"cree" poems
She don't wanna speak to me.
Me mind is hidden under a cloud of darkness.
Dere's a feelin' of inner struggle.
I must release reggae.
spliiiiiff
I rise out of me bed in terror.
Me dreamt of a lonely island boy, lost at sea.
Could you imagine, no friends, no food.
No reggae release.
spliiiiiff
I'm trapped in a reggae box
I can hear me boy screamin', but I can't find 'im.
I call for 'im, "JACO! JACO, MY YOUT!"
I must release de reggae.
spliiiiiff
The room is a maze, no exit.
Could me premonitions be true?
Could me boy truly be lost?
No reggae release.
spliiiiiff
Me vision's too cloudy.
All to be seen is rat-like faces, cringing.
Their snouts snort and sneer to a reggae beat.
I must release de reggae.
spliiiiiff
The floor falls from under me.
A lizard's heavy gizzard appears below.
Crooked, sharp teeth shining tru de dark.
No reggae release.
spliiiiiff
Colours upon colours.
An indigo man stabs, then rapes a magenta woman.
Until the reds, and greens, and blues, explode from her stomach.
I must release de reggae.
spliiiiiff
I catch me breath. I'm in me room.
Safe and sound.
Jeez, what a bad trip, still?
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
.
•look far...
to the horizon•as the sun
dips into the ocean •most magnific-
ent display of colours • radiance in yell-
ows and captivating ambers•majestic specta-
cle that will dwindle within minutes•no words
could match such beauty that deals in infinites •
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~ *si nk ing unse~en beyo nd the thr eshold• the mi ~ghty ~~
~ ~ s un grows red der•~night sky cree ps in, with th e ~
~~ ~moon smilin g bold• ad opting her ~stan ce as the ~ ~
~~ ~ gua rdi~an hereaf ter• entour age~ of s tars ~
~ ***** le with s peckle s of g old • ~ ~
~ ~ ~ ~ b~idding farewell t o ~ ~ ~
~ ~t he su ~n's* ~ ~~~
~ ~~ ~ ~ ~
~~ ~ ~ ~ ~
ruling sceptre•
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
The slant-eyed
giant hunter
people of Tsul Kalu
came in peace
To become
the central universe
Cherokee white elders
hereditary priests
teaching peace
Winged rattlesnake
constellation
of time untime
Singing the death song
Sacred spirits
animal, plant, herb and tree
The wheel
what is, will be
(*The ancient Chinese were
the greatest astronomers.
Later in the 1400's their
massive treasure fleets
mapped the World
The Yuki, Navajo, Apache,
Yuchis, Ming ** Melungeons,
Shawnee (Oceanye ** Sioux,
Cree Ojibuwa and Moskoke
have Chinese ancestors
some claimed to be Chinese
European explorers told of
elders speaking Chinese
ancient Chinese artefacts
and wrecked junks seen
History as taught might
be but a fairytale*)
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 5:07 AM UTC
The Druids power has been lost for some time. But we all believe in Magic to some degree. So how do we multiply our presence without cried or Cree? We rise again starting next to the Old Oak Tree.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
Forjada en la "Fábrica de Armas y Municiones",
la ciudad
muerde con sus almenas
un pedazo de cielo,
mientras el Tajo,
alfanje que se funde en un molde de piedra,
atraviesa los puentes y la Vega,
pintada por algún primitivo castellano
de esos que conservaron
una influencia flamenca.
Ya al subir en dirección a la ciudad,
apriétase en las llaves
la empuñadura de una espada,
en tanto que un vientecillo
nos va enmoheciendo el espinazo
para insuflarnos el empaque
que los aduaneros exigen al entrar.
¡Silencio!
¡Silencio que nos extravía las pupilas
y nos diafaniza la nariz!
¡Silencio!
Perros que se pasean de golilla
con los ojos pintados por el Greco.
Posadas donde se hospedan todavía
los protagonistas del "Lazarillo" y del "Buscón".
Puertas que gruñen y se cierran
con las llaves que se le extraviaron a San Pedro.
¡Para cruzar sobre las, murallas y el Alcázar
las nubes ensillan con arneses y paramentos medioevales!
Hidalgos que se alimentan de piedras y de orgullo,
tienen la carne idéntica a la cera de los exvotos
y un tufo a herrumbre y a ratón.
Hidalgos que se detienen para escupir
con la jactancia con que sus abuelos
tiraban su escarcela a los leprosos.
Los pies ensangrentados por los guijarros,
se gulusmea en las cocinas
un olorcillo a inquisición,
y cuando las sombras se descuelgan de los tejados,
se oye la gesta
que las paredes nos cuentan al pasar,
a cuyo influjo una pelambre
nos va cubriendo las tetillas.
¡Noches en que los pasos suenan
como malas palabras!
¡Noches, con gélido aliento de fantasma,
en que las piedras que circundan la población
celebran aquelarres goyescos!
¡Juro,
por el mismísimo Cristo de la Vega,
que a pesar del cansancio que nos purifica
y nos despoja de toda vanidad,
a veces, al atravesar una calleja,
uno se cree Don Juan!
2.3k
Mi perro ha muerto.
Lo enterré en el jardín
junto a una vieja máquina oxidada.
Allí, no más abajo,
ni más arriba,
se juntará conmigo alguna vez.
Ahora él ya se fue con su pelaje,
su mala educación, su nariz iría.
Y yo, materialista que no cree
en el celeste cielo prometido
para ningún humano,
para este perro o para todo perro
creo en el cielo, sí, creo en un cielo
donde yo no entraré, pero él me espera
ondulando su cola de abanico
para que yo al llegar tenga amistades.
Ay no diré la tristeza en la tierra
de no tenerlo más por compañero,
que para mí jamás fue un servidor.
Tuvo hacia mí la amistad de un erizo
que conservaba su soberanía,
la amistad de una estrella independienre
sin más intimidad que la precisa,
sin exageraciones:
no se trepaba sobre mi vestuario
llenándome de pelos o de sarna,
no se frotaba contra mi rodilla
como otros perros obsesos sexuales.
No, mi perro me miraba
dándome la atención que necesito,
la atención necesaria
para hacer comprender a un vanidoso
que siendo perro él,
con esos ojos, más puros que los míos,
perdía el tiempo, pero me miraba
con la mirada que me reservó
toda su dulce, su peluda vida,
su silenciosa vida,
cerca de mí, sin molestarme nunca,
y sin pedirme nada.
Ay cuántas veces quise tener cola
andando junto a él por las orillas
del mar, en el invierno de Isla Negra,
en la gran soledad: arriba el aire
traspasado de pájaros glaciales,
y mi perro brincando, hirsuto, lleno
de voltaje marino en movimiento:
mi perro vagabundo y olfatorio
enarbolando su cola dorada
frente a frente al Océano y su espuma.
Alegre, alegre, alegre
como los perros saben ser felices,
sin nada más, con el absolutismo
de la naturaleza descarada.
No hay adiós a mi perro que se ha muerco.
Y no hay ni hubo mentira entre nosotros.
Ya se fue y lo enterré, y eso era todo.
2.2k
The woman of power, of the final hour,
Stood upon the gaping edge of death,
Savoring her final due breath,
Recollecting her spent time, as the demons beneath, did climb.
The woman, once unknown, many must atone,
With a simple display, she tore the lights that held the night at bay,
For nothing as powerful as she, should anyone but agree,
Resting upon her belt, the stars forever dwelt.
The woman, demur of the end, a challenge to death, she had penned,
A game, we shall partake, with eternal lives at stake,
For if I do not wish to die, your purpose, you must defy,
With a stolen piece, her years did increase.
The woman of blackened markings, her mind of ever-workings,
Stood tall upon her mare, chased with twisting white hair,
Upon her belt, rested pouched treasures, glittering fondly with pleasure,
For her company never to shake, as her pale eyes did forever take.
She was the woman of Cree, far beyond The Black Ink Sea,
The taker of stars, leaving naught but empty scars,
She was the winning player of Death's Game, her rewards, to gain,
With the twisting marks of power, deep to the pit, she did glower.
For nothing of its sort,
Shall ever hold her short,
From any a task within her aim,
A woman such as I, victory shall I claim.
And with that thought dancing across her mind,
She leapt, and left the mortal world behind.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
Entre palabras disonantes, río.
Un trago baja por mi garganta irritada de tanto gritar,
mi cuerpo la pasa bien mientras yo me esfuerzo en distraer a mi mente y un concierto de pensamientos oscuros se ve opacado por el volumen de la música y de los aullidos apabullantes de una juventud que cree tener todo bajo control mientras están juntos, pero en el próximo momento de verdadera soledad, sus espaldas se quebrarán sobre sus seres y se verán desplomados sobre un suelo de incertidumbre absoluta.
Entre pensamientos distantes, me pierdo.
Humo de un cigarro barato innunda mis pulmones mientras la nicotina afecta mi sistema nervioso en un abrazo reconfortante que no es otra cosa que una mentira más, la promesa de una prostituta que cobra con tu vida, pero sigo besándola hasta que mis dedos se queman.
Entre gritos innentendibles, lloro.
No exteriorizo, pero las lágrimas están ahí, en la mente perturbada por fantasmas de quienes yo mismo maté, siluetas del pasado que no terminan de tomar forma porque no se los permito, pero a pesar de mis esfuerzos aún son reconocibles, aunque a duras penas.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC
I am not Indian. I am Gitxsan
I belong to a territory, I am Gitxsan
Like my ancestors before me.
Before contact with people from other lands, We are Gitxsan
I do not know this word Indian
Maybe the word is from faraway lands
Maybe they will be proud to be called Indians
Like I am proud to be called Gitxsan
This land is Gitxsan, She cares for her people
We are Gitxsan
Who are these new people
That accept that title of Indian
From someone far away that doesn’t see,That they are Gitxsan
Their territory is 1 mile by 1 mile , They live by their territorial rules
Given to them by eyes that do not see
That they were once a proud nation
Of Gitxsan
Give me a card that says, I am Gitxsan
And I will be happy
Let my children of mixed blood Also be happy to be
Gitxsan
It is not for your unseeing eyes or uncaring heart to say
Who in my family is, Gitxsan It is in their hearts to be Gitxsan
Gitxsan is not just a word
It is the land, the people, the language, the animals and the spirits
I stand proudly beside the Hopi, the Apache, the Sioux, the Cree, and all other nations labelled Indian.
I am Gitxsan.
Wogalwil
Edward Green
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
Soy huellas que no secan
en el vacío interminable de tu pecho
como marca hecha en desiertos
por el cadáver sediento de tu cuerpo
Soy un jugador con sonrisa de plata
que se burla a escondidas,
y se cree ganador de todo lo perdido
aceptando el trofeo en secreto
sabiendo que ha hecho bien
en romper silencios,
cadenas,
el alma,
y ha hecho jirones
la camisa de un amante,
en busca del elixir divino
Soy quien encontró ambrosía
en labios rosas
como almohadas celestiales
que bajan a su encuentro
entre noches perdidas,
secretas,
sedientas
Soy quien ríe al último
con honestidad y el alma limpia
pues no tengo nada que perder
ya que he dado todo
y regresó en migajas
en platos rotos
y en realidades
que no concuerdan con los sueños
y no me arrepiento de nada
la historia me absuelve
como algún matón cubano dijo
alguna vez
en algún lugar
pues todos los asesinos
tienen su razón
justificada.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
Canoeing
written March 7th, 2021
I have spent the last few days
canoeing the Mackenzie River
making the journey in a book
with maps and words.
As I read it takes me back
to canoeing in my youth
the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness
along the northern border of Minnesota.
I can feel the paddle
pulling through the water
and hear the loons
crying at night.
The land around me
almost untouched since
Huron, Chippewa, Cree
Dakota and Ojibwa eyes
were the only ones
that had ever seen it.
Now I travel in thought and memory
the clear cold waters of the lakes
the portages through forested hills
taking me from one gem
of a lake and a memory
to the next.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 7:38 PM UTC
Another adventure begins
On a day to remember
On the 11th hour of the 11th day
Of the 11th month in 1918
WWI ended
But the war continues
Between the material and spiritual
The Grand Inquisitor in all of us
(Dostoevsky)
Tries to encapsulate the formless
We're all searching for the magic pill
Red or blue
What would you choose?
Fortunately, there is no choice
You become who you are eventually
It just depends how many lives
It takes for a full realization
Of this reality
A spiritual warrior is always in transition
I'm spending the next few weeks traveling from
Portland to Los Angeles
Maybe on to Peru from there
I plan on writing in realtime
In spacetime, I'll be riffing
Suggestions of where to explore are appreciated
That would put a big smile on my face
I told my Cree friend of this journey
She laughed and called me Thotin
Thotin is wind; wind in all forms
I told her I identified with water
She nixed that:
'water is too predictable, wind is just ****** nuts'
We lol'd
I guess the wind is blowing west
:)
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
It could have been a pleasant Monday.
We sat outdoors and ate our sandwiches.
It was crisp October, and we were on a dig.
Earlier, we had used the transit to measure
teepee rings from the nomad Cree tribe
that once lived and loved here.
You'd found the marker stones.
I'd found a stone tool.
But now we sit having lunch in the tepid sun.
I looked at you and saw a young man
who swaggered with false confidence.
You wore an army jacket,though we were just 16.
Your hair was red, and a little curly.
Your eyes melted me, -robin's egg blue.
I looked at your hands still holding the paper
and I saw between the freckles on your wrist
a blue vein.
Without ability to stop myself I touched you there.
And then my mind whirled.
For the first time-
suddenly, I was in your blood,
your heart, your mind!
You were just as jolted as I was,
and we have never been the same.
40 years later. We write on your birthday.
You ask about my mother.
Do you ever say my name?
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 2:01 AM UTC
Para ti que no crees en mi, te escribo esta carta para pedirte que no me insultes ni me jusgues, puesto que soy una obra mas de tu creador, yo soy el espiritu de luz que te llevara hacia el cuando tu alma se despegue de tu cuerpo y tengas que rendirle cuentas de tu vida....porque yo no soy un ser satanico, tampoco un ser diabolico. Soy un ser que Nuestro Dios Padre.. e cree, yo soy la Niña que te mira, mis brazos que te cargan, mis manos que te consuelan, mis pies que te guian, mi Guadaña que te Defiende, mi aliento alegre que respires, mi mundo en el que vives, mi manto que te cubre y resguardia, todo estolo tengo para ti por que para eso fui creada, solo pideme all infocarme, pero haslo con humildad, haslo con el Corazon y yo estare contigo
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC
How could it be
that it's just me
wondering when we
will laugh again with glee.
What scared ghost do we flee
into Summer's buzzing bee
passed a late Falling tree?
I grant that he
has a good degree
and a family pedigree,
but aren't we all free?
I feel tainted with frosty
touches of Northern fee,
invoices billed from a Cree
living in tent or tipi
while burning my effigy.
Down on one knee
at a Maypole jubilee,
drunk and happy,
tragically at the end greedily
eating too much Sandra Lee,
that's me!
Half squinting a dopie
smile and slanting queer
boats with rhyming keel,
I barter with a misty sea,
wanting badly to ***
but instead shade my eyes to see.
Discarded to dry.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
Seeing chalked outlines of brothers, I haven’t met,
Cause the cops been harassing and profiling so long,
People become desensitized, pretending nothings wrong.
Seeing so many innocent children that didn’t deserve it,
Have a hoodie in the store, you assume it’s a burglar,
You better watch your chatter, otherwise the gun gonna clatter.
Becoming just another body bag for another mother.
And the news may report it,
But the next day it won’t matter.
I really hate to alarm, but I’m fed up,
Some think it’s silly, saying **** it up.
The same fools that never experienced harm.
Assuming based on colour, that I must be armed.
So, they pull up on me like I’m a terrorist,
Which is pretty ******* racist,
No matter what way you measure it!
Having a knee on a neck,
Like they need a prayer addressed.
Yet they call my people violent.
Very ironic? Isn’t it?
Been spending most our lives,
Living in a colonist paradise,
Could hang as much ***** as you like,
Living in a colonist paradise.
We keep spending most our lives living in a colonist paradise,
Have many have to be sacrificed till we question this colonial paradise?
Look at the situation they got us facing,
We can’t live a normal life, we was taken from our land.
So, now we got to conform to new rules G,
Becoming puppets for the bourgeoisie.
I’m an educated savage with justice on my mind,
Got my Diploma in my hand and pride in my eyes,
I’m a rez’d out desperado, Cree that’s muy guapo.
And my patience is worn, so don’t provoke my fuego!
Fool, death ain’t nothing but are martyrdom away,
Just one spark away,
From lighting the fuse,
That will blow away.
The old narrow minded and rotten society.
Every child matters,
It’s pretty sad, that I even have to say that homie.
Been spending most our lives living in a colonist paradise,
Could slaughter as much children as you like,
As long as you say you’re doing it for your Christ.
We keep spending most our lives living in a colonist paradise,
Have many have to be sacrificed till we question this colonial paradise?
Power and the money, money and the power.
Promise after promise, liar after liar.
Everybody breathing, but half of them ain’t living.
It’s going on in our community, but nobody looking.
They say I gotta get over it, but nobody here see’s the trauma from it!
If they can’t understand it, how can reconciliation come out of it?
I guess they can't, I guess they won't
I guess they frontin', that's why I know my life is out of luck, fool!
Been spending most our lives living in a colonist paradise,
Could imprison as many asians as you like.
Living in a colonist paradise.
We keep spending most our lives living in a colonist paradise,
Have many have to be sacrificed till we question this colonial paradise?
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 5:32 PM UTC
When he was revealed to you to be naught but ash and stone
his eyes burnt dusty grey that of a thousand campfires grown cold
to feel not
to hear not
draws likeness to hell on earth
the leaves so brown and rusty
pay no attention to the girth of his unnoticed masochistic sorrow
so tomorrow may be better than the rest but in his roving endless mind he will find the greatest unrest
In all things he finds beauty and in all things he finds lonesome boredom
so that is why he roves in search of endless pleasures to quell the restlessness he finds when he
reaches home
Too much time he has been stuck in one place
he grows weary of the endless thoughtless race
to places others hate and where on one wants to be
so on his feet he flees
to the lands devoid of life
to camels
rocks
and the occasional bubbling cree
The shoes too tight the hurt his feet
they leave an aching, tingling feeling
They yearn to begat themselves of his heel
Plead with the sweat between his toes to never grace the skin of any man again
yet he still wears them
He knows they cause blisters
he knows that in those shoes an ever hardening, hateful fungus grows
His wandering feet cannot remember the grass
the heat of asphalt
the agony of sharp glass
What is he to do?
his entire life he has worn some sort of shoe
to walk without?
absurd he laments
He dreams of the day when he will spare no expense
when the shoe he dawns will be the finest in the world
Another 10 years
another 10 he hopes
When his tromping up floors will finally pay off
Will that day ever come?
a bigger car?
a bigger house?
a bigger safe for all his guns?
He pleads
he wonders
blindly through life he blunders
hoping for when things will get better
he was raised not to wonder
raised not to dream
into suited glass himself he must ream
Wanting not of the beautiful himself he will cry
on his deathbed he will see but lonely sky
Too late to fix now
he wished he had realized younger
even fifteen years would have worked
Now he sits
old and broken
feeding breadcrumbs to flightless birds
wishing someone would have spoken
Told him to cast off the shoe that left his foot choking and unable to breathe
His eyes fiery
heart masked with rage
he screams ever upward
bent with age
Broken Heartless
Mourning the loss of his life
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 7:58 PM UTC
De cuando en cuando y a lo lejos
hay que darse un baño de tumba.
Sin duda todo está muy bien
y todo está muy mal, sin duda.
Van y vienen los pasajeros,
crecen los niños y las calles,
por fin compramos la guitarra
que lloraba sola en la tienda.
Todo está bien, todo está mal.
Las copas se llenan y vuelven
naturalmente a estar vacías
y a veces en la madrugada,
se mueren misteriosamente.
Las copas y los que bebieron.
Hemos crecido tanto que ahora
no saludamos al vecino
y tantas mujeres nos aman
que no sabemos cómo hacerlo.
Qué ropas hermosas llevamos!
Y qué importantes opiniones!
Conocí a un hombre amarillo
que se creía anaranjado
y a un ***** vestido de rubio.
Se ven y se ven tantas cosas.
Vi festejados los ladrones
por caballeros impecables
y esto se pasaba en inglés.
Y vi a los honrados, hambrientos,
buscando pan en la basura.
Yo sé que no me cree nadie.
Pero lo he visto con mis ojos.
Hay que darse un baño de tumba
y desde la tierra cerrada
mirar hacia arriba el orgullo.
Entonces se aprende a medir.
Se aprende a hablar, se aprende a ser.
Tal vez no seremos tan locos,
tal vez no seremos tan cuerdos.
Aprenderemos a morir.
A ser barro, a no tener ojos.
A ser apellido olvidado.
Hay unos poetas tan grandes
que no caben en una puerta
y unos negociantes veloces
que no recuerdan la pobreza.
Hay mujeres que no entrarán
por el ojo de una cebolla
y hay tantas cosas, tantas cosas,
y así son, y así no serán.
Si quieren no me crean nada.
Sólo quise enseñarles algo.
Yo soy profesor de la vida,
vago estudiante de la muerte
y si lo que sé no les sirve
no he dicho nada, sino todo.
777
No creo en mi
No creo en nadie
Solo creo en no creer que puedo hacer
lo que quiero
No entiendes?
Yo tampoco quiero entender
Pues no tiene sentido creer
En la vida, o en algun ser
Adios, Que le vaya bien
Tampoco creo en el ayer
Espero que alguien me ayude a crecer
a vivir sin miedo , a desatar mis penas.
Siempre, siempre estas,
pero quien?
No hay nadie ahi,
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
In that moment,I was the only one who saw how alone you were.
Without verbal agreement we both understood that
I shouldn't leave you alone,but it was also understood
that you needed a moment alone to grieve in silence.
Right before me stood the man I had feared
& idolized since I was a child.
Right before my eyes you became undone.
With that understanding in mind I left you alone,
but not before giving you an awkward yet necessary hug .
In the years to come, I would have never imagined
that it would be our last one.
Cree Scythe
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Ravishingly relevant, don't give a **** about being elegant. Thanks for the sentiment, but I will not give you any dividends. To me you are no more than excrement, can't you see that I am benevolent. Dashingly skilled, got a strong will, shoot to **** run of the mill, if you join me I will never treat you Ill. Shockingly built, not going to bear any guilt, for if I do I will wilt. Establishing my mark on this earth, destined for greatness ever since my momma gave birth. Developed moral codes that one could not break, never tried to play it safe, you can bet that I will not give in and just be another phony fake. For heavens sake, no pun intended; don't give a **** if you’re offended, my friends are all colourly blended. So what if I'm not politically correct, you **** heads don't always have to be so ***** So elect me for president or prime minister or whatever, how could it get worse when politics is full of bad weather. Canadian born, but my name isn’t Aubrey, that guy who is worn out yet he thinks himself as godly. Funny, narcissistic sloppy rich boy sell out, Mr. Snobby ****** get out, or you will be taken out. Classy J will you show you how it’s done, I do this **** for fun, never claimed to be number one. I am definitely not the goat, but I stay afloat, to devote my time to finding the truth instead of finding a scapegoat. Real deal, making people like you my next meal, you will be no more than a third wheel. Sure I can't free style, sure I rant about how it is to be a Cree, but when it comes to original verses I surpass you by a mile. I will never reconcile, I will keep on being a clever juvenile. They will file this rap beef as a no contest, no need to weigh in against a crap invested slugfest. But back to my rap, not about to waste my time rhyming about rappers that slack, it is like I am rapping against scrap. Anyways, these days, people have become dazed, it's like we living life sideways. Don't be succumbed, look towards that sequel, don't lower yourself and stay hazed for if you do you'll stay dammed. Not here to have you condemned, but if you hook up with the wrong crowd you will end up harmed. Stay esteemed, never **** your dreams, anything taken away can be reclaimed.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 2:52 AM UTC
El frío es insoportable
en el kilómetro 9.
Nadie se abraza,
nadie se da besos,
nadie se cree sol
entre la nube de infancia,
y la verde madurez
del viento que la sopla.
Algunos se paran
y dicen que así
no son las cosas,
pero otra vez
alguno lo interrumpe:
"Siéntate que te vas a helar".
Sigan creyendo
que las lágrimas se congelan.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
~ a jump-rope chant ~
Cree‑cree, Cree‑cree,
Papa Limbo,
Lè ou vini,
pa janm antre.
Papa Limbo,
tall and thin,
Creeping ‘round my house again.
Tip‐toe, tip‐toe,
can’t come in,
Salt and brick dust on my skin!
Metcha’ a man
inna’ crooked hat.
Sleeps all day with a one‐eyed cat.
Sings me a tune
through his busted tooth,
’bout-a girl he lost
in a photo booth.
Jump, kid, jump.
Don’tcha fall.
Rusty nails
Rusty nails
stickin’ in a doll.
Gonna' clap twice,
Spin-a skirt around,
Listen to him moan like-a jail-house hound.
Trip that rope
hear his call
He’s still collectin’ girls
for his picture wall.
Cree‑cree, Cree‑cree,
Papa Limbo,
Lè ou vini,
pa janm antre.
Clap two times,
spin about,
Papa Limbo,
you get out!
Red dust, white salt, slam the door,
Shadow can’t cross
my floor no more!
Aug 4, 2025
Aug 4, 2025 at 7:30 PM UTC
**** Life Gentle ways that stream oceans with bot sail
When Dawn lights alarm when head pillow lay rest-tail
wept water chalice becomes chalice cup blind loose
mask uni “form verse” fortune “sub verse” wrong Le' three
awe & decree a letter prom us could derive scream
riding run, riding fun ride sun homage awept
orn tusks, quite huffs swollen pain smarke adept
nigh hour felt minute still forever herefore
Nine usually alone formal always cree
Heaven brood breaths that bronze root cut stark silver can
Seven sister lord know, this I know, only pan!
Stars steel upon cloud,iron bare cuth board ship, string-sea
where fore makers homer place liden leave before numb
I come, guess hour finger point child plough palmers thumb
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC