Iguana of diamonds,
Sand sea and sun,
Little children in sight,
Attractions of light,
Natives of love,
Decorative cities, what night.
Island’s of the Bahamas beauty as can be,
What more fun than playing with dolphins in the sea.
Creative costumes, dancers so bright,
The music dramatized, Feel the rush it’s a site.
Nothing more beautiful than the island themselves,
Well except the people willing to give help.
Pineapples, peas and rice, pink sand, flamingoes, and some conch salad,
Not forgetting the “KALIK,” cause’ “IT’S A BAHAMIAN TING”.
Blue, Black and Aquamarine, was just described to you,
All in the Islands Love.
Come and enjoy the exciting experience too!
My Bahama Land!
My poems idealize your tongue on my tongue
your breath in mine,
these verses will romanticize how we skipped from street to street
our arms swinging between your left hip and my right
like I did not think about how my parents
never doubled their strength to pull me up above ground as
we walked through parking lots. I
needed to fly and no adult could let me but you.
The sudden hurt, I have not yet dramatized that morning
you returned my voicemail unsuspecting
unknowing my intention to whisper I hate you I hate you I hate you.
Every bone in my body had broken because we could not
levitate any longer: you were not even strong
enough to keep yourself grounded. I make you sound beautiful
I make you sound ugly, but neither is real, just as
how there are no words for the New Year ball dropping.
Love, it's isn't like the movies.
And nothing like a Disney's cartoon.
Yes, you might find your Prince Charming.
And your Cinderella too.
Just realize, love isn't like the movies.
Or like one of those old religious drama.
Where the King visualized his Queen?
Or anything shown like the royals dramatized dreams.
Once reality kicks in and you adjust.
Then you come to the realization.
Love only works when you put your hard work effort into it.
You'll have disagreements.
You'll have arguments too.
Just remember, love isn't like the movies.
And it shouldn't be.
When it comes to you.
We blink quickly,
so that we miss nothing,
we compact an entire lifetime within an allotted time of two hours and a small two minute window for creditentials that acknowledge 1,326 people,
not including "special thanks,"
we indulge on the dramatized events that may or may not have happened, We thrive on sports that televise a group of ten to twenty-two grown men that run fast jump quickly, and
but that is the pursuit of thrills
Strangers to the touch:
he was fast to dive into
the waves that were
his briny deep.
She, whom took
his complexion into
the trench that is her,
also took the senile
artistry that was he,
Strangers to the act:
he took the palm
of his over-dramatized
antagonist of his own
life and just
She caressed the
thought of it,
yet still arose
to find her most
grazing his head
adolescent but corrupt
land line that made up
as her thighs.
Strangers they must be,
found need in
the halves that have
halves in half.
I am a dramatized china doll,
but I never rouge my knees.
The MC introduces me as Scarlett.
Lulu embraces me as we saunter
off the platform. Whistles follow my footsteps
digging into my brain, fermenting,
to strong wine.
Gentlemen enter the club to leer
at cabaret girls dancing in lace.
Some are drawn to the boys of the club,
the ones in the dark corners with kohl-rimmed
eyes and eager kisses.
From their seats in the dimness, the audience
fails to notice rips in my blouse, cigarette
butts smudged out in the wings. No one
sees the dirty face powder spread out
among the lighted mirrors, overused,
my own makeup dried out.
Their giggles and applause keep
the club alive, filled with dead
grins from dinner to dawn.
Drum roll—my turn.
We rid them of their troubles.
I am never not surprised,
when someone else has the courage to look me in my eyes,
to tell me bald-faced lies,
that say I am too dramatized
as a white girl trying to equalize
and see the world before me rise
to say we're not satisfied
to say with honesty we despise
a government who seems to tyrannize
its citizens into fearing they be deprived
of food, water, and electricity. So they have to believe in the guise.
That we are a nation paralyzed.
I am just a twenty two year old, Caucasian female
addicted to the idea I can help you see we will prevail.
Our nation teeters on the brink.
Help me save our souls,
Before they take us out like MLK, Lennon, JFK
All with a blink.
The sunny day of January invited the sun's radiation that burns skin as fire could burn through paper.
Perhaps that was why everything we planned was a heat-up and dramatic hope.
Perhaps like the partly burned coal, our hope too burns itself to the emptiest cinders of all.
The hopeful plan we once had was dramatized to create illusions of the fantasy we'd like to live in, but a reality that we could not create because the reality is, we are nothing but the matter of expired fire.
We are the ashes of what we left behind.
We may have stopped giving off flames, but we still have some combustible matter in us; and soon, what follows is, for the better - an explosion, or for the worst - an implosion.
Don't tell me not to do drugs,
If you plan on becoming one.
"It will use up all of your time,
take all of your money,
leave you hanging when you need it most,
abandoning the destoyed masterpiece that you once were."
You told me,
"Be above the influence."
"You'll get addicted, stay away."
But what you didn't tell me was how addicting you were.
How did you expect me to "stay strong" against our 4 am phone calls,
when you'd tell me you loved me and all the things I was to become.
How was I supposed to "be above the influence" when you made a move,
running your cold, large hands up and down my shirt.
How did you have the nervous to say "you'll get addicted, stay away," when in the end I was addicted,
addicted to something you finally gave me,
something called love.
But according to you love is
overrated and highly dramatized,
but by the time I knew that you were my drug,
you had already wasted 2 years of my time,
spent all of my money,
hung me out to dry,
and abandoned me, leaving me a destroyed and unwanted
abandoned masterpiece // a.s.
The acoustic guitar plays softly, in the background of a critiqued ball room as he made his entrance. The attention of the audience fell upon him; As he walked readily towards the dance floor, The melody of the flute and the rhythm of the bass guitar, Dramatized his beauty. The spectators in fear, but his passion so real, As I stared into his eyes, that made beauty felt unreal everything else that surrounded me disappeared. He focused his eyes on the dance floor they began to whisper; Who will he choose? Who has to leave now? He flashed his eyes upon the viewers that were once in shock, now in terror, but their facial expression in awe. The apothegm states that he continually seeks for the one that would heal his disease but bound to the power of the earth’s forces, his determined, stunning eyes will never be able to reveal, the secret one that can heal. The bass drums play wildly as he shows the crowd his fury. The once stunned viewers now begin to panic, but I draw myself closer. Before I could reach him someone else got in the way. “I would like to die” was the words I know her to repeatedly say. He gently pushed himself away in anger. He looked around the ball room, and observed the reaction of the audience to his response. They’re now in astonishment. He then stopped and his focal point was clear. The piano and the cello played softly to become one with his voice. He said to me “let us dance.” I’m frightened, the majority of the onlookers left in a daze. My vision weakened before our dance began. He smiled, and as he looked upon my face all the instruments faded away. He said to me is this your last dance? Will you leave us tonight? I’m the kiss of death will you close your eyes forever or will you leave me in delight?”
I have a vision
Of a future
And the contrast of sorrow
Children skipping, giggling
Darkness and light
Musical notes drifting through
Dramatized passion, hilarity
Encapsulated in cobweb of love and support
I am at once terrified of settling
- being tied down
Losing independence, individuality
- at once terrified
And at once yearning
With all of me
For a family
For a dream of forever
To settle and begin such a masterpiece
To commit to
And be certain of
The depth there in
Something more important than me or mine
To dedicate self
And again such a venture requires a partner
Who shares the dream
Enriches the dream
Supports the dream.
Contradictions, aren't we all?
Or am I just yearning for the erasure of self
Through divine love?
Aah~ maternal instincts!
Life of mine,
Live out the step you're in
Before you yearn and plan for the next!
So fresh and yet to begin
- Society's great work machine awaits
And the experience of other lands!
Life of mine,
Live the experience of now
Grow all the more for it
Feel each pain and joy
Build strength of self
Claim a sense of identity
See where it takes you...
I'm here to tell you what you need to hear.
And it's not what you thought you would hear,
And it might not be what you deserve to hear.
Don't worry, it's me.
You don't know me well, but
You should know that I am kind.
I am gentle, and I think about you in that fashion.
My thoughts are not barbed wire,
Nor clear sky.
When I think of you, I think this:
You are foolish.
But so was I,
For the same reasons as you.
And nothing can judge you
But the years,
And the years are nothing if not judgment's mirror.
I would write poems of hate.
I tattooed my life onto the skin of so many notebooks.
Letters only exist on paper--
How badly I wished my depressing poems would be emblazoned proudly on my soul for all to read.
How cold I felt when I realized nobody wanted to get close enough to see them.
The only tattoos my mind bore
Were freezing outlines of emotions
None of which could burn hot enough to melt the ice they were etched into.
Then something magical:
I realized that my mind is not a metaphor.
My mind is not a tangled mess of hyperboles and adjectives.
My mind is not poetry, and life is not scripted.
Nobody's brain is made of prose,
Much as some would like to believe.
Depression is not more noble because it is written well.
And if you have written it, believe me when I say that the way it flows when it is read aloud makes no difference either.
Do you understand?
Here it is, simply:
Step back if you find yourself a step too far into the world of the over dramatized.
Burn your depressed poetry.
It serves no purpose but to remind you of the state you are in.
It dwells in your long-gone years without thought of any future unless that future is your past relived until your future's end.
Poetry is not a coping method.
Poetry is an excuse to linger,
And "coping" is a very poetic way to euphemise that fact.
I have found this out the wrong way.
Poetry is as addictive as alcohol, as drugs, as depression.
They all go together well.
And they don't like to let go once they've started to hold hands.
What I'm saying isn't "stop writing."
What I'm saying is that if poetry is an excuse to linger, you have a choice.
What i'm saying is I hope you choose to linger on joy before you dwell in sorrow.
Because the longer you stay somewhere,
The more it feels like home.
Try to grasp the idea of just stopping,
Letting every idea go
And not coming back for a long time.
And doing it right now.
1. The longer you stay sealed inside your mind, the longer you'll have to live with only words as company.
2. Words make terrible company when they're written in sadness.
3. The stars don't give a damn about words anyway.
Be like the stars.
Be with your friends. Make yourself laugh. It'll be hard at first. Then it will be easier. Then other people will be able to make you laugh too.
And one last thing to you specifically,
To you, the person reading this,
The person wondering silently,
The person I've been writing to this whole time--
I don't know you.
But I love you.
This is not a joke or a ploy.
I love you.
Somewhere out there, there is somebody that loves you, and it is me and I am not afraid of it.
And I will love you openly.
Because if you have the strength to find someone you don't know, you have the strength to find yourself too.
And then you won't need a stranger's love anyway.
The Real eyes
Full of Despise
So Dramatized yet
Can't Realize the
Real Lies so quick
Alibis that will arise
When ice flame dies
Unholy flies now
So blessed by those
Bedeviled Snake eyes
Yet tantalize my soul
These bloody skies
Was brought upon by
Now tainting lives,