Damiam Vincent Henry

Damiam Vincent Henry Jul 2017

Dear Father
I heard stories, how you'd beat her,
from the neighbour,
when I was younger;

then you stole her___
mother's necklace, just to spoil your little lover.

Oh my mother!
You'd infect with a disease, so worse than cancer.

But my mother,
hid her pain; from any nosey commentator.
Because of you she had to suffer,
with *** it took a fighter.

You broke her heart,
But still she prayed for you to God.

When you ran off, leaving behind,
a diamond: "are you blind?"
But it's fine...she don't mind.
She just hoped, that you will find...

a little peace before you die,
when in pieces, and you try,
to correct the whitest lie...
that you told to other women, like my mother; what a guy!
I held her hand as she fell ill, but she never chose to cry,
she was stubborn; but forgave you right before she said goodbye.

But that's all I have to say,
so have a blessed Father's Day.

Damiam Vincent Henry Jul 2017

the life of pigeons

I miss that time
when people looked at pigeons,
dancing with the wind.
Now there's too much crime.
In my mind...
I wonder about, "the life of pigeons"

Our youth a blind like moles...
I hear their cry, their fear to die!
they can never be free
like pigeons in the sky.
I hear. Gunshots and bullet holes
and gangs go on a killing spree,
unexpected "shots with a vengeance"
leaving behind, "a thousand victims."
They won't know what the future holds
their stories, never to be told.
We don't hear it on the news,
or read them in the paper.
We remember, we remember!
They all come from a paradise,
where there's no one to be blamed,
and no one seeking fame,
trying to make a name;
their vision a little dim...
for they never knew how to dream,
the life of pigeons are freedom...
living life on the very fast lane.
But we're trying to play a game
where the devil will know your name.
Never living to coexist,
like pigeons up in the sky...
our morals irrelevant,
we're slaves to a government,
when slowly they suffocated,
their lives were all terminated.

If only we taught the young,
to dream while the road is strong.
Then reality will shape our visions,
no longer will our children,
be stuck in a world of violence.
In my mind, I
imagine "the life of pigeons."
When our young civilization,
is free like a pigeon, flying.

Damiam Vincent Henry Jul 2017

bitterness

She's in love with an alcoholic,
I find it a little scary,
that people can go and gossip,
not knowing what she is feeling.
Abuse that she has to face,
his anger she have to taste.
Her life is a metaphor,
but to him, she remains a "*****."
I wish I could tell you more,
when her man is a carnivore!
who re-arranges her face
then people pretend they're blind.
He loves it when she is crying--
she hates it when he's in commit,
her love doesn't have a limit;
evil will keep on winning--
the humble won't do a thing.
I find this a bit ironic,
how someone can be romantic
but ends up hallucinating--
with hate and a bottle ***.
To him, he's just having fun.
But he is the guilty one,
who never appreciates
the little that she might do.
When the only mistake she made,
was loving an alcoholic.

--------------------------------

Damiam Vincent Henry Jul 2017

inhale and exhale

Inhale and exhale
We breathe, but better when we sleep.
And move, as though a boat set to sail.

Our eyes, portrays the soulful strength,
And heart's character, made of iron...
Found deep, in the core of the earth,
Unmeasured as the sea or it's length,
And our wisdom defines their worth.
Our destiny, moulded since our birth,
To journey fearless, as though a lion.

A vision where our children can dream,
To tame their pride.
And nurture their self-esteem.
Where they run young, wild and free,
Refusing to hide...
As though a mighty tree.

Inhale and exhale
We stand, as though a mountain,
And survive, despite our pain.

Damiam Vincent Henry Jul 2017

black potato

I'm afraid she'll never be healed;
she had love, now this she'll lack.
A potato only turns black
when the skin is peeled.

He stripped her naked,
and she trusted,
every action but he never hesitated
to take all that she held sacred.
He turned everything to darkness,
now she's no longer a princess.

He was only filled with greed.
But he took her to his room,
Now she carries the little seed,
of the devil in her womb,

With the vision getting vague,
she's infected by a plague.
He caress her every muscle,
as if she was a puzzle,
then he broke her into pieces,
until a nightmare he releases.
He spent time to make her numb,
but too bad the girl was dumb,
he been acting like a charmer,
but intensions were to harm her.
He was smooth operating,
she couldn't help but to believe him,
he was honest and a gentleman,
exactly what she needed,
but little did she understand,
she'd be manipulated.
The man was on a killing spree,
her left her too with ***.

Damiam Vincent Henry Jul 2017

mannequins don't choose to cry

An anger boils inside them,
like a bursting lava,
making sounds of hidden pain,
and mixed emotions,
causing them to never smile
and technically,
who smiles when they are torn apart,
Just mannequins, though humans never cease to cry,
It makes my mind go vivid,
as I hear a thousand gunshots,
with these slingers so committed,
aiming guns at all these children,
from the slums, living in poverty.
No food to eat, and mothers, fathers,
all addicted, consciousness intoxicated
Alcoholics, junkies, hookers,
scrap collectors, non-supporters,
half of them are living with no,
life support, they can't afford,
to live without their souls,
seems like they need the Lord,
I see their bruises;
dead like mannequins...
living life so clueless,
but constantly they're used.
I see their wounds, they're bleeding, lying there in pain. They seem so numb, as though decaying...
And wounded by the hand of their oppressor, but they suffer,
while their wounds all look like bulletholes,
If only we could hear their cries, as though they were alive, if only mannequins were breathing, living,
don't you think we'll see, see the many bruises given by this life and all she gives, despite their wounds appearing hollow,
like they're bullet holes,
of sorrow,
they hide it with graffiti.
Every time a new tomorrow...
Moved around like mannequins and clothed by another,
meant to stay in one position; bite their tongues so they won't speak. They'll never know their cries or bruises,
their painful, deep emotions,
but the world will never know why_
mannequins don't choose to cry.

Damiam Vincent Henry Jul 2017

Chains

Oh how they made us love these chains,
we wear them everyday.
Our boys are cuffed and pulled away.
We'll never see a change.
Whether wearing them around our necks,
or close the gate at night.
We put them on our pitbulls just so
we can see them fight.
The story's just beginning,
these young boys don't know a thing...
They'll never know the days our,
ancestors were chained into a string,
then they were thrown in the sea.
Until they pulled each other down.
Oh how they fought against the ocean,
how they swallowed only water,
till the lot of them would drown.
And their souls arose to heaven,
staring down at them in chains.
That's the story of our people,
a people who just love the chains,
they're blinded by captivity,
and lack to see reality.
They're homing pigeons flying,
such a lot they cannot be,
might seem as though they're walking,
with no chains, they're still not free.
Our children go to prison,
act like kings, but they are dying,
in those awful chains,
they're not able to see.