"artistically" poems
It is the way my traditional head cloth covers my head artistically.
Giving me a sense of a gracefully hand made Crown.
Passed on from generation to generation by
My ancestors from all corners of Africa.
It is the way my hands flatter when I narrate a story.
Giving me a sense of articulation.
Pride, dances through my veins.
It is the way my body moves to rhythm from hip to hip.
Shoulders momentarily shaking to the sound of unique beads woven Shekere.
Legs aggressively moving to the talking drum.
It is the way I speak to my elders with respect.
Knees on the floor when taking or giving them something.
Sweep the compound when asked to.
Adherence of instructions turn to turn.
Heritage moves with me in one accord.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless *** I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.
But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
Even plastic collects dust
Bright fibres of pink become dull magentas
From the countless years and endless days of Still life Sharp lines and smooth contours of artistically machined plastic toys become fuzzy as hazy dust
Piles
Heaps
And overflows
From one
Single
Fact
Inactivity?
Unappreciated worth?
Discontent?
Laziness?
No
None of these
The dust collects
Piles
Heaps
Even overflows
From USELESSNESS
The things that the dust is attracted to
That the dust clings to
Are the things that in comparison to the things that are imparitive to our existance and our health
Are useless
Are plastic
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
I can’t help but wonder if we have crossed paths
Over and over again, tangling each hello
Catching a hint of mischief when we first bumped into each other
And how easy it was for us to slip into
Conversations, plotting to take on the world
But first things first, we have to catch the moon
And hold the stars ransom in our back pockets
I swear we were pirates singing sea shanties
And conquering cities, but now we settle
For late night dance parties, and one shot, two shot, three
And sure, we are invincible, and I can’t help but wonder
If we have crossed paths over and over again
Our stories layering, life long friends
Or maybe arch nemeses, and each time
Tagging out a new adventure
Where we are chasing after each other
I swear we were renegades, young rebels
Questioning authority and pushing boundaries
Now, we collaborate artistically
Broadcasting in a world of social media, one shout, two shout, three
And sure, we are strong, and I can’t help but wonder
If we have crossed paths over and over again
Our history repeating, kindred spirits
Or maybe pieces of the same soul, and each time
We meet, we find a part of ourselves
We had forgotten
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 1:29 AM UTC
A llama mama who is ever so special
A swimmer glides through the water with so much grace
Artistically inclines, genius by birth; slacker by choice
Music.Lit.Bio.Lovely girl whom I very much admire
Strong girl who makes use of every opportunity
Another swimmer with heart and face so lovely
An elephant - the light o' every lil' chat
Candy- words so wise; heart so warm
Another brave girl; lots in common; in every way beautiful
Eloquent speaker And A Violinist
Another swimmer with such a laugh!
Our dear walking dictionary; never fails to put a smile on my face
Runner and fighter ALL THE WAY
Vettypoop aka my spirit animal
Smiling dolphin
Laughing cheerful pop ****
Artyfarty girl with so much poise and grace
Artyfarty and a swimmer? Ooh la la
Cute and sweet and everything else with a tinge of the kpop
Disciplinarian and nice
1Der with a twinned soul
A cutie pie with a such a heart
Strange girl this one is but I love the way she talks and writes.
Strange laughter and even stranger words you say
Motherly touches
My lovely leader, with such a beautiful core
Craycray, stay craycray bubu
Smiler and such a high toned shriek
You my bestie; my listening ear
Ordinary Me
Meangirl99 at first sight, lovelygirl99 at the second
KimChi such a hard-worker
Another hard worker with a positive glow
A dancer on a note of sarcasm
Heart of gold; Mind of snow
Naughty naughty
so this is my class of 36
every girl
a wonderful light
and this 36 beautiful souls
make up the beautiful beautiful class
of
203
With varying teachers and varying situations,
we have stood by each other
With much faith I have in all of you
Let's soar to the skies
Pull each other
to soar
and
soar
and soar
to heights never known
never reached.
I know we are going to make
2013
our year
203's year to
amaze people like never before.
Prove every teacher we are the awesomest class on earth.
Trust me.
We will.
Every strength and weakness binded together;
203 is going to
ROCK THE HOUSE TONIGHT! :)
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 10:01 AM UTC
I tatawid sa kanya fane
bilang ako pamasahe sa kanyang utak;
Ang aking Paraluman.
( Filipino tongue)
(English tongue)
I shalt go to her fane
As I fare into her brain;
Mine muse.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©あある じぇえん
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
Stencils and pencils
Sharpener mishaps
Doodles, scribbles
Scrambling shades
Blending sketches
Running axis points
Spherical shadows
Tinting hints and hues
Pencilled portraits
Cruel crooked eyes
The bendy nose
Philosophical muse
Artistically inspired
Shading and fading
Realistically amused
Fused within reality
Surreal tuned vices
Meet-ups and sit ups
Outlines freakily patched
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Creatively wit, artistically gifted -
politically inclined to design any archetype of freedom and how a woman should hold her head up high, like the almighty God she is.
Able to disfigure the illusions and misconception that the media and other forms of capitalistic control, teach her fellow sisters and Queen.
Prove to them that not only are they more than this 'sex symbol',
And being blind to this facts, just helps perpetuate the conditioning of self-hate,
that you're not light enough or too dark - you're just something that helps the sun shine on their fare skin.
And you're ****** is worth nothing more than it was compensated fo' 450 years ago,
to birth being that yet again go through the cycle of supremacy.
But you say,
**** ALL THAT -
I'm a Queen, GOD IS SHE.
So kiss my fat *** and my appletree.
Because me and my sisters sill no longer accept your misogynistic disrespect and immoral, emotional neglect.
Your referendums for ****** favors in exchange what is due me, ****** freedom and freedom to do whatever the **** I please.
And ever since I saw those defining characteristics in thee,
Since, I've always respected you as my Queen.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
She was a fiery seashell,
lost 'neath convoluted oceans
amongst opuses of pure poetry,
artistically outspoken
'tween invertebrate reality
secretly devouring mankind,
beware Herr Lucifer,
she rose from the gaseous chamber
to live amidst ashes of immortality
& renowned marital infamy,
the eternal burning spirit of Lady Lazarus
**Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.**
- Sylvia Plath
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
I’m a written and published open book,
you just have to read past the first chapter.
You skimmed the pages and took a look
at the last line to see if there was a happily ever after.
But like most things it’s up to interpretation,
left open ended in way for a hopeful sequel,
‘cause like all things true it’s plagued with complication,
but our story has no end and it has no equal.
And you, you were my favourite memoir,
your depth lined the thesis of a never ending essay.
I became inspired so I held an impromptu seminar,
a whole panel to if your picture was sepia or artistically grey.
I memorized every single thing you said,
every cryptic metaphor, every perfect rhyme.
I’ve lost count of how often that I’ve fully read,
and I still don’t understand after all of this time.
You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
but you need a title; what should it be?
I’ve been writing you so that the whole world can see,
the way you shine bright effortlessly.
You were my own personal thesaurus and dictionary,
providing different words to dress up each thought.
You’re a first and only edition; what a rarity,
laced with metaphors and satire that’s barely caught.
You’re what Shakespeare aspired to always write,
and you accomplished it simply by being born.
I’d translate you to brail so those without sight,
could hear about you and the beauty they now mourn.
You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
no need to proofread, no cause for editing.
I’ve been writing you so that the whole world can see,
the way you shine bright, always illuminating.
I’m a prologue,
and we’re the conclusion.
My authors note; the words of a demagogue,
but the details still lack any illusion.
You’re a novel and I’m a novelty,
I’ve memorized every word and dissected them cautiously.
I’ve been writing you so the whole world can see,
and once they skim the synopsis; they’ll never stop reading.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 8:13 AM UTC
Like a warm breath of air
He hovers in my memory
No superman, a meek soul
Not one to squander his time
But one who worked day in and out
To feed those
Whom he loved and sired
What was he?
A teacher, a farmer or an artist
I cannot say precisely...
All I can say;
He was each of these
Rolled into one
On holidays I saw him
Shut in the loft
a brush in hand
His fingers moving over the canvas
The steaming tea by his side
Untouched and getting cold as ice
Unmindful of everything around
He sat by the easel in the attic
Focussed only on the strokes that fell
When a distinct image shoots out
As the moon from behind clouds
A wave of satisfaction would gleam
Across his face,
His frantic nerves at once hushed
Bearing the look of one
Who, in an instant, conquered kingdoms
He would view it from different angles
Never seeking anyone’s opinion
But gloating if he saw
Our admiring eyes fell on it
Being artistically inclined
He lived more in the world of art
But gradually things changed
To his fright, he found his hands shaky
And the lines on the canvas
Going tremulous and disjointed
Couldn’t hold a brush!
On diagnosed of Parkinson’s disease
His world abruptly lost its sheen
He saw the disease weeding
Its way into his life
Suddenly grown old
He lost interest in everything
We saw him sitting in his armchair
So immobile, for hours on end
His eyes stretched to a far horizon
We displayed before him
Paintings once born of his imagination
To see if his world would brighten
And it worked!
Recently, in one of my dreams
I saw him sitting at the foot of Michael Angelo
To learn the art, he couldn’t perfect
In his life time!
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
if i die young, know i died unhappy and life’s unfair,
if i grow old and die traditionally,
know i died unhappy and life was a misery
i’d tell you a tale
of all of my life’s history
but it would all be derailed and all sound pale
in the words of my mouths contradictory
so i’ll leave you with my frail words for the cemetery;
if i die young, know i died unhappy and life’s unfair,
if i grow old and die traditionally,
know i died unhappy and life was a misery
when i’ll die, i’ll die artistically
candle lights, speaking words lyrically
and if youll ask me if i could go back and do it all again, if i’d make a change,
i’d say in a heartbeat
and if i did, i wouldn’t have to repeat
if i die young, know i died unhappy and life’s unfair,
if i grow old and die traditionally,
know i died unhappy and life was a misery
for i didn’t do it my way,
i did it life’s way
if a decision could have swayed
me in another direction,
i would be happier, in the life of my correction,
that got lost and died with life
while i waited to come back to mine
so if i die young, know i died unhappy and life’s unfair,
if i grow old and die traditionally,
know i died unhappy and life was a misery
and to my life, i miss you
and to my cat-child, i miss you
and to my moms eyes, i miss you
and to my sister-child, i miss you
and to what was once mine, i miss you
May 12, 2025
May 12, 2025 at 8:06 PM UTC
Artistically determined to create
homemade valentines
cut with precision
like your lips
meeting mine,
saturated with color-
of all things bright
wishing on stars
with each letter I write,
painting soft lines
like my fingertips
meeting your collar bones
Oh,
If only I wasn't alone
We could kiss
and create
A homemade valentine of our own.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Astonishingly! This poetry analogy is partially of a prodigy poet! It is of his endearment and endeavorment in our great Government that desecrated, medicated, sedated and segregated him. Doped! Desperately copping and hoping he made it! To add, no dad! An artistically rad-lad through the bad, the glad, the sad and mad. This destiny of a poet is also of apologies, felonies, formalities, legalities and theories.
Furthermore it’s of mournful and scornful-laughter! Capture and rapture, dreamingly and seemingly, chapter after chapter... Pondering and wondering is there a happily ever after? This destiny of a poet is heavenly, randomly and religiously, tellingly of lots of many thoughts! Some adventuresome, awesome, burdensome, fearsome and gruesome! Some loathsome, lonesome and wholesome!
Some of dreams, schemes and many themes! Some deemed and seemed differently, discriminately, indecently or racially true, from some views. Some askew and blue! Some of clues, of Jews, of taboo, tattoos and voodoo! This destiny of a poet; stunningly who could’ve and would’ve thought once, twice or thrice of this price? Of the cheers and peers, the jeers, the leers,
the tears and weary years... Therefore I say, some artist’s
clever art may create, dictate, relate and translate similar-thriller craftsmanship with negative, positive or relative penmanship. However, typically some probably will publicly criticize as a travesty. Some will harmonize, some will publicize or socialize, some will disrespect as imperfect, some will neglect, some will respect as perfect! Hark! I remark; brethren, children and women keep and upkeep that
creative spark! For in the dark or as you embark. Literally, morality and reality is in my poetry and story. Expect excellent, brilliant, decadent, resilient talent and testaments! Basically on final note! I positively devote, quote and wrote these eccentrically optimistic, rhetoric and theoretic poetically lyrical rhyming notes. Finally and bluntly, do not negatively amend, bend, pretend or transcend this end. Amen...
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
Beethoven's Ninth;
Mozart's Thirty-Eighth;
What do they lack
Artistically speaking?
They lack the music of the buttocks,
The celestial odourous ****
Which charmeth all who hear it.
Although admittedly Schubert
Left an unfinished movement
On the floor near his piano
And the whiff was something horrid.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
if i knew how to play
the guitar i would
write the sappiest love
songs for you
but sadly, darling, i am
musically impaired
if i knew how to paint
i would color
the most glorious sunsets
just for you
but sadly, darling, i am
artistically limited
if i knew how to sew
i would patch up
the torn seams
of your heart
but sadly, darling, i have no
idea how to use a needle
if i knew how to cook
i would make your
favorite desserts
to sweeten up your day
but sadly, darling, my
only specialty is burnt eggs
oh darling,
i am not good at many
things but if there is
one thing that i
can do well, oh my darling,
that is loving you.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Tears rain down endlessly
from the skies, from our eyes
imagine the day God's tears rain down acidic
painful and tainted from centuries of travesties
eroding the wasteland we so artistically painted
with blood, sweat and hatred
casting the Earth in turmoil and oppression
one more great flood, inevitably washing clean
creating fresh canvas with which to paint
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
Hours, invested in front of the mirror-
Masquerading traces of imperfection.
Artistically designing an ideal 'beautiful'
Subjecting God's product to correction.
Stepped forward a mere lady. Modified-
And strolled away in a goddess' shoes.
You are picture perfect; ideal, just right,
But still lacking divinity's perfect hues.
Your foundation's more rare than most;
Down to earth as if curved out of dirt.
Your inner person's a wonder of nature.
Your unique body language, foreign; curt.
You would never have to alter your looks-
If my hazel eyes were to be your mirror.
Because through them, you would see-
How your positives are much more clearer.
The way your smile stretches on your face;
The tight grip of truth in your soft voice;
The way your body says 'art from heaven;'
The way I stare like my eyes have no choice.
Not the most flashy of earth's accessories,
But still captures the attention of my heart.
Not various items of weighty price tags,
Your beauty is more of God's internal art.
I love every touch of God's image on you;
Dark fair skin, wide hips and daring eyes.
Sweet lips, your nose, chin; your everything.
That's the makeup which money never buys.
I love your makeup. For it is neither worn-
Nor victim of the winds of time and change.
I love your makeup cuz you can wake in it-
And its not so much as to make you strange.
Not mascara, face powder or eye shadow.
Your makeup doesn't enhance your beauty.
I love your makeup cuz come what may-
Your makeup is the you my heart will see.
Keep Smiling
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
- Joseph Childress
Soft words
Are usually preferred
During pillow talks
Foolishly
I foolheartledly
Brought hard words
Harsh
& Disturbed
Which
Hardily makes sense
Since
Your sentiment
Didn't deserve
The sediment
Provided
From my concrete heart
I argue
Our argument
Was all my fault
I dumped asphalt
On the sandy beach
You provided
For our sweet retreat
You retrieved
My roughness
And smoothed
The edgy conversation
Tamed my
Toughness
And soothed
The painful consternation
You could
Ease the temperament
And impatience
Of anger management patients
All the while
Showing
The peacefulness in his
War within
Finding righteousness
In his right to yell
You respect
His freedom of speech
But with each
Negative comment
You seek
To find
The positive content
In the layers beneath
You see the beauty
In the mess
Like an abstract painting
Made for the
Artistically elite
My poor sense
Of creativity
Is lifted
From your richness
I dropped
Destruction
But always
Pick it
Back up
Like bad habits
Rehabilitate me this
Last time
And I promise
I’ll never
Cast a shadow again
I’ll shine
In every way
I direct my attention
Hopefully
Its not too late
But knowing you
My lateness
Will be welcomed
Like a homecoming
You seldom
Look at my faults
And not find
Greatness
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Like the faded blues of a 50s movie
Everything becomes artistically bland when I see you going
I prefer thinking about you as the only colored
In the black and white reel of life
Soft, alluring, you urge me to follow
And I, how could I do that?
I have ulterior motives, you know
I cannot just follow
I dream of getting that color from you
A soft touch of those berry lips
Sensual, subtle, and tantalizing
Your hands, I dream to hold
Soft, calm, and whispering, your breath
I wish to make you lose
Luscious, brave, and fiery
I want to put some dreams in those eyes
Passionate, perceptive, and gentle
Your heart, I wish, could feel me
Hypnotic, nimble, and graceful
Could we dance, till morrow?
It was so hard, to keep the beast in me
And now, he has become a poet
Oh! He just wants that color
So, he can present what follows.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
not a papist or ****** or shapist
but enjoying a curve
not an escapist
lacking the nerve
not a florist, tourist or activist
unless its summer time
and certainly not an alchemist
no water into wine
a lovely smiley altruist or artistically quite loud
but sadly failed when drawing
kindness from the crowd
mist
gist
fist
hoping to desist in being a monarchist
and always very eager on not being dogmatist
but still I really strongly emphatically insist
that faddist, fauvist fashion
is only a passing passion
for the narcissists among us
realist
publicist
terrorist
humbly suggesting that zeitgeist
is an ist
but failing to enjoy the line
being a fatalist
not a facist, xylophonist or anything with isms
just a bad contortionist
with creeping rheumatism
determining the future through a timely
cruel twist
whilst realising ultimately
I’m just
a sad typist
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 7:10 AM UTC
An artistically woven
turquoise woolen
pullover made
out of the finest
moher fabric
made my day.
Made for you,
to be caressed
and cherished
as a perfect
garment.
It looked so good
on you, my darling!
Rainbow colors always
bring me happiness and
I gently touch you,
feeling already safe
as a deer in a flowering
forest; within narcotically
scented alluring hug, we
embrace again, tightly,
you and me, entwined.
Whiffed winds melody
played through tall pine
tree tops as a flute song
swaying branches. It seemed
as they are affirming our walk
along the shore, where the river
meets an ocean, hand in hand,
peacefully.
And, yet, every time the
strong cool breeze exposes
your magnificent masculine
figure in that woolen top,
my coolness faints into the
void and dissolves itself.
Our urge emerges!
I feel your fingertips touch
as a passionate flame dance
over my face, you turn my
head up toward your loving
gaze, wanting it so much,
slightly pulling me up
then burning my lips.
Our hurried steps are heard,
echoing as a rushed tempo
on the salty path, fresh air
lingers around us, leading
us to our charming summer
suite, to undress. And love.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
Now I’m JUST Planting Seeds...
Through Verse And Poetry...
That I Now Use To Speak...
On Yes... REALITY... !!!
So Of Course My Verse Deals...
With DIFFERENT Beliefs...
Like JUSTICE, PEACE And EQUALITY... !!!!!
Because Humans Do Seem...
To Embrace... STRANGE IDEALS... ?!?
As To What People Need...
To Breed REAL UNITY... ?!?
Cos’ The Powers That Be... !!!
Who RULE Societies...
Have Been Planting BAD SEEDS...
That Have Bred... LEGACIES... !!!!!
Like Those That We've Seen...
In... TWENTY TWENTY... !!!
This CORONA DISEASE... !!!
SHATTERED Economies... !!!
Protesters On Streets...
Due To Racist Police... !!!
Leaders And... MP’s...
Presidents And The Chiefs...
of... BIG INDUSTRY... !!!
Have Been Planting Seeds...
That Indeed CLEARLY Feed...
Off CORRUPTION And GREED... !!!
Now It Can’t Just Be Me... ?!?
Who Sees What We ALL SEE...
In Today’s News Stories... !?!
Like... REDUNDANCIES...
Seeds of VIOLENT Scenes...
That Now DISTURB The Peace... !!!
And How TECHNOLOGIES...
Have Created A Breed...
Who SEED Internet Feeds...
To Now Download Movies... !!!
That Some People... CLAIM...
They’re Now Getting For FREE... ?!?
Well.....
Those Are Seeds That DECEIVE... !!!
And Seed FOOLISH Beliefs... !!!
Because It May Well Be CHEAP...
But NOTHING Is Free That Society Feeds... !!!
While ME What I Seed Are Poetic Themes...
That Create CALM And PEACE...
... DEEP Inside Who I Be... !!!
Therapeutic GOOD Seeds...
Are What I Now Receive... !!!
That Help Me To EASE...
The Anger That Breathes...
Right Next To My Chi... !!!
Due To STRONG Energies...
That Have Built ARTISTRY...
That Allows Me To SEE..................
How My Mentality Has SEEDED Beliefs...
That Are FAR And AWAY...
From The Seeds We Now See...
That DON’T Seem So Strong...
Now We See So MUCH WRONG... !!!
Because of BAD DEEDS...
By Planters Who Scheme...
... And Create POLICIES...
To STOP Human Beings...
From Being... ONE Team... !!!
Well I’m NOT ONE To Dream...
But STILL Keep On Seeding... !!!
Verse And... Poetry... !!!
That Maybe Just Maybe...
Could Help Humans See...
The Things That We NEED...
To Create... UNITY... !!!
By... Artistically Speaking...
On How Humans Now Be...
And Constantly TWEAKING...
My... Poetic Themes...
That Have Built LIBRARIES... !!!
Due To My.....
..... “ Planting Seeds “.....
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 7:14 PM UTC