"distinguishing" poems
therapy and resistance
how is it that therapy becomes the excess of class war or the oppression thereof?
When the struggle of the individual is made to seem self induced when it is easily and clearly directly a result of the failures and complacence afforded by the majority of the group.
When in a therapeutic environment it is important to distinguish the opportunities of resistance from the experience of trauma.
there has always been individuals who establish groups that are in a realm of desperation.
Understanding how this process has unfolded institutionally is just as valid as treating the individual.
This gives the individual the choice and resources needed to heal.
The healing could look like resistance rather than assuming aspects of class war or oppressive culture to be normal.
Otherwise therapy is nothing but the means to normalize the process of oppression.
The traumatic state needs to be able to decipher its organic existence from that of organized oppression and its institutional cooperation.
the neglect of deciphering or distinguishing these differences causes individuals to make a competition out of trauma. This minimizes certain trauma of individuals and causes the group to have less of an opportunity to resist organized oppression of the institution.
Those that are in the realm of desperation or traumatic state are given no choice but to repress in order to continue being social or a member of the group.
in excess the hierarchies of gender, race and class are reinforced to an almost superhuman level.
To the desperate or traumatic state…
what needs reinforcement is that there are humans just like us who have resisted oppression and caused the normalcy of the group to be more inclusive and aware of the processes associated with organized oppression.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
The Talmud Teaches...
With respect to his son, a father is obligated to circumcise him, to redeem him [if he is a firstborn], to teach him Torah, to marry him off, and to teach him a craft...he is also
obligated to teach him to swim...(Kiddushin 29a)
**lay awake when the house is silent,
doing maths furiously in the head,
sleeping can be keeping while doing my calculus,
knowing in advance a conclusion comes coined
in only two colors, black or red
the question simple, did I meet my obligations?
and your read the passage for the umpteenth time,
and the same thought interferes as always,
should the order not be reversed,
the first thing to be fulfilled,**
teach them to swim
**based on experience life arrives in sequential, repeating waves,
purposed to drown the weak with no pretending that waters,
salt or sweet matters, so first order is business ought be survival preparation and**
teach them to swim
**if they can swim, stay afloat, then they can then comprehend
the glory of distinguishing right over wrong,
get their priorities straight, that saving others,
especially those you placed on the starting line of life,
is the first principle and overplants anything else when you**
teach them to swim
**my eyes see the tally, why, they are red! could it be lack of sleep?
I am smiling when I am lying,
teach them to swim always first,
but not enough, one must do it well, well,
and even then, better,
as all else will, from the well, follow, when you**
teach them to swim
3:10am
~~~
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
Ferry Me
Ferry me, but once more.
The last ferry rides of Indian Summer,
Always arrives on schedule which is
Always and precisely, too soon.
Then, the imprisonment months,
Sentence, indeterminate.
*A Grand Jury trial of months,
I, and my co-defendant,
My sanity, this time, the Oddsmakers say,
Won't survive the lockup.
The source perfume of driftwood words,
Very ferry distinguishing marks,
Sails and seagulls, diesel fumes and saltwater,
Sunsets and seagrass, flying fish and multi-mollusks,
The stuffing of my summer turkey, the currants of
Poems and dreams, sad-eyed longings...
Now,
Evidence used by prosecution,
Confession freely uncoerced,
I Am A Summer Man
Adjudged and convicted,
Guilty of Winter's Discontent.*
But it is these last few passages,
Not of words, but over water,
The absence thereof, crush, ravage,
Worse than any grey calendar captivity,
Forlornly, I mouth silently, repeatedly,
Ferry me, but once more.
The course, straightforward,
Voyager, but a few minutes, but long enough to
Love it deeply, need it like a fix,
The mania of the mainland left behind,
The island, thinly lit, more shadow than real,
The approaching dark, shelters, comforts, embraces.
Perhaps, likely, I deceive myself.
No matter how the island comforts,
The brain always rumbling,
Can never make stop questioning,
Prisoner of 24/7,
But it is lessened, left behind,
As I am ferried away both,
In body and in mind.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
I don't know where, if it will end.
Refuse to voice or recommend.
To treat what ails us is pretend.
Slips through fingers apprehend.
To help more than to hurt,
reflexive sunny disposition
which can cradle sallow sleeping stoic pride.
Distinguishing the dirt,
collective run beside conviction;
acting ladle heavy, heaping, terrified.
Leave things better than you found them
Received our debtors stand; surround them.
I wonder if to soothe what ail,
under apprehension prevail.
Therein lies each us, our grail -
our demons sinking in each nail.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
silk blouses and cotton underwear
the nights merge into a sticky soup that falls into the pocket of a sweater i was wearing when they said that death is permanent
the voice echoing into the receiver of my first cell phone
the wavering tremble of someone in the middle of realms
sleep and consciousness turning the other side of the pillow
wondering if the smoke in my lungs felt comfortable
wonder if the moon sinks lower into your backyard
i was never good at distinguishing shadows and when i found myself on the dark side of the mattress;
my feet cold and feeble i wondered if you could hear my heart a thousand miles away
the fluttering of a drowsy bird, lethargically dragging it's clumsy wings into the plummeting stifle of open air
you said my lips were like the halves of a plum
i bit them until they bled but it was never as sweet
it was never as sweet
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
A mystery gripped me unawares,
One without form, shape or color
All I could make out is this dear:
Weaved out of million fine strands
Its essence is all; all of it a mystery.
No distinguishing mark, you’ll find
Its warm grip transcends limits
In such a state I was left, for which
A name none has ever invented
Even that’s not a need, of course
Being the one of it’s kind, a name
For the singular mystery won’t suit
It’s beyond the realm of identities
The mystery is just that,get it right.
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC
Snow White did not eat the poisoned apple, never ruled a kingdom.
She instead got judged everyday for living in a house with seven men,
not marrying any of them nor having any children of her own.
"What good is this woman for", they say.
Aurora did not ***** her finger on a needle, never met Prince Charming.
She instead spent her days alone, for everyone grew too envious of her beauty,
and had become believers that no one person can be as kind while being so beautiful, they did not want to befriend her.
"She's too good to be true, drop the nice girl attitude", they say.
Alice did not make it to Wonderland, never met Mad Hatter nor The White Rabbit nor The Red Queen
She instead got locked up for having too much creativity and imagination
"She's making so much discovery, girls are for household chores", they say.
Mulan never made it to the war, never won a battle for China.
She instead was forced to live a life she did not want to, marry someone she does not want to, often told that tradition always comes first.
"She's supposed to follow and respect tradition, to do otherwise will be disrespecting her family", they say.
Belle did not turn the beast back into a prince, never married him.
She instead had too many people stopped her from being with who she wanted to be with and who she wanted to be, for they also took all her books away.
"She's too smart for a girl and the beast is too ugly to deserve her beauty", they say.
Ariel did not get her legs back, never really found a home.
She instead spent her entire life being ridiculed for looking different than the rest of them; often laughed at for having distinguishing features.
"She's too odd, she's too weird to hang out with, what would people think", they say.
Rapunzel never made it out of the tower, never had a chance to chase her dreams.
She instead was forced to stay up for people have always told her she won't make it anyway.
"She's too naive for this world, her ideals are just impossible", they say.
And on and on it goes, until they break their every bones.
Until they have rewritten each and every fairy tale.
With so much animosity, how to find a happily ever after?
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 1:58 AM UTC
(Authors note: I realize this is more short story than poem. I hope you find it poetic as well. Apologies in advance if this is not an appropriate forum.)
Have You Seen This Girl ?
I sat sleepy eyed one morning enduring yet another cardboard and treebark bran flavored bowl of breakfast with milk, 2 percent of course, and I stared at the carton.
First I reviewed the measures of various fat content, and nutritional values listed as a matter of law. And as usual, I thought of you. This time by way of pondering the plight of the American Dairy Farmer and remembering it was the “corporatizing” of the independent dairy farms which led your family to other uses for the land they had raised dairy cows on for over a century. And I missed you terribly.
To quickly shake the associated feelings of loneliness, and your face from my mind, I was drawn to the deep dark eyes of the child who was missing and apparently exploited on the other side of the carton. She had innocent, kind eyes that indicated she wouldn't even harm an insect. Curious eyes that would watch an insect for hours as it munched on grasses and leaves she fed it.
She would be two years grown and two years older since last seen in blue jeans and a t-shirt in Amarillo, Texas, in the company of her biological father who was possibly armed, dangerous, and driving a pickup truck towards Mexico. Or Canada.
And it struck me. You needed to be on the side of a milk carton. 2 percent of course. At some point in our life together, you had been kidnapped. Whoever was responsible had gone to a lot of trouble to replace you, to carefully drop you right back into my life. It was a great attempt but finally my belief that the real you would never do the things you did to me were validated. You had the misfortune of actually having an “evil twin” and corporatized or not, it seemed only the Dairy Council could help, since there is no Center For Missing and Exploited Adults.
Big red letters screaming “Have You Seen This Girl ? ” were what we needed now. God knows I had recent photos, and could describe all of your features-distinguishing or not.
I think tomorrow, I'll have French Toast.
Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Based on my work at www.emotionalorphan.net.
Dec 11, 2009
Dec 11, 2009 at 9:13 PM UTC
strangely, I think that this
ought be, must be, responsibly,
be the best poem I’ve ever writ,
(though unlikely, as the best will always be the next)
that mine own eyes commissioned,
better be,
just got to be,
this holy-moly notion jeepers weepers,
conceptual rocks me deepest,
an awesome responsibility
to find away of saying
that this beyond conceptual,
coring, especially special sample
If there was to be a but one,
a singularity, a distinguishing feature
of what the human definition
innate contains,
how choice that we animals,
elevate ourselves to being human beings,
the only ones capable of wonderfully weeping
the implications are an astounding!
what a glorious burden,
what a wonderful decision,
the designer slipped in this microscopic checkmark,
somewhere in our cellular DNA perma-dynasty,
runs a common thread, these saltwater fears,
a residual global amniotic fluid hint,
from where we humans out-of-crawled
that empathy,
the signal of an elongated journey of eons,
the marker that says
show the caring,
a trait-ed statement,
us, unique
so often do I weep,
sometimes visible - in my poems listed, oft indicated -
so you could know its sharing was an absolution
that I granted myself,
that that particular poem was a costly one,
womb bloomed, tongue taken, eye written
sometimes invisible - even more, do they,
(nobody knows, nobody sees)
just well up, eye cornered kept, secreted,
only skin-staining the underneath-my-eyes
one more shade darker,
a reminder to all, to mirrored me,
that to forgive myself doesn’t
forgive forgetting
is this then my best?
sufficient to breech your
reserves of pseudo-cool,
that correct boundary pretense that keeps us as
mismatched separates?
you be the judge, you be the jury,
you be the prosecutor and the defender,
for it is all of us
standing in the dock,
on trial,
for in our lifetime
guilty of the inhuman crime,
of not crying enough
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 7:15 PM UTC
it's not a memorisable lullaby, i don't want to write poetry that requires memorisation by school children; perhaps a riddle, perhaps a jigsaw, perhaps an awakening after the words dig in from their arrangement into your own usage, distinguished.
these days, someone on a social
strata of being absolved
might require a concerned dis-involvement
from nouns, and thus juggle
the pronouns, over-use pronouns
to remain politically accurate and sound,
for to replace nouns with pronouns
would bleach people, entrapped
in the constant affirmative of something
they once owned but were dispossessed of,
they do that, they stress the usage of pronouns
by a relief a diet of noun usage,
so that a Pakistani dare not use
the associations of the noun that might
decipher his skin as cinnamon in writing,
unless it be pronoun inclusive and noun exclusive,
so as modern society teaches:
become pronoun users with a few distinguishing
nouns congregating, don't learn carboxylic,
don't learn onomatopoeia... keep up with
the bleak egoism that states: not so much self-interest,
but over-pronoun-use and a lack of nouns,
or if used, reduced to quizzes of crosswords
with antonyms and synonyms pronounced;
he who confesses to censoring noun usage
will control the pronoun category
by usurping noun usage freely with a censored usage
that will only provoke counter-nouns / slang /
encoding / the need for surveillance.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
the things physical we could not live without,
the objets d'art that decorate the tapestry of
the primary bones of our existence
each of us differing,
each of us, a different list,
utilitarian is beauty,
thus our individuation
distinguishing and distinguished
a trash can,
purposed for our wastrel wastage,
and yet, beloved by waves of utilization and
discard
only after much usage, kept nearby as a token of
our appreciation, only to be dumped unceremoniously
when the
memories grow overly fulsome
Why you think I reference the common kitchen garbage?
*No, no! why it is our brain,
that be cleansed nightly,
leaving only the wisps of life aprior,
that reruns in wisps, only sometimes,
for better or for worse*,
recycle-able
Feb 22, 2025
Feb 22, 2025 at 10:00 AM UTC
Oh,
The places I have gone,
Into the gutter onto the street,
Regurgitated,
Every fiber,
Of my uneven being,
A little yin,
A lot of yang,
And the realization,
Of the cost of "freedom",
Is security,
And the lies swept under the rug,
Therein.
Where do I go?
In this world I do not fit within,
It suits me not,
Too corporeal, too moralistic,
Too judging, and a little bit too thin.
Always finding reasons,
To opress other human beings,
Even in democracy,
The masses lurk,
Judging, what is good men.
The young are chained,
Binded by systems and laws,
Signed to social contracts,
They didnt ask for,
and most will never understand.
All in the great,
revolutionary idea!
Oh, yes, as they will tell you with a smile,
You can be anything you want to be!
(If you get a 4.0)
You can love freely!
(Except gays and underaged)
And women let me tell you,
Yes how to get an abortion,
And when!
Always distinguishing,
Classifying people,
Alpha and beta,
And whatever else in bygone alphabets,
We are social animals,
Civilized only in lies.
And all men are not created equal!
Some are born to die.
We laugh in the face of this evil,
Because we cannot control our own existence,
And the only other option is to cry,
And self annihilate.
Of course, to the world,
This is so very wrong.
Such a crazy guy.
There is no freedom I say.
Only the mirror image,
The perception of such,
We make our own choices,
Sure,
Pre ordained by our genetics,
Our expereinces, our cultures,
The boxes of our very thoughts,
Ergo the very essence of who we are,
For if we were different,
We would go left,
And not right,
into the very clutches of Satan,
The demons men swear by.
I've got nothing nice to say,
Or contribute to society,
So I oft think,
I'd best stay silent,
And censure myself away,
I hurt my friends,
My family my loved ones,
And add onto the suffering list,
Still knowing the worst I got,
is better than a lot of men.
So, alas,
Mi amore,
I have a lie to say,
If you but love me,
Oh just one night,
I will love you,
Forevermore.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
~for you, girl~
words have definitions; shades; moods,
even within the contextual moment,
the coloration sometimes is discolored,
one person frantic is another’s
normal
passing fancy
insanity
quiet
overwrought silliness
frantic is a continuum’s conundrum
and oft the hubbub coverhup lends
a veneer of urgency importance
when knowledge acquisition is iron
irony, best when well chewed, quietly
considered and consumed with the
perspective of addition and subtraction
what we know is more than yesterday,
and less than what we will one day own,
for the only purity of learning is that’s
final refining is never ending
the artifice of deadlines,
gradation vis-a-vis
all the rest, is not a
distinction worthy of
distinguishing
your human value is beyond compare
exactly!
the greatest of valued adders to the world body of understanding put the race of
ego to one side, and so should we all,
not
be ****** in by the imposition of qualifiers
you are quality, and that is the only
qualification you will ever
acquire and require
and in my naïveté
I reflect looking back
and give you here the
free use thereof,
of its worth, you will
determine
but in summary judgement:
always keep thinking
ridicule is ridiculous
but best when applied
by oneself to oneself
with a
*** did I really think:say that?”
and laugh out loud at our human
foibles, especially our own,
with a wry smile, admitting
some of things we conjure up
in all seriousness are
are the funniest things we’ve ever heard
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 11:13 AM UTC
due to me reaching
that post menopausal age
there's a hirsute carpet
growing on my chin's stage
a goatee beard adorns
in such distinguishing tone
it's envy of my neighbour
Russell John Stone
over the years he's tried
to cultivate an abundant hair tress
but alas his bare cranium
has borne less and less
since my whiskers
are so prolific in sprouting
I could shave them off
for his wig's touting
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
~for SPT~
whose poems transform with lovingness
~~
*distinguishing, extinguishing,
the knowledges to retain,
reuse daily, mightily,
pleasures insights beloved,
honored with the stripes of daily use
then there are,
the knowledges to retrain,
non-removable, rising up from your
edges
of the very fine line
tween
pain and experience
they must Main Street remain,
be thankful for that,
for love regained,
needs the benchmark
of having lived love,
the loss of loss when recalled,
when new gets a turn, reinstalled,
is now twice sweeter*
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
Not quite enough light
as I rounded the corner;
distinguishing, at first,
a glint of kindness, then it's absence.
If I had danced a bit longer on the edge of your sardonic stage
I would've stumbled on a steady beat of naiveté,
always one note behind your calculating symphony.
The shallow beams from the timeworn ghostlight
cast elucidation on your conductorial robes;
it is not often that one sees
so well in the dimness of love's sweet fog.
Alas, the savage cadenza reverberates
as if a prophetic whisper, illuminated my secret fortitude.
I turned back, fierce with indignation.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC
When I was just a child, they were just a married couple;
Older, middle-aged, nothing distinguishing about them at all.
I loved swimming in their swimming pool,
Until they upsized, to a glitzy neighborhood of rambling,
Ranch-style houses.
And they upscaled, to exotic, foreign vacations.
Brought me back a Hawaiian volcanic stone, with emerald flecks,
A salt and pepper shaker set from Israel.
She was a clothes horse, always kept her figure,
Dressed slinky but classy, for an old babe;
Visibly stood taller, if another woman
Ever complimented her clothing or style-
And they invariably did.
My dad said that when alone with her husband,
That man would brag about daily ********
From his office receptionist, at the end of the workday
Before going home. I was older then, tried to imagine
How the shared exchange could have furthered
Some ancient, nightly excavated ambition?
Alone with her once, my dad said he made an innuendo,
Some playful joke which he had since forgotten the point of,
Probably due to the more stunning reaction it caused.
He had always loved teasing with words,
But he said that she had dropped all suggestion of pretense,
And she had told him then, You couldn't handle it..
He still chuckled about it, long after the fact.
Funny how for all those years, what I remembered seeing
Was a mostly colorless couple
Who always drove large Cadillacs.
And how in the later years, he could only move
While tethered to his oxygen tank,
Though it never hindered his smoking.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
Sometimes I can't fall asleep. I wonder if my brain is physically incapable of shutting off; if the thoughts constantly running round my head and through my arms to my shaking fingers and twitching legs have anything to do with her. I think I was a little bit in love with her, to be honest-- if a fourth grader can be in love. I looked at the yellow spots on her teeth and saw a beautiful birthmark- distinguishing the interesting from the dull and the good from the evil. I observed her frizzy, black hair and deemed it noteworthy to the highest extent, and although I don't remember it, I'd be lying if I said I had never dreamt of kissing her. She was so beautiful to me-- an enigma wrapped in a conundrum with a side of a heightened, fourth grade quandary.
The online counseling center of the University of Illinois defines an emotionally abusive relationship as “brain washing that systematically wears away at the victim’s self-confidence, sense of self-worth, trust in their own perceptions, and self-concept.” I'm not quite sure if I'd label a questionable elementary school friendship as emotionally abusive, but looking back, I could never really figure out what bonded us together other than mothers who enjoyed sewing and a mutual lack of trust. Her deficiency was in herself. I was just cement to fill the gaps.
Currently, my chest feels constricted and my hands are shaking like the revolution inside them hasn't yet been won, and neither the rebels nor the authorities can remember what or who they're fighting for. I think it's the caffeine that set it off, but I wouldn't put it past her to inject the cement with poison and shove it back down my throat like medicine. Maybe that's why I've been having trouble breathing.
Last night, I forgot to brush my teeth. I'm not sure if it was because I forgot or because the long term effects of my iron deficiency finally kicked in. The cement hasn't yet hardened enough to fill the cracks.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
I was the small animal, shivering in the cave,
Scarcely breathing, trapped, pushed in.
My beating heart revved like a motor engine,
Like adrenaline in fierce hostilities.
Though I could not see it,
I was too busy trying to frolic among the alpha-males,
As though that was the only way to live,
Sharpening my claws when I could have been sharpening my cunning,
Because here we live not understanding,
That not everyone is gonna flaunt themselves as the big dog.
I’m out now,
I grew opposable thumbs and was able to turn the key,
And say “Do svedanya”
To what I realized was just,
A pile of males competing to be on top.
If people wish to take a stand,
Against something they cannot truly feel,
Then I implore you,
Do my lungs not breathe the same air as you do?
Does my heart not beat just as yours does?
Do my eyes not perceive the same wonders as you do?
For those of you who enjoy
Distinguishing right and wrong,
Look at the animal to your left and
Watch if he tries to steal from your plate
Instead of letting your eyes burn
With that overwhelming rage.
Those claws can’t scratch the surface
On understanding that the same blood
Flows within our veins.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 9:13 AM UTC
At a young age,
you laboriously worked on complex puzzles;
completing them, with an unnatural ease.
Distinguishing yourself from others.
Your passion direct.
Fixating on numbers,
calculating your future.
You try to find a formula for happiness,
although it is incalculable.
As an irrational number, unable to terminate.
You extract formulas,
despite the odds.
Conveying your theories,
constructing logarithms.
intent to prove it is not abstract,
to be a female actuary.
Seventy years prior,
Catherine Prime opened the field.
Disproving the infeasible claims,
that women could not excel to this level.
Faced with reasons not to give her rank,
amongst the stunned men.
Who claimed she was good,
for a woman.
-Marissa Navedo
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
“Hey, you
Yeah, you, what you looking at”?
“Did you buy tickets”
That was roared at me as I watched this fine gentleman try to dump a package
At first, I thought it was just ordinary ******* but he was being too protective of it
then whatever it was, moved ever so slightly
I couldn’t move
I was rooted to the spot
he could roar and bellow all he liked
but I wasn’t going anywhere
I couldn’t
He looked at me with an evil grin
and just dropped his bundle in the bin
then with an ignorant shrug
went on his way his errand done
I think I actually heard him whistle
I rushed over
and gently picked up this man’s *******
I unwrapped it
it was a beautiful little kitten
snow-white
it’s colour being its only distinguishing mark
a tiny scrap of a thing
It wasn’t moving now
no sound emitting
I massaged its little chest
urging it on with every thing I had
A tiny little rise
Yes
I can do this
It slowly opened its eyes
took deep racking breaths
its little body spasmed
then
blessed relief
its breathing no longer laboured
and
a most wondrous thing
like a baby’s first cry
a miaow, barely audible
music to my ears
then getting louder
rising to a fantastic ear-busting, heartwarming crescendo
I’ve kept it
it’s now my companion
when it wants to be
I called her Hope
One man’s ******* is now my treasure
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
He answered the light
in a distinguishing screech.
When lungs panicked,
he yelled
as his heart slowed
to a moonless night.
Run quietly down
down
down
only wonder.
Sep 4, 2011
Sep 4, 2011 at 1:32 AM UTC
Passion behind words is something I worry I feel alone.
I’ve tried sharing my passion of vocabulary,
my passion of poetry with others,
tried showing them the entire novels only
a few lines can write,
and I worry that I seem insane.
I worry that they don’t understand me,
that I’m misinterpreted.
No, I am not saying I feel smarter than you,
I am saying I find beauty in these words,
these stories.
My father calls it beatnik.
He believes spoken word poetry exists nowhere but a paper,
that it is not meant to be spoken,
that it is a lesser version of rap--
which he also hates.
I pattern my syllables or rhyming to create what I see as art,
only to have others raise an eyebrow and wonder
what my “damage” is.
Distinguishing my deterioration is not the objective at hand.
"Words" can be so easily misspelled to say "swords,"
and swords can impale.
I suppose words can, too.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC