The end to his potential was swift

They'd told him after all, he had no gift

There was nothing for him to share

No reason for him to care

Why should he ever dare..?

Putting himself out there..?

Best to stay invisible

In the corner of the eye, dismissable

"Nothing to see here"

Just unworthiness and fear

They'd told him after all, there was no hope

The best choice for him, was the rope.

Once
in the old neighbourhood

I had never felt more beautiful
and unafraid.

But I am afraid now
as you stalk near.

My words are naked babies
and I must run.

Swifter beasts than me
have not survived

the chase
across the savannah.

You too struck
quick as lightning.

Do they willingly give up
their bodies and blood?

Are they all too happy
to submit to death?

But I,
I just wanted to get out alive.

the heart
cannot repair
the heart
in much despair
the heart
missing these pair
the heart
feels the unfair

exiled from the venue
our writing brothers
their words expelled
by unseen smothers

swift the extradition
of a movement quick
the removal done
with a rapidness of click

no more seeing the
works they did ably create
our kinsmen vanishing
off the forum's slate

the heart languishing
without our kindred
being around
the heart so dispirited
their expression fell
silent of sound

A tailor bird, though busy wanted to stitch the best
of clothes for me to wear , in a fair, getting nearer,
so thankful, I was, though it'd hardly fit a man
of my size, I bow my head, overwhelming is her love!

The swift, I always admire for her speed, promises
to take me for an arial tour, 100 km an hour, no less
all 148gm, of love is she !though I appreciate that,hardy can
I fly with this tiny parcel of energy, many a kin whose love
again is hard to reciprocate, unless I realize we all are one.

By Arcassin Burnham

Cause I'm in some rough headspace,
But only in the state of confusion,
Saving all of the ******* for later
Then each time getting a bad result,
It's not my fault,
I will forever and always be a prison,
Kissing doesn't help,
She told me what was my mother like,
And I said just a twisted version of me,
Then she asked about my father,
I said i didn't have one but guess that's every
Black boy's dream,
And it's also not easy being 18 years old,
With no job and disfunctional family,
Now you see,
With a swift pen,
I write poetry,
To escape the harsh reality
Of even being on this planet
And people that have special needs,
And what I need is a non purposeful life
To have meaning,
Now let's talk about you cause
It's enough about me.