"factly" poems
I have been doing a lot of work with my feelings lately. I have avoided them for most of my life because, well the bad ones outweigh the good ones.
The rest of them were f@#ked or beaten out of me.
I have always believed that my feelings only led to trouble and pain. A simple feeling stated as a child sent me tumbling down a rabbit hole of horrific pain. An innocent smile was interpreted to be nothing but filthy desire. A frown was nothing but blatant rebellion that had to be dealt with.
My thinking is extremely black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. But what I'm learning is that feelings don't fall easily into any of those categories. The classifications that I have used to reason my life into some semblance of order do not work for feelings.
So walking in this grey area is very difficult for me. I cannot make much sense of what I allow myself to feel and if I do, I get stuck. The detachment I have felt to my memories is slowly being bridged by the missing feelings. And that is terrifying.
I have always been able to share, matter of factly, the details I have chosen to disclose. And I'm very afraid that those details were the easy ones; the ones I could disconnect from and push the feelings onto someone else.
Remember those rabbit holes? When I find the feelings associated with that pain it's like falling down that hole bound, gagged, and blindfolded. My logic was my only means of control and I've lost it amongst the feelings. The only way to climb out of that hole?
Literally feel my way out.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
Home is where the heart is but the heart is a broken place.
I hate
how loud I must barely scream so that people can see my face:
I am dark
and this is a time of shadows.
Sometimes what worries me most about us
is not that we are forced to carry guns and **** our own mothers
is not that we are pulled from our classrooms back into our homesteads
is not that some of our leaders feast while we become skinny UNICEF models
is not that if only one molecule of my DNA was different I could have lived without ever knowing how to read even a single word
is not even that the smallest of things can wipe out entire villages in an instant-
mosquitoes, viruses, locusts; slave ships.
Sometimes what worries me most is that
my headphones carry more sounds of strange places
than my heart will ever know- that not even my brothers and sisters
sold off to those strange places ever knew, as their children are hung off
the trees of Jim Crow and we call them strange fruit, and that
maybe our first president didn't marry a white lady; the white lady might have married him.
Sometimes what worries me most is that for just over eighteen years
of seeing thinking feeling breathing being I couldn't
have ever told you what Africa meant to me past the occasional 'dumela'
to my mother's mother but never, never did I know or now know or will know my mother's mother's mother's mother's mother
because
she can't fit inside the cellular America that I hold in my palm.
And this is why they call us lost.
Because home is where the heart is but the heart is a broken place.
One time, my five year old cousin said matter-of-factly
that black is ugly. In my Primary School days
everyone said I should stay out of the sun lest I get darker.
But
I'm here to tell you that I don't even bother wearing a sun-hat anymore.
I'm here to tell you that I don't cut my hair because to do so would feel like oppression.
I'm here to tell you how vivid and lovely and blessed I do feel to have been born in broken-heart home because at least it has soul.
I'm here to tell you that, yes, I do remember
that time when the whole world knew what to do about ****** and Bin Laden but never could get round to talking about Cecil John Rhodes.
I'm here to tell you that
Today, that conversation starts with a toppled statue.
Today, that conversation starts with my voice.
Today, this conversation starts with a poem which proclaims-
child I am, child I am, child I am, child I am, child I am-
that this is my day. This is my day.
The Day of the African Child.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
When you
absentmindedly laugh at me with such warmth
It is then that I see your heart
When you
eagerly assume you'll read my most intimate words
it is then that I feel the truth
When you
matter-of-factly believe I'm amazing
it is then I realize I've always loved you
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
"Remember in summer when we used to listen to the smiths and make out in that little hidden park?" He said with a little smirk.
"Tragically, yes." She didn't even look at him. She didn't laugh with him. She didn't smirk back. She looked ahead, stared at the open road, like it was a possible escape plan.
"I miss you." He didn't think. Its funny, the things you regret immediately, the things you regret as they're happening.
"No, you don't." The same monotone voice.
"Why cant we get over this?" Hes not angry, or pleading, or sad. Hes just asking. He doesn't expect an answer.
"Because I hate you." She said. This time she looked away from the road, she looked at him, dead in the eye. Her eyes were welled with tears, they did not steam down her face or smear her make up, they were just there. Like they weren't for anyone but her. And he didn't want to take that away from her.
"You're my best friend."
"I don't care. I hate you, with every fiber of my being, I hate you. I hate you like the sun hates the moon, I hate you." She said it matter of factly, trying to be hurtful. She didn't want him to think she was weak. That she would just give up on this.
"I cant loose you." His voice broke half way though, snapped under the pressure, hiccuped like a prepubescent boy talking to his crush.
She turned to him, lent forward and whispered in his ear.
"Too late." She turned on the ***** of her feet and melted away into the cool winters day, like she used to on those summer ones, where they would listen to the smiths, in that little hidden field, and make out. When they were best friends. When they both knew they could never be just best friends. When they both tasted like the american dream and homemade cooking. When the sun loved the moon.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
~for r, just because~
*put her in my mouth and she became my
mouth.
put myself inside her and she became my
insides out.
spill good words on her belly, licked & laced us together, then came my
poetry.*
***on elbow, she claimed coauthor-ship, demanded her name above
mine.***
I smiled, answering most matter-of-factly,
surely they’re your creations, you-a-ruler, procreator, foremost, first,
the ABCedarian
the muse goddess of alphabets, all that is poetic divine mistress to
thousands
I’m mortal,
your transcriber, copyist, alphabetically seconded, merest mere,
the ABEcedarian
I’m rudimentary without you, lost midst the masses o’poets nameless.
*She snorted, said
**“sounds like poetic ******** to me”****
but returned to her sleepy heaven,
mumbling most contentedly.*
May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 7:47 AM UTC
the same old line jumps off my tongue
hi, how are you
i'm fine, how are you?
i'm well, thank you
this time,
there is a pause
the old man looks at me
his skinned is tanned as a hide
but not as wrinkled as some
you can see through his blue eyes
his spirit lurks close to the surface of his eyes
they seem to contain a whirlwind of white clouds and sky
his gray hair is quite dark and shiny
it lays in columns on his head
combed to perfection
we're both lying the old man says quietly
i look up
surprised that someone would question my honesty
i really am well i tell him how are you lying?
i just got out of chemotherapy
he tells me this matter of factly and i feel slightly awkward as i look up at him from my work
i'm sorry. your hair looks great.
thank you.
your total is 53.54. i hope you have a good day.
thank you. the same to you.
the conversation was over
and i will never see the old man with cancer who came through my check out line ever again
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
My mother always ends a phone conversation with ‘I love you.’
And she says that it is because you never know
When someone will be taken from you,
and I think that is true.
But her “I love you’s” have different levels;
One said in exasperation to my brothers
when they’re being particularly much
One said quietly to my sisters
as they drift slowly into their dreamscapes
and as she’s closing their door
One said matter-of-factly to me
when I am having a conversation with her.
It always takes me by surprise, and I know that it shouldn’t, but it does because the last level of her “I love you” is reserved for my father.
It is said, almost as an afterthought at the end of their phone conversations, said with frustration and almost resigned to her lot in life.
“— love you.”
The spot for the “I” is a glaring void of things left unsaid
It has given me a new greatest fear that I will grow so complacent in my relationship, in my life, that I too will end phone conversations with “—love you.”
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 1:06 PM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
Here is us in vortex divinely sligned
~~
You read me like my book
I wrote a million times,
In secret, yet, never alone
Dreams of lullabys for us amor
We read each other's mind!
We've become poems divine!
We travel in virtual modes, for now,
To deeply dig, in all you give me love.
In poem or in song, our verse exactly rhymes, divine it stems factly.
It's still *US * the memory aptly
in vibe lives true in yesterday's.
wings of love and marry gay.
Sweety pie
Angel k- Rd is also us.
It's HOW I love you cosmic grace
And no
It's never too soon or too late!
True love returns as Seasons do.
It's Fall yet we relax, not too late
for spring will soon return,
Like seasons my love returns
In vortex wing's
of two halves in love divine
Re United
My Love.
~~~~~~~
Karijinbba
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 1:09 AM UTC
In 2008,
I lay upon the floor,
disabled,
pain hobbled,
my back
unable to properly space
the Lego discs
that keep a man
upright
king and absolute ruler,
was I
of the carpet.
in the little blue room
off the kitchen,
where solace
in loneliness,
was my little
heaven in hell.
It was my blue period,
When you decided to leave
And try to take everything
But hang around our apartment
to practice, practice
making misery your profession.
It was the same
little blue room,
years before
I ran to,
for a few hours rest
after tending to you,
nursing your cancer needs,
fetching, most fetching,
I fetched and fluffed,
shopped and tended,
and comforted,
after working all day.
Now three years on,
on the floor
of the same little blue room,
unable to move,
weakly, wounded,
brokebacked,
I was a soldier,
in a deep trench,
almost paralyzed,
caught tween desk and bed
called your name,
even though there was
nothing you could have done.
Role reversal,
years later,
roll reversal,
roll from the bed to the floor,
fallen, immobilized,
I rued
the morning light,
for men must work and
women must weep,
work and weep,
this morning,
I was responsible for both.
I called you name repeatedly,
in a peculiar voice, agreed,
the voice of wrack and ruination,
after hearing you slippers
shuffle a two step at 2 Am,
outside the little blue room,
oh for many a minute,
in the middle of the night,
calling, calling
perhaps, you would help
me to rise,
oh yes,
just to help me stand,
on my bent back,
my own legs
Somehow one finds a way,
is it not always that way?
Later, I asked.
Did you hear me call you name
in the middle of the night?
Oh yes.
But your voice sounded so weird,
I would not go in.
Years later, I asked again.
Just get over it,
you replied,
matter of factly.
Today, years later,
I ask again,
right now, right here,
I ask
but a different question.
Do you think I am over it now?
Oct 15th 2011
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
I'm surprised, by what I let slip
"I want to cut my tongue open, and watch the blood drip."
Something here is incredibly wrong,
We're the same person, I swear,
but we're total opposites, like an oxymoron
or trying to read through a mirror.
Like that ***** at my school who died from an overdose of oxycotton."
She said so matter of factly.
As a matter of fact, his funeral was today.
I wonder who has lives outside of this one,
and what other worlds are like
I wonder if you notice coffee's bitter taste
I wonder where his is, and his stupid talent thats going to waste
When you lose your glasses, its harder to see
and when you lose your thoughts, its harder to be.
We only notice the problems of others, if we've been there ourselves
The only ones who notice, are the ones who understand.
But if you keep quiet, they won't cut you by the wrist
or take you by the hand.
"what does domestic violence mean to you?"
He said: "they don't fuckin' listen" and
I wanted to punch him in the mouth.
Jaded or not, I'm not going to like you,
as much as I thought I would.
If you know the answer, then the question is never good.
Don't mettle in things, if you don't think he should
Full Force Frontal Banger.
Oh, to fly..
More than a fender ****** to slap the face of the sky.
Its a simple wish, to cut my insides out,
and watch them squirm like worms for fish
For an answer you know you don't want to hear
The sounds of a head on collision, and the wind in your ear.
If you want to fall asleep, darling, you've got to close your eyes.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 7:11 PM UTC
"Angels can't be black, stupid" she said to me
And she said it so matter-of-factly
To the eight year old boy with a figurine
That his mother gave him, looking so kindly
And I didn't know of her words nonsensicle
But everywhere I looked, in books, store windows and tv specials
I saw that angels in serenity with floating halos
And all of them were white
So I was down, not surprisingly
Because think of how mad or sad you'd be
To find Heaven's hosts had no minorities
And that an angel could not be made of me
And angrier I became as on tears I choke
To be the **** of that little girl's joke
And to find all the words my mother spoke
Might be only lies and fairy tales
And with my head planted on my desk
The angel next to me did rest
As my teacher saw my distress
And question my obvious bitterness
I shrugged her off and her query grew
"Nik Bland, what in the world's eating you?"
And I told her what that girl and the whole world knew
About the fable of my figurine
And she listened to my childlike woes
As tears streamed down, sobs did grow
And she nodded as I said I did not know
A single place in the bible where minorities showed
A trace and she went up to the class
And spoke that, scientifically, in the past
It's been shown that the brown skinned and blacks
Were the colors of the first of the human race
So that sparked a fire within my mind
To realize that if humankind
Found a way to travel back in time
They might be seeing an ethnic Adam and Eve
And she showed me on the map the Middle East
And my heart rate slightly increased
To see it held Israel and Bethlehem, doubts then ceased
As I saw the mixed skin color of their people
And as the class pondered this, she came to me
And told me very quietly
Of her and her Christianity
And of Jesus, whose chose his mixed coloring
And with tears in her eyes, she put that angel in my hands
And to me that I must understand
That God looks past the color of the man
For He painted us all
And Christian or not, you must admittedly
Say that the world is a piece of artistry
That is incomparable to any man has in the making
And that we are all living here equally
And show we pass on, some soon than most
But with belief in Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
That eight year old boy could proudly boast
About the angel, so serene... and black
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
There was no magic manual that was given when you gave birth to me
But if there was you would have failed miserably
Even if the answers were written in dark red ink
They wouldn't have given anyone time to think
That maybe the magic mannual that came for me is wrong
Because nothing is fixing me it's taking too long.
But if that magic mannual was real
It would tell them I didn't need fixed
If there was a guide book on how to help
It would tell them to breathe with me
If there were check lists on what to do
Would they have even gone through
With helping me or was I just the enemy
It shouldn't have taken a doctor
It shouldn't have taken a stay
It shouldn't taken anything
Besides them just spending one day
Talking to me helping me working with me side by side
I was too young to bare the weight of wanting to die
And that's why even if the magical manual did exist
My parents wouldn't care. They would be ******
That the efforts they were already exhausting wasn't enough
They didn't have the energy for me
They just wanted to use tough love.
But I was a fragile gentle child
Who needed a hug.
I know there's not a magical manual
And especially not for me
But why did my parents give up so tirelessly
When I was struggling endlessly
Complex and matter of factly.
My magic manual mediates the troubles in face.
If it were real maybe I would have gotten some grace.
My magical manual says it there in the fine print
This little girl came with a few dents.
Mar 5, 2025
Mar 5, 2025 at 10:26 PM UTC
“One thousand words.” He said “that’s the going rate.”
I looked down at it in my hand.
Taken back to the day it was first shown to me.
“What if it’s burned?” I asked.
“Burned?” He asked. “How burned?”
“Not very, just around the edges.” I explained.
“Like, it was saved from a fire. Would it be worth more, then?”
“Well, no.” He answered, matter-of-factly.
“What it it’s old.”
“Old?” he asked. Leaning forward, now engaged. “How old?”
“What if what used to be white is now turning yellow.
and what used to seem new now looks antique
and she looks so young that you think it can’t be her.”
“Well…” He paused, thinking it over – or pretending to.
“No.” He finally decided, leaning back into his position of power.
“One thousand words. That’s the going rate.”
“What if…” I searched it for any other idiosyncrasy “It’s autographed.”
“Like – half in cursive and half printed – and the ‘I’ is accented by a tiny heart.”
“That’s tempting, but rules are rules, and rates are rates.”
He smiled, enjoying my pain too much.
“It’s worth a thousand words. No more, no less.”
“What kind of words, I mean do I get to choose them?” I said
“Mostly fluffy words, not very heavy handed words. Not five dollar words.
Just our two cents worth.” He said through his grinning teeth.
The thought of her being reduced to one-thousand two-cent words made me ill.
So I left and took the picture with me.
I wandered and pondered and got lost
finding myself
at that pier she used to talk about, where she first met my father.
The sight there had to be worth twenty thousand words, in French.
I don’t speak French.
So I did not understand why it was beautiful
only that it was.
So it was there and then that I decided I would set her
priceless and free.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 4:35 PM UTC
Today, my friends were sitting at our lunch table
My four friends sitting around me
We were talking about death and funerals
My one friend said,
“I’m dying first.
I’m dying before all of you.
So that I don’t have to go to any of your funerals.”
And I thought to myself
Isn’t that funny?
How she stated, as a-matter-of-factly
That she is going to die first
It’s funny because I almost died before her
When I tried to **** myself
Lucky for her, I guess, I failed
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 8:25 PM UTC
'A Story with an (im)Moral'
Once there was a boy
desperate to make some grand escape
not exactly sure what from
but determined by desperation nonetheless
he found his solution of choice to be running away,
in the elementary, running away from home sense
not to be confused with the running
of the 'Forrest Gump' specialty
so away he went
across all the boundaries he could find
city, state, nation, ocean
he crossed and crisscrossed them all
until the places he ended up running away from
brought him right back to the place
he thought he'd never return to again
normally at this juncture
he would meet up with a forgotten sweetheart
realize he'd only been running from himself
and settle quickly into a story book situation
of paper bliss and paste-flavored life
however, he had always been more
of an anti-hero kind of guy
so after a quick fling with that sweetheart
who, matter-of-factly, he had never even started to forget
he left her sobbing in a corner
over the should-have-been he robbed away from her
and proceeded to absolutely decimate
every tie he had left in that town
he had always doubted that saying about burning bridges
so he perpetrated a final crime as a lasting reminder
that he had told the whole town
to go **** themselves, in no uncertain terms
-and by **** he meant it-
he burned the only bridge out of town
along with an ex-buddy from high school's
pristine Camaro that turned out to be
just the ignition that bridge needed
it would be stock to tell you
that he learned some grand life lesson
and felt great remorse for his evil ways
no such scripted end, though
as he grinned into the wreckage
smoking in the stream at the bottom of the gulch
he was struck by a happy revelation
staying away is so much easier
when you physically can’t go back
and his only parting thought
was of how much time could have been saved
if he'd only burned that stupid bridge
the first time he left.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 6:36 PM UTC
Given the chance
We would all help George to breathe
And Ahmaud to complete his run
And leaving a bird watcher to bird watch
In the hope that he sees that rarest sighting
That still remains to be seen,
A life uninterrupted
where he doesn’t have to be concerned about his next breath
or the weight of one-sided history
Bearing down on his neck,
Or a virus
Filling his lungs with poison
A cytokine storm of oppression
Cutting life spans short
Leaving us without viable treatment,
As It’s stated matter of factly
“we might have to live with this for the foreseeable future”,
And four hundred years on
there’s still no vaccine
For separate and unequal treatment
In an injustice system
That’s become genocide ad seriatim?
Jun 3, 2020
Jun 3, 2020 at 5:59 PM UTC
It just doesn't work, trust me.
You said matter-of-factly in the tone of voice
that could have persuaded me to do anything,
except believe this.
No, it does. It just requires both people to put some effort in.
I remember myself contemplating
and convincing you;
trying to make you believe it was possible, because it had to be.
Exes can't be friends after everything. It just doesn't work.
You told me of all the others
pretty and playful who ran away with your heart
but never gave it back.
But for the longest time, I tried to prove you wrong
tried to make us invinsible in some sort of way
tried to make you see in a new sort of light
tried to show you it wasn't that hard
tried to hold on to what we had
tried to keep our friendship
tried to be the exception
tried to keep us intact
tried to find a way
tried to be more
tried to stay
tried to
tried
But I just came out breathless and heartless
because I hate to admit it, but
god, you were right.
gd
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
I wish I could stop.
I'm getting better
Alot better,actually.
So much so I'm questioning typing this.
My audience may not be as understanding as I.
But if you all can be raw
Without fear of reprimand
For your thoughts are your thoughts
And your feelings are your feelings
Why should I fear?
I need to get this out.
I have triggers now.
More triggers,great.
Once upon a time
Those triggers were normal
For us millenials.
A door slamming.
Yelling.
**** men.
Now,
It's scales.
Something I'd never feared.
It's the mirror.
Something I'd never wanted to break.
It's the the feeling I get
Right before I strap on
My running shoes.
The feeling of being trapped
Into doing something I 'd rather not
Yet feel forced to.
It's innocent comments
Innocent questions
That while I was never huge
And matter-of-factly shrinking
Take me back to the mirror
To question any ounce
Anything extra.
It's clothes
I have so many clothes.
And I hate the vast majority.
They don't camouflage.
They don't blend.
They open the door for triggers.
It's makeup
Something I used to love
For years
That now
I question.
I wonder if it's to play with my features
Or to over-compensate for something I now know
I don't have.
This has taken me over:
These triggers.
And all it took
Was one response
to a question
I'd asked.
One comment that acted on senior triggers
So much so
that it created new ones.
It's funny how the mind works.
I'm not mad.
I'm really not sad, either.
And I eat
I told you all I'm getting better.
I'm just a girl
Seeking an attainable goal
Who unfortunately
Until then
Will have this looming
In the back of her mind.
And almost everyday
I wish
I never would've asked that question.
I'm sick of loving myself
Conditionally.
I want makeup to only be
For ***** and giggles.
I don't want to hide
In clothes anymore
And when I'm not hiding
I don't want to question my choices.
I want numbers
To simply be numbers
Not those individualizing
A jail cell.
I want comments
To slide off my back
Not slide to the dark corner of my mind
Where I place those things
I don't want to remember;
Into my subconscious,you could say.
I want to be wholly happy with myself
and with the things I used to love.
Emphasize,don't sympathize.
I promise I'm fine.
But isn't this a place of raw honesty?
Where even the fine can place their subconscious in text?
Until then,I guess.
I'm just a girl.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
if i was less of a hypocrite
i suppose i would not have gotten in this deep
sink or swim, do or die
i might have been able to sleep
last night, if i was less of a hypocrite
if i was less of a hypocrite
i would not have presumptuously told you
not to frivolously spend your friendship
while i tried to write up a list of people
who would even be willing to converse with me
if i was less of a hypocrite
i would not have matter-of-factly implied that you
didn't go to bed early enough to sleep properly
since i was staying up to write this poem
and wouldn't turn of the lights 'till midnight
if i was less of a hypocrite
i would not have warned you against swimming too far
as i stroked out to the boats without thinking
with hardly any strength to make it back
(my brother said i almost drowned)
if i was less of a hypocrite
i would not have told you to love every bit of yourself
no matter what anyone else will say
because, my friend, i don't even like myself
can't even look myself in the eyes sometimes
if i was less of a hypocrite
maybe i'd still be around for you
because i wouldn't have gone out after ten
to buy some chips from the 7/11
and i would have been at home in the morning
if i was less of a hypocrite
maybe you'd actually be able to trust my judgement
and the silky words that slip out of my mouth
'cause then my actions would reflect my words
and i could possibly be considered a decent human being
if i was less of a hypocrite
i suppose i would not have gotten in this deep
sink or swim, do or die
i might have been able to sleep
last night, if i was less of a hypocrite
h.f.m.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
rest of title...Parkland, Fla.,February 14, 2018
One more senseless mass homicide
twas the sole arbitrary aim
as a former student nonchalantly
sauntered empty hallways
seconds preceding blame
brazenly intent to maximize total killed
matter of factly telling police
(his incomprehensible)
(ill) logic he did explain
when cornered, he willingly,
unflinchingly, reticently admitted guilt
Nikolas Cruz rocketed
to instantaneous infamous fame
pulling a fire alarm
("FAKE") emergency,
then going leisurely ambling
along his killing spree
total of seventeen slain (comprising 3 faculty
and 14 students)
mercilessly gunned down
as if they were wild game
when handcuffed, an innocuous
19 year old did readily admit
emptying one firearm after another
at a fairly rapid clip
then at some predestined
or spurious moment didst dip
and dive out amidst
the chaotic madding crowd
before reality flopped then did flip
as lower teeth he nervously bit upper lip
made feeble getaway
at a nearby eatery casually flirted
with cashier and made no move to flit
upon his seizure as cornered prey
subsequently large tract
massively cordoned off
strong arm of the law
slightly halting in speech
detailed his gambit
deliberately staking
a stance to maximize hit
and once again afflicted parents lit
up with rancor and rage pit
toughly battling sorrow
which will not quit
til death doth bring peaceful rest
sans, those grieving family visit.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
Good things never stay good
New relationship; A new lover
But all I can concentrate on is my ending line
I know that this sweet aroma of ignorant bliss will soon disappear into the quick wind of Reality.
Hello mirror. We’ve become quite the enemies over the years.
“You know you are not worth it,” says the mirror ever so matter-of-factly.
My reflection, staring hard back at me, weakens at the sound of these harsh words.
I refuse to admit, yet, I helplessly acknowledge.
Goodbye dear lover, save yourself from my unbecoming.
New place; A new me
Yet my old self still lingers
This grotesque ghost of the past can’t keep its cold, slimy fingers, off of my gasping soul
“I want release!” I cry
“You know you are still the same way you’ve always been,” says the ghost ever so brutally.
I realize my potential, yet, I step back into my same worn out mold.
Suddenly, my clean slate becomes covered in reckless filth
A new opportunity; new improvement
Yet my fear, my irrelevant, paramount, fear makes its way into the top of my brain
“You are not worthy, your potential is a washed up façade, an absolute joke.”
I try to ignore, yet, this tyrant beats me into its submission
Opportunity, terminated.
My inner-hideousness will always consume what good I have to offer
Good things never stay good.
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 7:25 AM UTC
I remember the last doctor appointment that I took my father to. At the VA, of course. He wouldn't go anywhere else. Said he didn't like doctors in general, but at least these ******** didn't tell him that he needed to quit smoking. It's been a few years since the old man passed, but I recall so clearly how unfazed he was that day. How accepting of it all. How he remarked to the Doc so matter-of-factly "Of course it's spread. That's what cancers do. Just like us, they do what they have to do." He never asked how much time he had. He knew. Told me not to tell "the girls". My sisters. **** fine old man. Always did just what he had to do.
4/2/14
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC