"categorize" poems
We’re all different
A fact that some will take with stride
And others will take out their black & white boxes
Trying to cram you into margins that you’ll never fit into
Labels
Just another way to categorize us as objects
Smashing our individuality with a hammer
Until we are all identical, with no more identity
Freedom
Something we are considered lucky to have
Where other countries struggle day by day
Fighting to stay themselves
Yet in our free country
I still find myself fighting for liberation,
Scratching at the cement surface
For endless years
Walking around, trying to be uniform
It’s meant to make us comfortable, but makes me die inside
We all walk in straight, marching band lines like militia members
And walk on forever without a second thought
Individuality
A gift given to us all that we must cherish, hold onto
Accept everyone around you for their good and bad habits
Accept people for who they are, whether you like them or not
One day, I will break free
Run in the opposite direction
With my arms spread out wide
Feeling like Rosa Parks when she claimed her seat
One day I will not be scared of my freedom
One day I will not be scared of trying to explain to people who I am
I will never be scared of friends
I will never be scared of strangers
I will never be scared of family
Boys, girls, adults, parents, siblings
One day I won’t be scared of myself anymore
Scared of making the wrong decisions
And letting everyone around me down
The weights of expectations always make me hide in the shadows
To where I feel I’ll never be good enough
But today, I smile at all my obstacles
With my mind set on “Dare To Be Dangerous”
Because exploring everything around me
Has been a roller coaster of joviality that I’ve always needed
I’ve made new friends this year
Gotten very close to others
But I learned an important lesson
I love who I am
And I will come to accept the future me
But for now I’m different
And that’s all I ever wanted to be
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
When you look at me
You instantly stereotype
My glassses
My skin color
You can probably guess I’m book smart
You’d be right
You can guess I’m introverted
You’d be semi right
You can guess I’m not naturally very athletic
You’d be right
You can guess my ethnicity
You’d probably be right
You can guess a lot of things
And there’s a high chance you’d be right for many of them
But...
What about those things,
You’d never guess?
I bet you’d never believe I was a Goalie
You probably don’t know I write poetry
I’m learning Chinese
I ran six miles in fifth grade
I enjoy acting
I’m an atheist
I have a mild obsession with Asian light novels
The list goes on...
But still,
The point here is
There’s a lot of things you don’t see
About me
About everyone
I’m just as guilty of judging as anyone else
We humans tend to categorize,
A lot
...
But,
It’s
Often
Not
True
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
Your eyes smoulder with an imagination that is even bolder than I could have dreamed and colder than this toxic air we've been forced to breathe.
You write poetry across your face to form a Gas mask of rythym, blocking out the hate yet sealing in ideas that might frustrate you.
You hear the birds in the trees and you read the articles in every magazine, you take in information like the bees to the Queen.
Your thoughts radiate an aura surrounding your entire body, you bleed history and pop culture facts, you need the written word like an addict needs their cigarette packs.
You're empathetic to your core, you feel what everyone else does so you hide yourself in your mind until you can categorize the emotions from the lies.
I know you can feel the love in your heart even through all the cracks, like a weathered and torn apart roadmap but you're taped together perfectly and even with a few wrong turns you always find your way back to me.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
I call myself a feminist.
I call myself proud.
I see "big and beautiful" or *** marked along the walls.
I see "plus size" as a label for a woman with hips.
I watch loving compliments,
but..
I also watch heartless hateful commentaries.
We label everything between fruit, office supplies, or people.
That's how humans understand, to categorize.
How can we call ourselves people if we label to give pain and not for simple understanding.
People are not plus sized.
We are all sizes.
We are all skinny for we are all covered in skin.
Thin and thick are not meant to be judgements.
We are all beautiful.
We should all spread love.
Label to learn.
Leave hate for hell.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC
Nothing intimidates me more,
Than a woman’s inviting smile,
It pierces right down to the core;
Appealing to everything I adore;
This subtle, suggestive, wile:
Whetting the sense of anticipation,
Igniting fires of the imagination.
Nothing possesses more power,
Than a woman’s determined will;
Disguised as a delicate flower,
Sweetness smothering the sour,
Regardless of the pyrrhic thrill;
Bewitchment in everything but name,
Savouring the illicitness of the game.
No ordinary man has a prayer,
When a woman stakes her claim;
She’ll welcome you into her lair,
Reject her desires if you dare,
Her revenge has legendary fame;
Travelling incognito: deadly intentions,
From this wrath, there are no preventions.
Do not ever, ever, underestimate.
That which cannot be understood:
Avoid the temptation to speculate,
Categorize, classify or evaluate,
The secret mysteries of womanhood;
Whenever tempted by an inviting smile;
Nod politely then turn, and run a mile.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
Don't categorize yourself with someone else, don't lump yourself into a specific type. One similarity does not a commonality make. A million and one people may all have done what you've done or felt what you've felt but that does not breed you together into one common group or make their goals yours or your goals something they have any possibility of reaching. It may sound cliche but you are the only you, no one else could be you or truly understand everything you've ever felt to the core of your being since you've become you. And this you, the one you stare at every day in the mirror, is not the you you've always been and is certainly not the you you'll always be. You are continually changing and becoming more than you've ever been before. If you keep trying and doing and working towards something, anything that's better than what you are right now then you've already surpassed every category, type or group that you lumped yourself into. You are not a category. You are not what anyone else thinks you are. You are what you try to become, what you hope to become, what you've always dreamed you'd become.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
My Woman, My Partner
we need today it seems identifiers moreover,
as we slice, dissect, and categorize the W’s of our
individual experience,
by defining ourselves as pieces of categories
Today, woke with this title-to-be-poem in my head,
My Woman, My Partner
I like particular, individuating descriptors that distinguish
rather than categorize, summary’s that capture the
roomy broad and small strokes, the subtleties of capturing~
encompassing an image total, and yet intuitively tasting and
comprehending the depths and flavoring of our totality,
a combinatory humanity
my choice was My Woman, which was comprehensive
and distinguished, yet upon consultation with said person,
for pre-authorization approval, it was returned to me with
an engine-heart additive, that was both a word that denotes a
binding, ties, equality, and takes it to another, even ever
highest level,
*this essay on how I came to title this poem, well, is the poem
in its entirety, it is the process, the point, the summary and the
minutiae of all I wished to convey.*
Sunday Aug 13 8:03 AM
Aug 13, 2023
Aug 13, 2023 at 8:11 AM UTC
Skimming through the water, like a bird on wing.
Feeling the currents flowing, water spilling along my flanks.
Surging into the deep sea, searching for sunken ships,
Lost treasures to those above, merely decrepit scenery below.
Perhaps, more, to the sealife that shelters there.
This fantastic ability, to relate to earth's final mysteries in the deep.
Granted me, through a fluke of nature, gills filtering,
Scales protecting, tail and fins propelling forward
To ever deeper realms.
Hardly noticing the increasing pressures
Feeling tides pulling, seeing unfathomed sea creatures.
Appreciating the beauty and the power of the deep sea.
Triton may reside here, only stories to those above.
But the mysterious, deepness of this realm, begs belief in other gods.
Continuous exploration of this vast world,
Only brings me a small portion of its bounty.
Birth, life, death, cycling forever.
Brilliant design of creatures and systems,
Only glimpsed from above.
Denied to those who seek to categorize and quantify.
Life is not averages, statistics, and clinical review.
Being judged in labs by coated strangers.
Life indeed is deep, resounding, complex in every detail.
Microcosms of universes existing in harmony
Beneath waves brushing the sky.
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 8:55 PM UTC
“No one is ever satisfied with the success, is ever satisfied with the success, is ever satisfied with the dream. It’s the hunger before a meal when you realize how good it is to be alive.”
With each passing day I feel youth slip from my bones like scoops
falling off a summer ice cream cone to blistering pavement.
All of my friend’s dogs are dying of old age just like mine.
Childhood trees we used to climb have either grown too tall to reach
or were struck by lightning. Decisions, no matter how trivial, become monumental
in the scope of time. There is no end in sight…only the faintest memory of humble beginnings, leading us
blindly into the vacuum of tomorrow, ******* the dreams from our head to feed the plague of survival.
That’s why you bruise with a breath. Your heart beats too hard for your house of card frame. Your body—desert willow—thrives on nothing, pumping cells full of carrots, vitamins and codeine.
Last night, While you were sleeping, I sank to the bottom of the ocean
with a seven mile chain attached to a thousand pound anchor and a Swiss army knife. Slipping
through seasons I fell colder and deeper and darker, waving and giggling as I sank
for miles, watching the surface light blur and fade completely until I was in night,
a gentle pulse of luminescence massaging me with it’s glow, the old-ironsides squid laughing,
the rave fish pulsing with dinner plate pupils, the leather armor jellyfish are calm as Sunday's first ****
and the flat rainbow fish spin their data and vanish into black.
All I think I know at 22:
Why they call this the information age;
What Buddy meant when he said, “There is a distance the size of bravery”;
This is the best part.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
I just finished texting you on December 31st
Sunday night, or maybe you consider that a Monday morning
and a country song just came on the radio
I couldn't help but to think about how much I hate country music
I hate the stereotypical voice the singer always sings,
the predictable pattern of strung guitar strings
So, at 2:24 am, on a December 31st, Sunday night/Monday morning
I started to wonder if you liked country music
Or believed too that it's tacky
I wonder if "tacky" even exist in your vocabulary
Where did you get your vocabulary?
Did your mom raise you to believe words would be your greatest ally
Was she raised with more than one language
I wonder what your ancestor's native language sounds like
And if it was ripped out of their tongues
Like culture in our history books
what stories were told from those tongues that history books could never tell
I wonder, what kind of stories you've carved in lover's mouths
with just your, tongue.
I wondered if you've ever lost someone
I wonder if you've ever lost yourself
If you did, where did you find yourself?
Did you find yourself in your palms over bent knees
That kissed the ground that at one time
kissed your feet.
I wonder when we'll meet
I wonder if I'll meet your best friend. If shell ever get scared
You'll replace her with me
And if I'll have to tell her, she's irreplaceable.
I wonder what's your favorite places you've been to
The places that made you smile to your human anatomy's most potential
And I wonder how much you know about your own human anatomy
I wonder if you know that an average heart beats 100,000 times a day
Pumping almost 2,000 gallons of blood through its chambers
Over a 70 year lifespan, that adds up to about 2.5 billion heartbeat
And sitting here, just wondering about you- you made me skip a few.
It's now 3:07 a.m.
And I'm wonderin' if you've ever wondered what it would be like to be loved by a poet
To have your body be put words and your words be put against my body
To have lips match figurative language to the figure of your body
And write love poems on your cheek
And I wonder if you even consider me a poet.
What are the events in your life you consider poetic?
If your life was a poem, what kind of poem would your
8th grade English teacher categorize it as?
If you were a curious child and if now
You're ever curious about me
If my mind ever wanders while I wonder about you
And if I could ever weaver it back
At 3:21 a.m., December 31st, Sunday night, Monday morning
I'm wondering if you're wondering about me.
Or if you ever wonder if I've ever lost myself, but more recently, lost my mind writing poetry
I wonder if you wonder if I consider myself a poet.
I wonder, if at 3:27 am, if you're awake too,
Wondering if I like country music.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
she's not an artist, the only reason you say that is she eats less than 400 calories a day, without counting. she wears scarves and gloves in the summer-time: inside. her life mission is to categorize the vowels into three levels of hell. so far, she's found purgatory inside the tiny bowl she uses for an ash tray.
once, she spray-painted the wall that she passes on her way to the collective mailbox. it reads "send me peace signs in the shape of dying swans. love, me". she types exactly two words daily, ten point arial font.
she crashes funerals by wearing the only rainbow item in her closet. it made the local news one night, but her name turned inside out in people's throats and they ate without realizing they were different.
her eyes are green.
she sleeps on her back, straw-faced and shrinking.
she faked her own death to see if anyone would notice; then posted it on youtube. three months and 603 views later, she shot herself at an anti-abortion rally. they buried her with the reams of paper reading fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat. fox hat.
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 3:55 PM UTC
So I am a mutt
And this is my poem about having split identities
*And not knowing who the **** I am*
I am Chinese and Irish
Got them green eyes, but eat rice with every dish
Have the freckles, but my first language wasn't English
Back in high school, people called me white washed
But then,
Pointed and called me that Asian
People would sneer, "You aren't even real Chinese"
But there are so many things you all don't see
Like how my Tiger mom screams at home
About getting straight As
Till her shrills leave me frozen to the bone
And when I had a boyfriend she didn't approve of
She yanked my hair
And I cried it wasn't fair
She yelled, "oh I'll give the boys something to stare"
I watched as she cut all of it off
Strand by strand
Like a strong gust of wind blowing all the leaves off the branches till it was bare in winter
The following day at school, my excuse was I needed a new look, so this was her
And meals I don't even know how to translate into English are my comfort food
But I can down some fries and burgers when I'm with the dudes
I embrace both sides of what I am
But people categorize me into one, God ****
With my Chinese family
They straight up tell you
You too skinny, too fat, so silly
They say my accent has gotten worse
The anger builds up of embarrassment and hurt
The race makes my face so red, it's like my head will soon burst
There's this underlying feeling of shame, that's the worst
Which side of me do I need to prioritize first?
I'm drowning between the ocean of two separate cultures, I'm submersed
English is the language I think in and I curse
There's so much more I can't even tell you within this verse
Oh the irony doesn't end there
My driving stereotypes are quite the scare
Cause I'm Chinese, automatically I **** at driving
But mixed with Irish, I'm also road raging
It's probably the worst combination
Of a stereotype from two different nations
Ha oh there's more
The drinking stereotype that's for sure
Irish side could down the whiskey much too quickly
But the Chinese typically are easily tipsy
This mix is kind of risky
One turns so incredibly red
And the other can get so drunk, you'd see two heads
I feel I am constantly at war
One side always wanting more
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
I die every single day. It comes slowly, gas leaking out of a tank; a river drying up to a trickle. It has taken years to notice, but here I am: On empty. In a muddy riverbed.
Standing on the short timeline of my life, I look back at the man of the past. The man is not myself, and yet he is more complete than me. He is younger – yes – but brimming with delight. He knows nothing of Walls and Comments and Likes, and yet he is whole. He has no outlet for his happiness other than his own physical canvas. His sadness is absolute and crushing, but it belongs to him.
I am not he.
I am the autumn of his soul.
There is an emptiness inside me.
It has not grown like the lines on my face nor the aches in my bones. It is something immeasurable.
I want to step out of my own identity.
I want to live in a construct that is more unique than my own.
We talk of living vicariously through others, but I live vicariously through myself. I live ten feet behind and thirty seconds after my own person. I watch the man in front of me go through every motion, and I feel nothing. I notate the changes, categorize the achievements, collate the emotions, and I feel nothing. On paper, I look quite good. Great things make headlines. Pictures show unforgettable memories, laughter, joy, and contentment.
And every feeling of inadequacy, vulnerability, shame, doubt, and fear is greeted with a blind eye.
The more my construct grows, the more I diminish.
I am the Portrait of Dorian Gray, reversed.
Each day the picture is more successful, happy, wealthy, and loved.
And the man weakens and decays.
I am frightened of what I’ve become.
If there is a way to halt this, I spend every day searching for it. Perhaps, in moments of looking into another’s eyes, I can hide from nothing. At those times, the construct falls away, and the man on the timeline comes crashing into the present.
I wonder who will greet me in the morning. Will the Man diminish, or will the Portrait grow fainter instead?
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
''You dropped your ice-cream little child?'',
This kind of case is only mild.
''You lost your dog?'', this one is sad
''It happened once to uncle Brad''.
But take, ''You're flunking out of school?''
Now, this one's not so very cool.
Alas, nothing ever could compare
To: ''My Mom and Dad are buried there''.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 8:32 AM UTC
I love the ignorance
That so many can live in
How we can easily
Without even realizing we’ve done it
Categorize or stereotype
And make assumptions in mere seconds
Oh yes please
Preach your words of recognition
Then go on to label and typecast
Every single one of us without a second thought
True acceptance
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:46 PM UTC
My sleeping mind cannot contain
{the horrid images of waking life}
All that my waking mind soaks up
{sponging filth from gutted city streets}
Dreams turning into lucid experiences
{the hypnotic effect of being drawn closer to a blade}
All colors, sensations too intense to categorize
{molded into a colony of unthinking, unearthing drones}
Wind down inside of me
{boiling tornadoes raging from the depths}
Concentrated awareness of my subconscious obliviousness
{the benefits of obsidian isolation}
I wish that I could weave them all together
{the stitches at the seams are wearing thin}
Like tall grasses woven into baskets
{like scythed grasses cut down by rampant Monsanto}
Strong, unbreakable, able to withstand the heavy weight
{pressure baring down on fracturing ribs and shoulders}
Of my spirit
{i feel alone}
Instead I leak through the seams, tear through edges
{leaving me tattered in a massacred pattern}
Five am cannot keep me
{six am will never know me}
My thoughts scatter
{my mind dances with madness}
Drifting in and out
{drifting in and out}
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
Stupid white girl.
We are not allowed to do anything.
We're prim and proper, white girls.
We are not allowed to fight back.
Put us in our place, white girls.
We are not allowed real work.
We still want our twenty three cents back.
The child of fair skin and blue eyes.
But with all my female privilege,
Came a nasty stamp on my body.
Like a watermark.
FEMALE.
I have heard that when a woman looks in the mirror, she sees a woman.
But when a man looks in the mirror, he sees a human.
Even with that watermark, our pale skin is used as a canvas.
And everyone else has been handed the tools to color in our curves.
Covering us in blue and black and purple and red.
Redrawing our minds so they cannot process the discrimination,
Painting over our tears so our feelings can be buried,
Manufacturing open legs when you want them,
Closed when you don't.
Erasing the lips we use to speak out,
Erasing the eyes we use to see all of this.
You think just because you held the brush,
Just because you created this monstrosity of a "masterpiece"
You get to claim ownership of this piece of artwork
That you blatantly disregard
Is my BODY.
The "fe" you tack onto "male"
Does not stand for Free Entry.
The "wo" you tack onto "man"
Does not stand for Wipe Out.
Women are barely able hold a pencil.
I was lucky to hold one long enough to draw myself
A conscience, a backbone, legs to stand on, and a mind.
We were only taught how to use the back end of that pencil
To erase our mouth and keep the secrets.
But these days the secrets are keeping themselves.
I will not be put in a glass case
You will not charge admission
To have people come and analyze me.
Buy me.
Give me value.
Categorize me.
Preserve me the way you created.
You are no artists.
You are vandals.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
The scribble- aka nonsense: I always try and categorize everything into a neat package. My own make due box if you will. Weather its food, friends, life, love, pain and sorrow, it all get stowed away in a box as I try to connect them to make sense. But in the end it is, and I am (my boxes) over shadowed by it, myself. I'm a "complex creator" is the LAST thing people will know when I'm gone.
But it’s all nonsense. I'm just a control freak
The baby drinking- aka nurturing: I made him. It’s so weird. Of all the things I've painted, wrote, and sculpted or whatever this (Essek) is by far the best and last work of art I could ever create. He drinks because I thought him that his beverage is in a vessel to get he has to drink. He sleeps securely because daddy (me) will always keep him from harm.
"I'm a good father" is the LAST thing people will remember when I'm gone. But it’s all nurturing. I'm just good with instinct
My new plant- aka optimism: this flower is actually a fake. I put it in the fish bowl to try and make my fish (merlin) a little happier. Even though his brain is the size of a 6 font "O" he deserve a bit of joy in his aquatic dwelling. It’s the last lesson I can give to those that fall in a dark place. The smallest things have a big purpose
“I was always optimistic" is the LAST thing people will think when I'm gone. But I'm just courteous………………….
There’s more but its personal
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
Sneakers, loafers, sandals, chelsea,
stilettos, wedges, platform, scarpin
I think it's fine to categorize shoes 'cause they serve different purposes
Dress pants, jeans, corduroy pants,
leggings, chinos pants, sweat pants
I think it's fine to categorize pants 'cause they serve different purposes
Black, white, brown, fat, athletic, skinny,
rich, poor, smart, introvert, extrovert, gay, lesbian, straight, Christian, Muslim
I don't think it's fine to categorize humans because we are all ONE from the same SOURCE with the same PURPOSE!
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
I want to see where nice words are used on young ladies.
Damned Rome of rude-bred heights from the balcony of the city of dynamite. The villagers sacrifice their seven pounds of worry, and sleep like children in caves of textile reactors. Souls packed in coins and gasoline sin are sold hot at the bazaar on a University campus in America. What the **** do these lambs do in societal gardens? What the hell do pets know watching letters drizzle from the clouds? Parcel dreams scattered on foster children--I want to know where all our words for niceties went when we paid the women to be young.
Devils make knees slick
barbwire anacondas bless our country
write a laugh--write a song--and we will all work it out
We--used as a rapier to categorize the salt in vigorous blood flow--the bells, the bells of centuries worth of midnights. I--the edited cobble in roads that precipitation breaks in stride. Hearing the rambles of lucky men in the next room, but I know young ladies don't kiss and tell to friends they find effeminate, they rupture and explode. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh with squeaky voices as true as poetry. Now they mumble till they are paid.
But you--are no ********** just an empty glass with chunks of broken accents skipping deadlines in life, for new deadlines in life. Abstract puzzle pieces resemble therapy that burns the interrupted wick in--you.
But as for--them--they--or others--delirium commercializes whispers aching the back of their tonsils till there is no relief, but coin to pay for more coin that will pay for more coin. Relief is in another language they refuse to learn because they are arrogant.
Cats scowl at one in the morning for attention, nails anchored in carpet, the rest of us are tired by the week of spending. They want more, more, more--till the gates in your eyes open.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
typically "typical"
is thought predictable
where typical types
emerge in the syllables
man = white = **** you! = no **** right?
girl = cis = delicate ≠ this.
type up the typology
categorize into "ologies"
start stereotyping
to support the philosophies
f(i) = she = sweet ≠ me
∴ ***** i must be
draw a box around me ⇒ i'll fit
type up a label ⇒ it'll stick
but ≠ me
= us = we
is that the type of person
you want to be?
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
Susi sees angels here and there
magical creatures are everywhere
I canny see them, I try and look twice
I kind of regret it, it must be nice
but I think
Why should I personify
my sense of wonder,
sense of wonder
I laugh beneath the starlit sky
with my sense of wonder
sense of wonder
Ewan sees reason in everything
knows you can measure pieces of string
and he is my brother I love and respect
and proof of the other we've never found yet
but I think
Why should I categorize
my sense of wonder
sense of wonder
I laugh beneath the starlit skies
with my sense of wonder
sense of wonder
And I salute you, one and all
who've seen the light, who've heard the call
I'll not dispute what you have seen
I'm just not certain what you mean
Susi's a human, as sweet as can be
and magic or not she's amazing to me
and whether we're born here blessed or alone
I hope that her angels will see her home
but still think
Why should I personify my sense of wonder
sense of wonder
I laugh beneath the starlit sky
with my sense of wonder
sense of wonder
sense of wonder
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 9:36 AM UTC
I try and untangle the emotions that bound me
How shall I define myself?
I’m sure you’ll tell me
Should we begin at religion?
Lets categorize this
What about the color of my skin?
Where do we begin?
The injustice seems to paralyze me
Shall we go back to the day of slaves?
Perhaps teach discrimination and hate
Looking through a jaundice eye
We disgrace through cruelty and condescending tones
Who would of thought that millions of people could be wrong
Its taught ingrained into our skin
We become frightened of the truth don’t perceive an end
Words that like to hide disguised as our friends
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
I wonder why sometimes
Struggle to find some time
To categorize my mind inside
Petty thoughts inhibit my strides sometimes
Slow down my progress
Eliminate my conscious
And deny my success
Making it hard to thrive in time
Consumed by bitter demons
Construed to inner treason
Conflicting with simple freedom
Yet I still wonder why sometimes
But triumph derives from conquering how
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC