Never ask a poet what they think about the things that matter. They will not give a definite answer for their hearts tend to ache somewhat too severely and even then some things are better left unsaid unfinished in a black and white world where any shade of grey is a crime somewhere over the rainbow in a place where it is the safest to not be there at all or else you are certainly the one to blame even if the lace is buried deep within your overwhelming guilt and shame hidden under all the what ifs and pleats and somewhere deeper yet there is the quietest of voices too afraid to speak of the bruises left on the inside of her thighs and within her heart the voice of reason that tells you please don’t walk down that alley keep your friends close and the keys in your hand closer keep your head up high and your hopes down low or whatever else makes sense in this dog eat dog world where everything you will ever know will be shredded and recycled oh, if only to be crushed into a pulp and spoon-fed to another generation diluted with careful consideration into a day-in day-out nine to five not even a cog in the machine a ***** at best and you will be ******* tightened up more and more until you can’t hold it together and whatever it takes falls apart into pieces broken glass on the asphalt a hole in the wall that sinking feeling where a soul should be but the angels don’t visit anymore or answer our prayers the line is always busy there is always something else something more important a bullet in the bible escalating into emergency but who is out there for the unarmed boy dying on the sidewalk misjudged for the colour of his skin who is out there to stop the hand of a father suspended in mid-air with the children cowering at his feet who is out there for the American dream turning into a global nightmare who can tell the pending future staring down the barrel of the gun wondering which side you should be on and what of that which you call freedom only to trade it for martyrdom what of candour and justice and their antonymous nature what of the artists and the poets and everyone else that took a shot but didn’t even come close living in a daydream playing from the same broken record telling us that there is meaning and there is worth in the things we do except that from time to time the needle would skip distorting the vision and at times like these it’s the easiest to look away for every scratch on the surface of reality encourages you simply to pull the trigger
No. I will not, I refuse to let this get the best of me. The pen is a blade. I slit my wrist and pour my heart out onto the page instead. This is a sacrifice I am willing to make. I will tear myself apart on my own terms. If I cannot do it myself, who else will?
My most recent poem for my university class, inspired by the likes of Baraka and Ginsberg. Prompt given to us was "protest poetry".
I grow exhausted at the exuberance of crowds. Not able to ignore that nagging voice that whispers the evils of them Feelings of fear overpower the simple formula of conversation Jutting into remind me of my appearance compared to theirs - Too weak to fight against it.
It’s not easy to speak my mind. Never daring to even introduce myself Following a very strict line Just taking each day step by step - Thinking someday I’ll be able to explain.
Inside, I judge everything. New situations make the feelings shake Fear and turbulence expand within Jaw clenched and sweaty palms - Thin skin begins to bruise.
Introverted and intuitive Nervous, yet calm From day to day Just a puppet - To a never-ending nightmare
It is sudden and total distinguishing and dangerous fluctuating and gives no warning occurring frequently but is always present relatively a much more complicated phenomenon the initiation is dark and repeated in very large numbers different members fracture from the tension gradually the level strain will yield but then time can and will vary until we’re static again.
Source: Richard G. Budynas and J. Keith Nisbett, “Shigley’s Mechanical Engineering Design”, McGraw Hill, 2015
The translucent glass Small vines wrap around It connects the inside to the outer shell The bones of hollow And the gloss of blues Vivid to the eye Reflections of light show themselves The small mysteries of earthy heavens The sounds of frigid winds carry The small angels of earth They blend and blind the blood ones Those who stalk its lusterful beauty To watch it float is like to watch a tear fall Fall from the eyes of innocence Glowing with flames of ice Perpetual harmonious laughter Ringing like small myths to the eyes Glorious creature they are Glorious they will be, Those who fly
Inspiration from Dr. Faustus, giving light to darkness