"excusing" poems
<>
"And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul
And you did open that day you came back to the garden
The olden summer breeze was blowin' on your face
The light of God was shinin' on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you
Sat beside your father and your mother in the garden
The summer breeze was blowin' on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden"
In the Garden,
song by by Van Morrison
<>
***This touches me deep in the chest cavity,
the palpitations of its internalizing echoing cavitations,
a warning, go slow, choose your words wise and
accrue, the mood,
for the ache of creating, hurts, fevers me
for I am but steps away from the garden,
and its violet hues infused with fresh sunrising golden hazes,
with kindly warmth, with warming kindnesses,
touches,
caresses my shoulders, begs me to stop crying,
overcome, for I am overcome, eyes dropping wetting droplets,
for find myself at the intersection,
interlocking crossroads
where perfect perfection
begins and must
meet its natural endings
thoughts of capture, retentions, preservations,
all impossibilities, challenges,
see me, begging itinerant
muses
in the neighborhood
to guide my hand, teach me newsome words,
mine feel so old, so unworthy of this moment,
hearing me solicit their
Treasure of Summery
Words
but they won't,
excusing themselves,
that this in particular human has exercised, exorcised,
all the tools in his ever diminishing capacity,
time insufficient to learn a new calculus of
addition
and bid me calm my heaving chest,
seize my tears, just add them to the brackish salted waters steps
awaiting away
live in this moment
live within this poem,
revisit it frequent,
weep no more,
your stilling heart weakened,
take fast what is given now,
and be contented,
your treasury chest is full,
overflowing with this summary of
summery***
but I am not, cannot…
7:48:am
jul 22
Jul 22, 2025
Jul 22, 2025 at 8:03 AM UTC
The ties that bind us are the very ones that separate us.
We have shared a lot of things in common;
And yet most of those common things put a barrier between us.
We have laughed at the same jokes,
Danced to the same drums,
Rejoiced to similar songs,
And sang in similar tunes;
The ties that bind us together.
And yet our differences are always ever apparent.
For as I laugh with tears in my eyes,
You laugh with your teeth,
Hiding the very emotion that binds us from the world to see;
As I dance to the budima drums,
You dance to the drum beats of the kuomboka,
Having the sound that binds us, separate us by how its produced.
I dance to ching’ande and you dance to mfukutu,
Excusing the world from seeing our similar steps.
Oh, the ties that bind us.
I sang Jesus loves me when you sang give me the bible;
Spreading your words in Bemba as I spread mine in Tonga.
How the ties that bind us are so quick to separate us.
Wow, I say to myself as I look at you standing right in front of me.
The bonds of our ties grow stronger as we grow older,
And yet weaker with the passage of time;
We share from the same vein, bound by blood forever;
And yet the differences in the ******* that provided for us separate us.
We come from the same womb,
And yet the little differences in the arrangement of our protein molecules make us different.
Indeed the ties that bind us.
Our mother rejoices in calling us all her children;
And yet the men that take pride in us differ.
Our father sings songs of the products of his manhood;
And yet the women that sing along with him sing differently.
He is the tie that binds;
And he the one that separates us.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher
We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for **** machines.
were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.
bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.
perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.
the rub, as the bard would have writ,
is that this roaring tempest-tost,
our love for hard labor lost,
secret sacrificed behind a locked door,
of a Sanctum ********
is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who
hide-reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.
in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped clean up," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
was surely a brilliant woman
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
fueled by alcohol
swollen emotions,
the age of consent
and mistakenly stuck doors
the mutual understanding that comes with a singular passion
singular desire
just one time
but when the clock chimes
1:45
and curfewed kisses are few
you take my hands and sing
"i want to know you"
my fingers weave along my glowing screen
praying your given digits will be well received
and when my phone buzzes
i sigh
for i had tried to not let doubt cloud my mind
but i did not know you yet
and it rarely happens like this
when the clock chimes
6:00 Am
my rosy cheeks wait in the cold mist
a note on the table excusing my absence
a pale faced taxi driver goes through the required motions
to take me to your warm lips
with two hours of sleep
your makeshift bed is the port in a storm
and your slight frame is the sort that initially misleads
but it is powerful and exceeds expectations
the sweet sharing of bad puns
disney songs
and the unexpected "i love you"
the "you have beautiful eyes"
and the mess that is my hair do
i wake you with a warm hand to the hip
and a quick kiss on the lip
reassures me it was the right thing to do
the twang of ukulele
and its warm wood brush over my breast
its hard form against my warm chest
you sing for me
and the poetry that traverses your lips is magic
though slight
you have no trouble maneuvering through my wide rivers
and hidden valleys
my small forests
you flip me with ease
a playful tease
tracing racing and running
soon warm water runs over our shadowy forms
because though forever may be spent in bed
the real world obligates us to move
to shower
in our travels we find ourselves caught in drizzly public transportation
making our way to the place of your occupation
though we are eating for two
you order three breakfasts
making up for the meal missed
replaced with loving
surrounded by kissing
you drink coffee
a quick pick-me-up
i drink a london fog
to remind me of the sleepy morning
and a quick peck to the lips reminds me of the rest
a test of my willpower
my power to resist taking you then and there
though that may have resulted in your termination
so i resist my considered temptation
i take a slight deviation
for every story must end
every sentence
no matter how much love
we must wait for blood
because every hook up,
every sentence
must end with a period.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
.
O where doth he wander my love,
the genius in cloth of the fool,
disappears with a wave of his motley glove,
and exits with the laugh of the cruel.
O where doth he roam my dear,
the costumed professor of musing,
a snap of his fingers, off he clears,
and leaves without permissive excusing.
Where doth he wander and where doth he roam?
He is upon a path so very far from home.
Look, see, his feet fall on shards of mica stone,
and the stars are all writing his story tome.
Where doth he roam and where doth he wander?
He is upon a path promising insanity yonder.
Look, see, take a moment to think and ponder,
is he an outcast or a willing absconder?
O where did he go my sweet,
the flaw that showed his cracks,
he left so quiet and incomplete,
the man who may never come back.
© Pagan Paul (27/01/19)
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 7:30 AM UTC
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are.
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense—
Thy adverse party is thy advocate—
And ‘gainst my self a lawful plea commence.
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
1.8k
Lost and Found in a World of Polarity
The wounds are deep
But as divine healers our mission is to treat
Negativity all around
From even those whose sacred mission is the same
Those Playing at the blind man’s game
Excusing themselves for pawns
Not understanding in life as in chess
You are the King
One step boldly
Conquering the pieces in the path
Death is the joker, rest assured of his last laugh
Smile warmly, for he sits upon your left
Fractals Fractals all around
What is big is small
Your quiet actions ring loud
in the cosmos’ heart
Reverberating onward out
One step boldly, all must start
Understanding the art of the self
You are the mountain
Summit your Self
The eye at the pyramid’s peak Stands for reason
Seeing all sides evenly
(Yet) We're all Jack and Jill
tumbling down the akashic hill
Lost In a polarized world
Sin is in
Our animal nature
Worn as a scar
Reminding us of the cost
To be who we are
Find The fire ever burning
Upon even your last breath
Part in parcel
The spark
The Fire
Ecstacy
Burning
Reality
Duality
Rising like the phoenix for your heart to soar
transcending time and space
All the stories nevermore
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC
and here we go again something completely new
dont interest me i want to copy my old wings
self never recognized the different reasoning
so take my paragraph like you take war police
banging down your door at the alarm of a total
Nobody. gonna shut down this claim that is truly
interesting. but only because the gods got torment
in their left hand and its aimed at the war police
bang bang ************* do or die trying
dont release me till ive gotten noticably interesting
just kidding want that zombie glare of your adderol adding up for one romantic flunk
of an i love you too soon on the release a loaded
handgun adding up for the hanged cliff of a
no i didnt notice that you even had one
**** darling youre a little too marooned for good
i may be an island but ive got too little much time
for a skip and walk away from a main land
so if one siren does end up staying on the rocks
long enough to scare me into so/so sobriety
ill always have a place to be when i get abandoned
but its just another excuse for me to stay dry away warm till rescue in this imaginary existence
cruise line lexus like admiral for excusing favors
aint asking for the roseary im asking for the papers
legally im entitled to two doses of riddlin **** you
dont believe me ******* here this is my perscrption
my dad prints them tenfoldin his crowded sub basement but i really need them to keep a day job
ancient time frame of a snitch who didnt know it
root cellar lack of oxygen braincells didnt grow in
see there lets blame it on the unintelligence then
connect that to the fact that hes a convicted felon
ohhh touche and a top hat to you stay straight
snitches only seperate themselves from shittalkers
when they dont know a god walking among them
other wise they can stay down talk **** for days
bang bang another door down from the war police
you didnt know your neighbors were the sameside
as you how do you expect the numbers to blind the truth. ba ba ba ba ba duh ba ba ba ba duh
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
*it only took the gherkin to take modern into modern via pickle, but the cabbage pickled dome of the albert hall opera was lost to foe foe foo dub step pluck the plucker of twang of drop d uncool; ah wait, gherkin acne pimples roughage missing on the cabbage suckled, with the flush into oyster moisture past the sexed up morbid cupping of the five fingers telling pistons from pistons? i said as much about my ******** as i did about her mouth, just now, and i wash it off and wash it down shaking hands rather than kissing my children goodnight excusing the **** talking sweet chock choke goodnights; well, it's hard to be credited with womanising when only "polygamy" with prostitutes suffices; but i'll just tell you... swan lake was too loud thanks to the ballerinas' stomps... hated ballet... god curse i will be cursed with sisyphus' labours... i rather roll that stone than hear ballerinas dance once more!*
let the male cat roam and lay rampage to the night, the she-cat sleeps in, then on the third call for ginger: quarus! quarus! nothing... quarus! it begins to rain... shamanism without the safety-net of psychiatry for post-colonial nations trying behaviourism without anger, with anger sterilised, and certain french thinking of fascination with death and suicide with suicidal thought censored for no reason other than not worked with... well, that better be wellington thick rubber on the phallus when i ask for my money back guarantee nine months later.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
Every passing minute,
Penetrates us with new implants,
Of dynamic stability,
Of anxious comfortability
Fixing until they're obsolete,
Machine flies in fleets,
Rust in our sterile neurons,
Symmetry causing deforms
An arcane glitch,
Until the illumination
Of our steel plated souls,
An untouchable virus,
Not alone but
Imaginary friends
Or personal nemeses,
Under the dust hides us
Fate lost its impact,
Before the very birth,
In self excusing motherboards
Entities of creation
Or accidental subelement relation,
Beings of chaos at unclarity,
No stalemate, always in action,
What's ever born of it,
Presumes towards destruction
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 1:22 AM UTC
Honesty is a lost art
Nobody wants the part
We are all actors
No attention to factors
We forget what it is to feel
Now we just want to steal
Floundering through life
Stabbing others with our knife
Wasting away inside
Stopping to say we did try
What did we stop and do
Except be so totally untrue
Wow that is the new fashion
Sending many hearts smashing
Selfishness is the treason
That is the only reason
We plant these seeds
To flourish the field in weeds
We blow them across the land
In these weeds we take our stand
We nourish our sorrow, our pain
Excusing our plans of future gain
I may at times stumble
My heart may rumble
But I am glad this one I walk alone
Going to sit upon my favorite stone
Watching the flowers wave in the breeze
Spreading there pollen to make me sneeze
I rest upon a bed of rose petals
For no less again will I settle
I am worthy of much more
Than the weeds you pick and store
So as we harvest our crops
My life blooms, your life stops
Exactly where you left it
Collecting the weeds where you sit
So I bid you farewell
My flowers are to0 pretty not to smell
I go without causing harm, no foul
Should've believed I threw in the towel
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 10:06 AM UTC
While not everybody naps
Simply everybody craps.
If you don’t you’re a goner
I swear by my honor
There’s no substitute for it
So just get used to it.
It’s like boogers, you see
It’s not talked of openly.
The public has an allergy
Of what can be said honestly.
You can admit to burping
But must do so excusing
As if you had taken a dump
Instead of expelling a lump
Of non-poisonous gas.
Society is a ***
And while we’re at it
We live in a world here
Where ******* are reshaped
And formed by a brassiere
But no crotch bulges for men
Especially not big shaped ones.
As I have already implied
Society is a mean son-of-a-gun.
Breastfeeding an infant is
Seen as some kind of ****
But under-aged girls in bikinis?
That is why men were born.
They were put on earth to see
And love nature and its gifts.
But women in public should
Not show uncovered ****
Just remember this and
You will do very well.
Being natural is for sure
The best way to go to hell.
You must always look to
The bluenosed of society
To shape your fine sense
Of decency and propriety.
A natural person, as God made
Is surely just the Devil’s work.
Because the Devil is more
Important that that God ****
God and Santa make lists
And punish us by and bye
But Satan does it right now
And then spits in your eye.
So, be the proper citizen
And don’t do what is natural.
Following on nature’s bent
Will do you no good at all.
Even though the Bible won’t
Agree to this simple plan
Just look around you to learn
What is in society’s plan.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
Leaf spines do their damnedest
to hold onto broken branches.
"These people -- if you could
call them that,"
the old man's shoulders pinch
his bubbling neck, *******
******* -- these opinionated
women; my god, I have never
seen the like, no sir."
Mother, why have you left me.
I can smell you on the freshly
salted roads.
It is so cold here. The snow
may never stop. The wind
has been picking up. I'm
afraid it may blow me away,
somewhere your direction.
"You see, the thing is, this
country -- no, this world --
has changed so **** much.
It's struck me, fearsome, of
what may stay; what may come,"
he runs his thick fingers through
a rather handsome silver patch,
"I wonder if what I mean to say
is that people scare me?
I don't know what that says
about me or about people."
Father, you sit and you drink,
dying in your work boots;
dying in the arms of my dream;
becoming a man slowly razed.
Your eyes are pale hazel
and they grow apart, as your
tongue pushes out, gone for
a few hours; soon missing.
"Mmm. No sir, I suppose this
world ain't for me. Virginia is
hardly the place I once knew...
You know, my wife, she found
the good in everything -- swear.
Found the good in me.
I envied her, in that one way;
she'd see the good in the *******
******* and these women who
just, well, don't know their place.
She'd know. But she ain't here.
Hell, I'm hardly here, tell'ya."
And all my anger I harbor for you,
my mother, I give to the women
I sleep with; the women that
break my heart; the women who
love me forever.
And all my anger I harbor for you,
my father, I try to forget, for you
are my idea of God's love, and
I desperately scratch at your surface,
excusing your roughness injuring my
fingers; forgiving you for covering me
in your blood and everything else you.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
He grew up lonely with his soundless shadow,
Like a star, in the middle of a far vast meadow,
A low light twinkled from his shack’s window
To tell about his sullen solemn presence,
All night, he slept, but the light remained a reference,
A deliberate language to declare his presence,
A spirit of a person in a far-off existence.
Wreathed not with the joy of a guest’s sight
Enduring his motionless future fairly light.
A roving girl saw him once, once no more,
Yet still imagined his scene every morn and night
Tempted by affection and pacified by her right,
Unexpectedly, she knocked at his ancient door,
Then left leaving a red rose on the blackened floor,
While he was in bed before the rise of an earthly sound,
‘Thank you, lover,’ cried he for the rose he found,
Then ate the petals sitting on the cold ground,
He was forever amused by their slight bitterness,
To wilt in a vase, to him, was of bitterest sadness,
Full of life, every morning, he ate an acrid flower,
On the door, he fixed a note welcoming the stranger,
whispering to himself,’ The note is much better.’
Watching all night was a desire, even more than love,
spending most of the night outdoors in cold weather,
Until the day he didn’t find his passion’s motive,
He yielded to his old life, yet so eager to live
excusing her every morning for her realistic decision after all,
He never knew what people in town did say,
About the death of a girl in pursuit of a rose,
In a wild land, she fell and fell and never rose,
For him, he regretted eating the roses, petals and soul.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
There is this feeling I can't seem to shake
It looms over me this pale luminous cloud
A shadow, not of my own, lurking oh, so proud
Hugs my shoulders with an unnerving weight
This feeling comes over me when you're awake
When you are near and when you are far,
I notice how I can only hear the sharp
pitch of your nagging words
and the pout of your lips, a piercing harp
That strings and stitches its will upon my life
And tries to puppet its pitches to bound me tight
Static and stagnant when plucked,
An evil soul gripped by a tattered heart,
too many times down in luck,
someone made their mark with your heart, left you ******
Left you looming, wandering, excusing your every wit
and hit and sour, sad, selfish self and made you quit
at being a person with love and self respect
Instead you take everyone and anyone on when you're around
when you are here pouring your ugly in everyone's ear
but unlike the rain you do not cleanse nor make way
for light and brighter day
you keep the clouds and grey, no shine, no play
I want to run away.
When you're around.
When you are down.
When you make a frown.
When you're upside down.
When you take a place and make a fake.
I just need to run away.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 9:14 AM UTC
Harrowed by this most singular form, we are a
Coalescence of two
Pedals in cathedral stained glass windows
In glorious form
And resting on tables
Placed seemingly, unassumingly
Placed in insurmountable space
Seen by seers and filled by philosophers,
Nonetheless echoing through cavernous halls
Patterned textures of a Parisian tablecloth in my hand
While my other holds yours in its softness
Recusing sonneteers’ burdens,
Varied recollections of a ringing sound
Excusing intelligent ponderings,
Echoes of faltering and exaltation
With a kiss, we speak soundly
Amplifying what we’ve heard all our lives,
But its crimson is of our origination
To be heard once by us and hence,
Echoed to be heard throughout
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
Wait your turn...
Everybody has to wait their turn
Whether standing in line to leap off the ledge
Spending your dime calling up death
Excusing your life as you clean up the mess
We all have to wait our turn
Wait your turn...
Take a number and wait your turn
Whether trying your patience at the grocery store
Back up for seconds cause your wanting more
Continually knocking at opportunities door
We all have to wait our turn
Wait your turn...
Please have a seat and wait your turn
Whether your dining in or your eating out
North of the city or South of downtown
Gazing in wonder or living in doubt
We all have to wait our turn
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
lachrymose: suggestive of or tending to cause tears; mournful....given to shedding tears readily; tearful.
make no dithering,
wily excusing or explaining,
among this band,
I count myself
a brother and a man
eons ago shed the
reptilian skin masculine,
my six-shooter now a manly
cheap Bic ballpoint blue-eyed pen,
used to fell forests of egos,
mine, first foremost and ever last
every write that sore tries my heart,
lives hard by a stream replenished,
by freshly born, yet stale, recirculated
salt-mine tears, salt, mine, tears,
that include those storing and storied,
some preceding and some succeeding,
and some spilling
even as
this story told,
here and now,
is in the hearth,
forming and fulfilling
if man enough that you can cry openly,
then man enough to write good poetry,
this then, this be the simple and finest
line I ever wrote,
line I ever cried
5:20pm April 20th,
The Year of the Tear
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
Lover and lover,
Going to sleep.
Both dreamed of peace,
One dream achieved it.
One counted time,
The other drowned in lemon juice.
One dream found war,
The other built castles.
Both woke up,
Neither knew.
Lover and lover,
Going to travel,
Both went to Antioch,
Neither were happy.
One dreamed of Spain,
The other of lilacs.
One dreamed of ******
The other of balloons.
One traveled lightly,
The other was untended.
One saw paradise,
The other lost their eyes.
But still neither saw.
Lover and lover,
daydreaming,
One longed for poetry,
The other for seduction.
One desired reverie,
The other was solely cavalier.
One dreamed of excusing themselves from the booth,
The other welcomed the operating table.
The surgery never happened.
Lover and lover,
Laying down for rest.
One thinks of killing Stalin,
The other calls from a phone booth to warn him.
One takes a trip through the minds of the gods,
The other hikes the Appalachian.
One desires to **** all evil,
The other wishes to turn it into goodness.
One saw carnivals,
The other saw forests.
One saw dirt,
The other greeted a Frenchman.
One made tea for the poor,
The other recorded a folk album.
One planted a flower in a shoe,
The other visited Greece.
One visited a watchmaker,
The other cast lots for clothes.
One put out a cigarette on the ground,
The other buys sunglasses on the street.
One sailed into Norway,
The other read from the bible.
Lover and lover: Alone in a cage.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
i'd rather be as cold and manipulative
and a calculator of all sorts
like augustus,
than innocently violent and equally
deluded as such violence deem
equal a nero's "competent" exercise
of it: to encapsulate all masculinity,
rid the demand of scientific inquiry
with blinding d.n.a. and testosterone
structures on the page...
that **** will not float like a ship
on the sea of blood i'll pour into the
breaths walking near Galilee
when your visibility changes from
pen and microscope to sword and telescope
to see eager mars ask permission
of jupiter to transverse via earth too reach venus,
and likewise venus, to transverse toward
mars via earth, hopeful to bring the sun's
illumination with mercury, but the illuminating
message being left on the moon, enters
mars' domain with ignorance, and so
mars likewise retorts to his former act of warring,
and venus in turn with promise of the sun's message
leaves all illumination on earth's moon and
speaks to mars the shadowy truth, rather than:
a. said b. said c. was born (c. being the god
of appeasement, the best we had was crucified,
we need to look elsewhere, because this so called
god of appeasement turned out to be narcissus
in disguise, russian / greek orthodox iconoclasm).
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
Dear misogynists,
Let’s be very clear here.
Boys are not ******** by nature. It’s not in their genetic makeup to automatically be mean-spirited or cruel. Being born with a ***** does not predispose anyone to being the kind of person whose hands make a welcome mat of my hipbones, who licks his lips as if looking at an appetizer, whose breath laced with tequila, privilege, and desperation slurs "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, baby?" from the other side of the street.
Genetics does not do that. Society does.
Dear misogynists,
It is the reason I know Title IX better than my own social security number. It is the reason I have to clench my keys in white-knuckled fists when I walk home from school. It is the reason I avoid eye contact at all costs because that "counts as permission." It is the reason I am told my mouth is useless unless he's the one putting something in it. It is the reason women all over this ******* planet get asked "Well... What were you wearing?" because apparently my outfit speaks louder than my voice, but you must not have met me because I can be pretty **** loud.
Dear misogynists,
It is the reason I am told "You know boys won't like you if you don't stop with that feminist crap." Who the **** asked you? If you think that passionately wanting equality and not being afraid to voice that is "crap," I don't want you to like me anyway; in fact, I want you as far away from me as ******* possible. I don't give a **** about your disapproval and I never will.
Dear misogynists,
Maybe you're right - "locker room talk" is as American as baseball, or apple pie, or roofies. "How could he possibly help himself? If he saw you in that dress, what was he supposed to do? NOT assume you wanted him??"
YES. That's exactly what he was supposed to do: NOT assume I wanted him, or anyone else in the room for that matter. Stop excusing ****** harassment because "boys will be boys;" my skirt is not an invitation, nor is anything but the sober word "yes" - and I include the word "sober" because yes, it does make a difference.
Dear misogynists,
So no. I don't give a ****
And no. I won't stop with "that feminist crap."
And no. Boys will not be boys. Boys will be held accountable for their actions, just like everybody else.
And yes. I do kiss my mother with this mouth, but you can keep dreaming.
Signed, a Feminist
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC
In the head of a beautiful eclectic creature,
Tainted thoughts and black spots,
Disconnected synapses and brain damage.
Honey dew on my fingertips,
Mystical shores of her mind,
Twisted vines with thornes and puddles of water sinking me into her wonders.
Eternal life,
Wandering eyes,
Excusing my hands because they just wanna touch,
They just wanna feel.
Living on the edge of her cliff waiting to jump into the warm liquid that is her.
Tasting like water in its purest form,
It's contagious,
She's contagious to me.
I'm sick but her poison is the only cure,
The only elixir that will make me feel sober when I'm lifted,
Touching the sky that's in her eyes,
Don't mind me I'm high.
White,
Green,
Pink,
Blue,
Smoke and music that's nothing new.
My addictive behavior has me enticed,
My sense are heightened,
I'm elated,
I'm faded,
Fading in and out of reality.
She,
Won't let me be but I can't leave her alone,
Her presence is my home.
That scent is refreshing,
Like freshly cut grass,
Beautiful as stained glass,
It's immaculate to me.
When I was introduced to her,
She changed who I am,
Took over my life,
She's my wife,
I put her first even when she's wrong and I'm right.
She takes my money and my time,
Ages better than wine.
Purity in its most innocent form,
Safety and comfort in her arms.
Now without further ado,
Let me introduce you to,
My everything,
My main thang,
Mary Jane.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
*Hey Christian state why do we perpetuate the hate?
We use tools of death to blow out the light of another man's breath
What about what we heard about people being murdered
From the one you represent with a celebration of Advent?
How can we follow him yet **** on the whim
Of powerful men who tell us what to do
It is clear that your peacemaker came to world to be a changer
Of the hearts of evil men to warn them of their sin
Yet we **** and **** never thinking of his will
That you pray be done in the name of the one
That you claim to worship while refusing the courtship
Of those who want peace bringing to earth a new lease
On life by allowing love to flourish instead we are seen to brandish
Other wordly weapons of destruction contributing to man's dysfunction
In his relationship with a higher power that has so clearly tried to shower
A message of love and peace yet our militaristic actions never cease
We want to go to heaven but our actions serve to unleaven
Our rise to a higher level of being blinded by lies the truth we are not seeing
I don't blame your patriotic thought you don't know what corruption has wrought
Over the years in a quest for power we want our enemies to cower
In the face of our national interest which conflicts with reality's firmest
Wish for mankind to come together and shed our fears of one another
Do you think God is only on our side someone is taking us for a ride
This supposed God is there for all even the man you desire to fall
I know it is confusing but there is no excusing
That the horror of it all is suppressed as we believe our cause is blessed
But the word was for all men, re-read the book you defend
It is clear what was meant don't try to circumvent
The Sermon on the Mount, Jesus brings the world to account
For actions that harms others so don't **** them, they are your brothers
You don't even have to believe in him or any other legend
To know the message is true yet so many speak but cannot do
It's time for a new day where our needs are not in the way
Of others who also want love from your supposed Lord above
If you believe he knows everything we do then it is not too late to start anew
Regardless of belief we must work with each other and not force them to run for cover
From bombs raining down from a nation wearing a crown
Of belief in the almighty causing Christianity to be unsightly
To others who wonder about us and how we can ignore Jesus
And his message of love and peace it is time for hostilities to cease*
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:47 AM UTC
My eyes hurt from crying
My tears hurt from never drying
My tongue hurts from “I have a dream”-ing
My throat hurts from screaming
My lungs hurt from covid-19-ing
And My pupils hurt from witnessing
My DNA hurts from history
My pelvis hurt from herstory
My head hurts from debating
My cells hurt from videotaping
My joints hurt from protesting
My heart hurts from trusting
And My peace hurts from excusing
My hope hurts from believing
My flowers hurt from bereaving
My coffins hurt from mourning
My Elders hurt from recalling
My vigilance hurts from faltering
My prayers hurt from beseeching
My despair hurts from creeping
And My justice hurts from awaiting
But my God-Given Melanin keeps on Shining
So, my Spirit keeps on fighting
Dec 16, 2020
Dec 16, 2020 at 1:02 AM UTC
Desperately grabbing on to imaginary safety, hoping that maybe
just maybe, they'll save me.
This is no virtual reality, but it's hard to see reality when the fast pacing of ghosts and goblins are racing to neglect you as if you weren't ever here, to begin with...
This endless stress I'm feeling is a confession of my LACK of pity
because I feel like it's fitting for this circular way of ending
Spinning in this pattern
Fending for myself on an endless pasture
Demons and shadows, I call those the normal
Opposing humanity that lacks reality
Blinded by the constant wall we bring together
Formally restraining the legs, because we think it's better
"What's the weather"
A constant concoction of tales and tallies for the repeating day
Like a feather, the weight of these lifeless questions couldn't keep the ocean at bay
"What else is there to say"
It's not about what you say that will matter anyway,
Although the power of words is often underestimated,
Keep in mind whom invests in you and what you say,
For those will be you're biggest assets and liabilities.
But if you insist, say what you value, and value what you say,
Because your actions will amount to what comes from them at the end of the day,
Constantly tiptoeing over words like an *** drunk and stumbling over grass
We value the past, abusing it until we've drained it of any real mass it once had, excusing what we do, based upon the past
Forgetting that the past is so close yet fastly becoming the last player in this race in time,
What kind of journey must we take to pick what we say, what we do, what we feel, what we value,
giving our value to ourselves, excusing someone else's hell and making it about an experience that we still dwell on,
our experience
forgetting the rotating reality around us never really rotated around us, but it around it, around it, which we are apart of, silently sending chaos into its sight as we see fit
fright...we should feel because this multiple concoction of words is really a riddle, hidden message, pleading for safety, which may never come, fiddling my thumbs as I write this passage,
Paving a plea that may one day be seen and actually pondered...
Or maybe left, neglected, as expected, not graced even lightly with another soul's wonder.
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 4:36 PM UTC