but will you stay silent?
My raw feelings this Juneteenth 2019
Anastasia Jun 2019
Cut my throat and let me bleed.
Your silence, love, is killing me.
A bomb went off inside my head.
But sadly, love, I’m not dead.
Not yet. Not yet. (I’m not dead)
Get out of my head. (I’m almost dead)
I’m not dead. (Not yet. Not yet)
These shackles are cutting my skin.
I don’t want to let the darkness in.
They’re sharp, so sharp.
The shards of a broken heart.
Get out of my head.
I’m not dead yet.

Hold me close
The blood is flowing
I'm not dead yet
But I might be going
Paint the roses red
With the dripping from my head
I'm not dead yet (Not yet),
Slit my throat
And watch me bleed
Your absence, love, is killing me
A bomb went off inside my head
But sadly love
Sadly love
Sadly love
(I'm not dead yet)
A song started. Thought I’d post ig. Might add more later (updated, due to the love I've received ❤)
Bus Poet Stop Apr 2019
not much he reasons, resonating the question,
in the resounding places where both are congruent kept

we talk of lines all the time, line divisors of our
denominators and our numerators,
but truth and secrets are 1/1
so the rational number is always one indivisible whole,
with liberty for both,
the glass shackles^
be broken

but let us not dance around the marshmallow fire,
while watching clocks melt as our memory persists,
so secrets and truths have a rigorous solute/solution relationship,
yet, the dividing line melts over time and the answer

in all the poems that the body worked,
with experience, you can see the works becoming
the body solution blended,
undefined admixture, defined, refined, all just fine,
for the microscopic difference is in the eye of the beholder
but requires breaking
the glass shackles^

one will enchain
one will set you free
when their meld is melted
Nemis Apr 2019
There's an invisible monster,
Who's holding me in its shackles.
And we share a great bond,
Not the one meant to be broken.
I'm a puppet, with anger as the strings
And he's my master, controlling me from within.
I'll never let it go, because I adore him so
And he's forever with me, even if I want to let it go.
It's about how the negativity controls us, makes us lose our mind and makes us pretty much a puppet is like.
Shea Nov 2018
I walk with a straggle,
The chains become tighter with
Every step.
You see, this is my reason for
Giving up.

"You hold the key
to your own shackles"

I can set myself free,
With what ambition,
when my hands are tied?
What's the point of changing
When I've lied
For them to Believe I'm fine?

They say you can change,
They say it's possible to Believe
In something other than pain.
For this, I won't give up.
For this, I'll keep going
Until my hands don't reach
As low as my shackles hang.
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