"deconstructed" poems
for her
no special expertise claimed,
if anything, les contraries,
my non-expertise,
but nothing forbids
my heart from trying
red crossing,
rebuilding just this young one
build from the corners in,
like one starts a jigsaw puzzle,
the human, moving parts,
thus harder,
but eminently doable
the corners are straight edged, linear,
easier to spot, easier to start,
but for you to find them within,
go outside, and window winnow in
you will know them as your
truest words
pick the picture
of you,
you know
you must pick,
the puzzle picture
of you
that favorite one
when completed,
will, though cracked,
as jigsaw puzzles
by nature wont,
as all humans
are wont,
will be the one
that brings smiles
first, foremost
she asks:
*"Where are these edges that define me,
help me to construct and the where to begin?"*
after sixty years more on this planet,
have been torn apart,
reconstructed, deconstructed,
more then ten finger and ten toe times
this I know,
there is but one beauty
in this crueled worn
every day weary-world,
it is you,
you words that betray
Beautiful You
oh so well
you see I have your picture,
you see I have your words,
deconstructed, reconstructed,
I love your picture,
I love your words,
start with me, start at the corners,
show me the pieces,
tho the world see the ex
terior,
I see the in
terior,
the shiny new
true sides, so beautiful,
wake knowing that
not just me dearest Chalsey,
I have found your chalice,
and your grail,
and I say,
this is just one man,
this can be where you start,
this then be your mirror,
let us from the corners in,
from the eyes that penetrate,
accept that this is not debatable,
this is my poem where I do not lie,
this is my piece of you,
from inside of me
my straight edge piece was
born in your beautiful words,
and I say,
can you, see a voice,
can you, touch a voice,
no one can
but I can
your voice is transcendent,
it is the cover photo of a glossy mag,
this is the photo, the puzzle I see,
and heart each and every word
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
I wait alone
wrapped in paper
shivering amidst cold
the door pressed hard
against my chest
this time a year ago
I met a similar fate
the verdict returned
cancer
a word my mind
has deconstructed
reconstructed
discarded
as my past
tears erupt behind
my eyes
how can I afford
to fight again
at what cost
and during
a pandemic
the door **** twists
as she emerges
eyes averted
my throat scored
in pain
"It's benign,
come back
6 months from now"
unable to move
I peer through haze
minutes tease silence
then with
trembling fingers
I dial his number
Aiden answers
"Mom, you okay?"
nodding tearfully
with newfound certainty
I finally whisper, "Yes!"
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 6:00 AM UTC
We revel in the artist's gaze.
See us, artist, we say.
Scale us in the geometry of your sight.
Objectify us, break us down
To our vital light,
The zero shade of being,
Our essential black and white.
But what if the figure becomes the ground?
Does the artist’s vision ever come to rest?
Does she halt the eye’s restless turning,
Instead hunger to be seen? Fathomed? Expressed
In basic hues, simplified, resolved,
Into the object deconstructed, the mystery solved?
Spotlight and camouflage,
Revelation and disguise:
The chiaroscuro of the artist’s eyes.
Then where does beauty reside?
In our eyes, beholders,
Invited in yet held outside?
Or in the starlight, sunlight,
Lamplight as it plays
On the seer seen in beauty’s gaze?
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
My thoughts drift slow and lazy
through the valleys of my mind,
reaching out for answers,
searching for something I left behind.
My memories were here once before
with darkness, screams and pain,
the intense fire of creative spirit
dampened to pulp by a wicked brain.
So where did I leave myself
when I escaped in to my head?
I've deconstructed the mental walls
to discover the places I had fled.
Between. Betwixt. Bewitched. Be still,
a balm to soothe this anxious seer.
My thoughts drift slow and lazy
through the valleys of my fears.
© Pagan Paul (20/05/17)
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 6:55 PM UTC
In retrospect,
dredging up past events
that led to the here and now.
Pending course of actions in which to exact...
Reaching as far back as the mind would allow.
In retrospect,
studying the reflection
in the rear view mirror,
as the present freezes itself intact.
Sifting through past images...
Second by second,
frame by frame.
Identifying overlooked pitfalls
and margin of errors.
In retrospect,
straddling the realm...
Where my current state of mind
lapses into a minute-long sleep.
Sights on the future... Folded blind,
discerning the treachery
of impulsive thoughts and actions.
Diving up from oceans deep,
painting the backdrop beyond paths at
unmarked junctions.
In retrospect,
every detail deconstructed...
Deliberated against the yardstick
of what's done and the supposed.
Refracted memories snap back clean into place.
Over and over...
Layer upon layer...
Time and again forming
the looming weight
that pulls me to a stumble
into the stagnant puddle...
Of long gone days.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
. (Mythology Re-Imagined As Fairy-Tale & Deconstructed) .
No one recalls when he arrived.
He was already there, in the corners of high rooms.
Carried in on wind or instinct.
Too composed to belong, too still to be ignored.
He wasn't from the sea, though he stared at it often.
Stared like a man who missed something he never touched.
He lived above things—above feeling, above endings.
He wore distance like other men wear charm.
And she—well.
She wasn’t where she was supposed to be.
---
They said she’d been sealed beneath water before time had a name.
Not drowned. Not sleeping.
Just paused.
A beauty left half-sketched.
A song trapped on the bridge, never reaching the chorus.
She existed in the almost.
The kind of presence that ruins men who believe in silence.
No one put her there.
But something had.
Something old and silver-lipped, a clockmaker with no face.
---
When he found out, he didn’t shout.
Didn’t storm.
Storms are for men who want to be heard.
He simply started unmaking himself.
Small things, at first:
Giving away secrets he never told.
Letting starlight fall from his shoulders like ash.
Standing in rooms long enough for people to forget he was tall.
Eventually, he gave away the last thing he had—
the part of him that never wanted anything.
And that was enough.
---
She came back like foam curling over marble.
Not as a lover. Not as a reward.
As weather.
She passed him by.
Looked at the space he’d vacated inside himself
and nodded, as if to say: “Yes. That will do.”
---
After that, things changed.
She walked through the city like someone who could end it.
Touched doorframes and left them trembling.
Spoke only when the sentence would shatter something.
He, on the other hand,
was seen less and less.
Not gone—just thinned out, like smoke after a gunshot.
---
Some say he became the silence in her laugh.
Others claim he left, unfinished, like a poem crumpled in a lover’s pocket.
No one’s sure.
But if you ask the sea just right—
after midnight, after mirrors—
you’ll hear it whisper:
“He let go of the sky, so she could walk through it.”
{fin}
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 12:02 AM UTC
I thought
my thoughts
were bigger than anyone's.
Maybe I was bigger than anyone.
This served to isolate me
from the fact that I am small, not bigger and I am okay
with that.
When did it begin? Why would I need this mechanism of living?
Did it start at birth? Or when my cat died in our house fire?
Maybe...
When I lost my father to his mental illness? When he was taken away?
Maybe the ****
When the trauma set in?
If I am a mass of cells, a living organism,
vulnerable to this world of others.
I need protection. There was none when little. Children need protection.
I developed my bigger-self by watching others. I learned to protect.
I learned to heal. I learned to forgive, but always, my thoughts
were bigger than yours. You didn't recognize so I appeared
aloof, angry, bitter, warming, smarter, friendly, volatile, politically correct, patient, intense, stubborn, caring, wistful, shattered and put together again. I was all over the map. I couldn't find my waypoint, until now.
This is life's way. Our vehicle is our thoughts.
I am not bigger in thought, in action or in self. I am tired of running away, of blaming, of being ashamed.
I no longer need protection other than from myself.
I am now relaxing in the part I could not have been taught. The idea that even experiences, over and over and over again, would teach me my lesson. You ask why people keep repeating
mistakes. This is our allotment. The price each of us pays.
It is my thoughts that save me now, wondering about my son, his illness, about my predicament
after years of hard work, unabashedly independent, procuring mindfulness, deliberating the Buddhist way, meditating on thoughts,
through a maze of my twelve steps
that I now for this moment am alone in. My thoughts deconstructed. More connected, but not bigger.
My shoulders drop, my face unfurrows, my heart slows, a tear begins if I let it. I am released. I will not suffer further.
How can I tell you, I am not bigger any longer and I am at peace.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
Let me write you a poem
Between blue lines and red crosses and silly hairstyles
A poem that will eloquently tell
How you shone like dim stars on a pitch black beach
Figuratively
Full of HYPERBOLES! and synecdoches
About your misaligned teeth and your roaring, cackling laugh
It will drown you in allusions,
In perfectly crafted hybrid adjectives
That will tell
How you got caught in revolving doors
And how I laughed.
I hope you have seen the Spolarium
Because the poem will use it to denote
How I knew you were fine
But I never knew you'd be so huge
If you haven't,
We can see it together
The poem will trump Poe and O'Hara and Bukowski and Neruda
They will call it God's gift to Poetry
Studied and deconstructed
For the next few centuries
It was found taped under a desk they will say
And they will scour the world to find
That lovely mysterious beautiful person in the poem
Let me write you that poem
So that when they find you
Only the greatest people on this planet
Will read it to you.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
You unwrapped my blind fold
I could only see this mess of deconstructed bones
The smog filled my bleeding nostrils
I gasped to know the truth of a world rotating in circumvention
Tangents of humiliation
A crab crawls back into its used receptacle
It does not have to face the uneven shadows
Fairy wings brittle and break
The ashes of frightened unicorns
Paths off way far into the emasculated jungle
Hidden silences wielded in your depth
Machines and paper plates
The trees of battered car horns and biohazard bags
The stereotypical infantile jungle world
Without the echoes of the children you never should have had
Mary prostitutes herself on the corner
The Holy Ghost burns unnoticed
Please let us go back to a time
When we could sit still without retrograding voices
Telling us to progress and revolve
We can no longer feel awesomed in the presence of a structural anomaly
One that had never lived or breathed
Or failed
We were on the verge of a revolution
Before they took our fairytales away
The myths were replaced with shear and utter disgust
For the entire human community
Let us retreat to the forest of Incas and attack dogs
For we can not have a revolution of one.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
Gray matter unfolds
To expose a world hence unseen.
What you thought was soft muscle
Is actually a community of golden pathways,
Carved from the hollow horns
Of unicorns, slayers of virgins.
Like a deconstructed accordion,
It flattens
And reveals a soul, a heart
Floating through space on the back of his fingers.
The deepest annals of the universe
Are uncovered for your eyes only
And for those few blessed moments
There is only greatness.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 10:04 PM UTC
High voltage poetics,
Planting words seeds
In a field of nomadic minds,
In a sky of dreams
Bursting above the magnetic stars,
The skin of words
Peeled from flesh of life,
The page is a silken weave,
The words threaded in a void,
Syllable construction
Of a spiraling flame that invents
A city
In a day
In a life
In a person-
The thought deconstructed
Into metaphysical metaphorical,
Musical mandolins,
The mandolinist touches the foreheads,
A pack of wild people
In the wild city nocturnal,
The spectrum of voices
In a rainbow of verbiage,
A wonderful desolation
As the hours fly as a writer flies,
The Sunstone's dial
Burns time at the crossroads of midnight,
We are a gallery of echoes,
Our history lives today
Hushed into memory,
Diaphanous vision
Accumulated into the mind
Vast as the moment,
The mirrors reflect the Word
And the Word is life,
Reasons are a geometric anomaly
With morality at the center
Of the theoretical poem:
I choose to inspire,
Which means to live and observe
Daily reconstructing in the poems,
But the poem is not truth;
Poetry like history is made,
Eyes of language,
The truth is to walk it,
Inspired to live and the dream
Is written in verse.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
Heart's cover sealed in burgeoning prime
Fading leaves folded in the book of time
Follicles of love blanched on the pages sublime
Billowy blades dulled with eroding sands that modulate and slime
Bleached, seamless threads spliced in the deep recesses of my mind
Glossy words overgrown, strangled with thistle and thyme
Each, dilated syllable devoid of reason and rhyme
Each segment underscored with a stagnating byline
Every, amorous allusion deconstructed; devoid of design
Each, sterile refrain resounds a doleful chime
Remaining, truncated edition a lapsing memory; requited pantomime
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 8:00 AM UTC
I wrote it on the back of my hand one day, I told you that I needed you – you wiped the smile off my face with your thumb, like I had smudged the words right out of my mouth. You taught me invaluable lessons I am sure never to forget, I was schooled by you, in ways I never really understood. I was a child, innocent by the very lapels on which you grew me up. Dragged me up, scuffed my shoes at the front and back. Untied my bra strap with your little finger and told me, listen here, love, I know exactly what I am doing. Made me believe in you, you did. Made me fall for every word. Made me fall for every whisper of love. Tenderly I was hooked by you.
You were the machine of my creation. Your greatest ever work of art. You sculpted my very inner being, tied me to my soul with burnt fingers and made me believe I was worth nothing more than **** Your purpose was excellent. Completely fooled I was, your succinct underhand ways grievously ruined my sight. No longer could I see reality, living in world prepared for, cooked up and served by you. I lost a lot of blood in those first few years, a lot of good stock died. My passion became my greatest detriment, for should I talk you would take the words from my mouth and mark them in the air; deconstructed with a red pen you would make me realise my mistakes.
Thank you for all you have done. To me. For me. With me. My ear is no longer connected to your mouth. I can breeeeeathe without having to miss a step. All my love that I was proud to possess had been given away, but I was proud to have failed you, I was proud to weep under you, I was proud, to have loved you and not gotten away with it. I take full responsibility for all my tremendous actions, the ones I gave for you, laid down in honour for you, to wipe your pretty little feet all over the back of my head. I turned around to face you and slapped that face right off your mouth
Loved I was by you. Needed I was by you, to be, you. I wrote **** you, on my ******* fingers and shoved them up your **** Now you talk my language, now you wait for me to see you. Now you know I am no longer your dishrag, your teatowel or your muse. Got it back I did, got back my heat, my fury, and glory. Action packed with honour and fire, loving and loved. I learnt from you lessons which I shall never forget, I was schooled by you. Wanted to thank you, for I am no longer afraid, my sweet ****** of you and your heart. This is a glorious world, one which you will never feel.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
Needing to go home, the time has come
All of these designs have come undone
The party favors have been put away
The room is cold, your body still with sleep
There are a thousand open windows looking in from the street
The night was filled with shooting stars
A one night stand is what our lives are
We loved each morning well
We played through out the night
When it was dawn we longed for the night
We held up infinity's mirror
We danced like angels riding the Santa Ana winds
We dreamed of sandcastles and moved right in
We constructed deconstructed
there were even moments of resurrection
But the time has come to head on home
Kissing your forehead fairtheewell
Leaving my belongings on the floor
I came with nothing but potential
I leave with nothing as promised
Opening the door
A turn to the dark and silent night
But first blessing those who remain unblessed
by such a life's gifts
The time has come
I need to go home
Time for peaceful rest.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
#20 | 31 Poems for August 2016
I began writing this at exactly 03:58 a.m. on a Sunday morning while listening to Charles de Gaulle to JFK by Bas.
Lately I write my most honest pieces during the early hours of Sunday mornings while everyone is still fast asleep.
Wonder what the view is like from Charles de Gaulle to JFK, 30 000 feet in the air.
But anyway, you and I still got bad blood between us like sickle-cell anaemia.
Reminiscing back when I used to be close friends with a girl named Amelia.
Guess we drifted apart as soon as I moved back to Pretoria, maybe the distance dismantled our friendship.
I’ve decided to do this all alone and if anyone’s coming along then let them come along.
I wish I could drift way with the scent of this cup of coffee but a few minutes from now it’ll be colder than your shoulder.
Always wondered if you’d head to Cape Town to go study at that school of brand leadership we always talked about.
But you chose to stay at the Pretoria campus because of certain unforeseen circumstances.
In 2014 I got accepted but unfortunately the tuition was too high like Wiz Khalifa and my mother couldn’t afford it.
That’s why I may have the perception that dreams delayed will always feel like dreams denied.
I’ve been praying for three whole years for a miracle, adjusted my faith and became more spiritual but still nothing has changed.
Guess I’m just young and unlucky; my hands are freezing and my heart is bleeding.
Navigated through space and time just to find the time to give you space.
Words unspoken make way for a silent devotion, this whole thing hurts but I try my best not to let my emotions show.
Wonder what happened, we suddenly stopped talking several months ago.
Maybe you have changed, I just hope that you’ve changed for the better.
I am slowly falling apart and all I can think about is gathering the pieces of my broken heart together.
Maybe you have changed for the better, I guess no one works that hard to stay the same.
My hands are freezing and my heart is bleeding, this whole thing hurts but I try my best not to let my emotions show.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
Soon the rain will fall and
you will empty the jars of tears you collected to wash away with the debris.
Soon the rain will fall and wash away the melancholy the atmosphere is drenched in
As you watch the rain drops dance the pitter patter will remind you of a joyful period, forgotten memories shrouded by years of self-destruction
The rain will erase the ruin... the decay that surrounds you
No longer will you breath in devastation The scent of the mixture of rain and dust will give you back life, light, and purpose
The black flower will bloom
A celebration of a new deviation
Restructuration of faith once deconstructed
Your humanity is not gone
There is hope for you yet, a tiny spark that will burst into flames and you will shine the brightest
Soon the rain will fall on your skin and it will erase the sadness in your bones.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
Note to self
Stop writing poetry for members of the opposite ***
In a crude attempt for ****
The efficacy is still up for debate
and you're left with a beautiful creation that memories generated are absofuckinglutely hated
Like that foul mouthed gingerkid from pre-school
COME HERE YOU LITTLE ******* SO I CAN BEAT YOU WITH MY SHOE ************
YOU DON'T KNOW ABOUT THE WOODEN SPOON
I'LL SWALLOW YOUR SOUL!
I'LL SWALLOW YOUR SOUL!
BOW BEFORE MY MINISTRY OF DARKNESS ALL YOU DESTESTABLE *****
this is my deconstructed distraction from reality destruction from abstraction
wherefore art thou sanity
ADD
Cry/ Get baked/ Ooh shiny/ ********** Dyslexia/HAIL SATAN/
HEIL SANtA
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
The construction of new truths
requires tracing back to the roots
in which our foundational youth
has been grounded.
Pursuants of knowledge, belief, and perception
falter at the objection
that their reality is not subject to
interpretive conception.
Impermanence
taught me to learn and to shift
with tides of my blind eye's misconceptions.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
You've been offline for 16 minutes
I could have said it, but I didn't
I had it written, but I didn't send it
I'm kind of a coward, I'll admit it.
I couldn't fit it in a space that I thought you would read
I had a tendency to ramble when you listened
or pretended, and in the poems that you've never seen
it's just as bad,
I go careening through a bending path of bramble
tryna scramble to the point
but I lost you
neck deep in the prose that arose
around a metaphor packed to the brim
with condescending tid bits
where I use your words against you
but a heavy weight that sits
over it all, when I lost the only friend I can talk to
so let me spend the next half hour
showering over you
another lesson in epistemology
honestly I don't know how you could be
so dim to miss what I've put in to this
Do you not see how wrong you are
Does it bother you
To have every miss step
pounced on and deconstructed
I was talking down
just to knock it through your thick head
but I guess I ****** it
I'll just have to say it angrier now
Let me spend the next two months convincing you
whatever you had seen in me was through a lens
I didn't deserve to be seen through
All it took was losing you to see
I'm exactly where I should have ended up
I know that no apology
will unwind the web I spun. the web I sit on now
to watch what I've undone with my own hands.
Hands that even now subside in fear
of what I'd hear then in your voice
when you reply
to let it die
So I'll let it die
I'm sorry
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 12:20 AM UTC
Dig deep poet;
You too reader;
Commandment One:
Both must obsess to possess,
Air the curvature of each line
shape with two hands, creasing and
no ceasing not till the air waves have filled
your flushed face with compressed comprehensions
You weep as you compose!
Good!
The well of tears where hid
the pool of emotions
in cavernous reservoirs
in the center of your
gravity,
needs a daily tapping,
a draining, a purification,
a quenching sweet and
raucous
where you dig, salted water will come
in the soiled, imperial but imperfect body/mind cappuccino,
there are swirls of treasures, sins and histrionics
that need discovery, expiation, expulsion,
when~then, object is surgically removed,
accept surging water will desoil,
and you can revel
in the revelation
of honest effort
Debate Commencement:
reveal, which, what and how
much, how much? how much?
(this reverbs)
what must be shared,
what must be reburied,
what must be refuted,
what must be reconstructed,
refurbished,
and what must be
demolished & deconstructed
ah, but as soul judge,
you hold yourself to a higher standard,
but in all of this but two constraints rule:
the quality of the recalled data,
the quantity of storage space delimitation
do not tease us with rivulets, nor bury
us under thunderous rushes of memories
spilling and cresting with a reek of abandon,
unless, you’re abandoning the memory en tout,
giving us your newly orphaned all innermost,
then, we must accept the product of your labor,
whether it be spoiled fruit or glorious
truth
Tuesday Apr 16
8:32AM
(the year of pollard, a/k/a 2024)
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 8:51 AM UTC
I'm tired of feeling this way
No matter what the day
Tired of feeling disjointed, disfigured
With my missing parts scattered on the ground
Knowing not all the parts are there to be found
I am only deconstructed, not reconstructed
I can never again be whole
I'll never be myself of old
Someone tell me why I should go on
Only a piece of a person, most of me gone
I just want to lay the rest of me down, how can that be wrong
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
Alone?
I stand insular in my world,
my wings are clipped,
It's my only option, Hobson's Choice is mine, no fears,
No more tears, hearts divisions, between one or two, only, not going to be lonely,
I eternally seek his lust, as a sin it's a must, same with my envy, heralded sin in emerald green,
Not really a sinner, to me, myself, I,
I am ever the victor, I do as I please,
I sit in sight of a future, fulfilled , extricated from a bubble once burst,
Burst.....long in the past,
I am myself, my own figure head, my own mast, my own support,
Guide myself through, stormy seas, tremendous turbulent tempests, always out to get me, not,
Last word on the subject, Forget me not!
Plummet into darkness, so deep,
Then rise, rise once more,
Up above, as the dragon fly flies,
where butterflies flit on the wing, in the sun,
A solar eclipse greets my sweet lips, when we fall in my bed, fed each others' sweet heads!
Only one soul shares my bed, he's the one lives in my head,
He makes me feel sincere unto myself, always,none filled with bigotry,
Bounce right back, with self-esteem, always feeds my mind,
Walk along the tightrope wire, taut with desire
Feelings strong, feeling keen,
Mind aphrodisiac based within in myself,
Chains of resentment, rusted , dusted, deconstructed,
I love myself with all my wealth,
The chemistry I feel for me is freekin, so unreal,
Emotions, never thought I'd shatter,
Copyright Livvi Kent 24/03/2013
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 8:57 AM UTC
Love is not
cold winter nights spent in silent comfort
by the warmth of the fire
watching your dreams dance in the flame
Love is not growing old in your favorite pajamas
sitting behind a white picket fence
watching the children grow in complacent certainty
Love is not a back and forth
of interests and expectations
of reconstructed dreams
and deconstructed preconceptions
love is lasting
these things are transient
like chapters of a novel, they merely set the tone
love/
is finding someone whose mode of insanity
creates harmony with your own
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC
To me whiteness is a mental illness
whiteness is the worst habit
a habit forming process
construction
worse than cigarettes
nevermind being 18 yet
they force it on new born babies
Whiteness kills more people
its worse for the lungs
worse for the human spirit
whiteness taught humanity conflict
and it still does
it taught how to make crack from *******
it gave it to families
that it had already attempted to destroy
taught us how to infect blankets with small pox
and then have an Ivy league college named after you
whiteness taught us how to be inhuman
made groups to destroy humanity
whiteness taught us how to
and it is encouraging me
to destroy humanity and blame it on the other
to destroy humanity then blame it on the destruction it attempted to leave behind
whiteness taught us
and encourages me
to disassociate from humanity
it taught us to never
and I mean never
stray from humans that have evolved
not ever again
whiteness taught us the need to worship evolutionary people
by negation it reminds us to be human
whiteness is the silence of genocide
I will no longer construct whiteness
I promised myself
I am a decomposer
consider whiteness socially deconstructed
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
A passion for disinterest
eats all of my attention.
I used to think that I was stuck,
it turns out I'm the rut.
Habits bent on breaking me
have overtaken lately:
Today I am a pessimist,
so what?
Pretty young degenerate,
you've hardly even even started,
yet your shameful self-involvement
blunts the cries of those you've cut.
The ego that had shaped
your deconstructed mind was make-believe
and, turns out, quite the narcissist:
now what?
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC