"familial" poems
Who Am I?
Well,
I must be
that ******
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.
Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.
You see,
I must be
that ******
a stand-in
for all other *******
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******
In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.
But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."
And If I happen to be a ******
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******
Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.
And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-motherfuckers
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."
Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,
not in the ****** way,
but the familial,
species way.
Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.
Search and find ******
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
#*Familial the ties siblings we are
Brought up with love care discipline and protection
Values inculcated deep
Respect and love we all each other
Hold it strong in the heart
Hurt we can never bring to each other
Stand together in testing times forever
Raising high the baton of love today
Passing it on to the generation next
To relay it in the timeless tomorrow*#
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
All through the night
Heartburn kept him sitting up
Stubbornly refusing
To read the signs:
Indigestion...
Heart attack...
Hiatal hernia....
Indigestion...
Hernia...
Heart attack...
Heart attack..
Heart attack.
By five, he agreed...told Mom
Baking soda wouldn't work.
His son came in from checking calves,
Worrying over the kitchen light,
Surprised to see his dad
Still sitting on the couch.
At, "I guess we could go to town,"
Son and wife moved into action.
"I need some help to dress," he said.
His helplessness filled them with dread.
First, some socks, but wait....
The nails were long, unkempt.
"I haven't been able to bend that far,"
My brother took Dad's feet in hand,
Cut the nails,
Wondering how he'd failed
To see how fragile, pale, old
This man we loved and feared
Had somehow suddenly become.
There probably wasn't time
To trim Dad's nails,
What with the heart attack,
And all.
But one should never head to town unkempt...
An old familial rule...
And one should cut one's own nails...don't even ask...
Another family rule....
And last...
Father has the last word...
The rule that kept him home all night,
Instead of calling 911.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
I wish Americans spoke Greek.
Did you know that there is more
Than one word for
Love, in the Greek language?
Agape. Eros. Storge.
And Philia.
Agape.
Unconditional love.
UNCONDITIONAL. Love.
I cannot even
Comprehend. How much
Love that is.
Unlimited. Unrestricted.
Unconditional.
That's how all love should be.
Eros.
Passionate love.
Sensual, emotional,
Romantic love.
The physical side...
Of love.
Intense, this kinda love
Needs a while to come out.
Don't rush.
Storge.
Love as affection.
Parents love their children,
Wives love their husbands.
Acceptance into a
Special place in someone's heart.
Familial bonds. Caring love.
And Philia.
Loyalty to others,
Mental love.
This is the love between friends.
The love of objects,
And places, etc.
Not unconditional,
Not passionate,
Not affectionate. But just,
Love.
Our one word,
Love, is broken into
Four words.
I want to be Greek,
I want people to know what
Kinda of love I mean,
When I say,
"I love you."
To people.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
1 Kings 15:24- "Then Asa rested with his ancestors and was buried with them in the city of his father David. And Jehoshaphat his son succeeded him as king."
Hand passes baton
Race not about runners
An objective not at odds
To something further than singular
It is about the passing
Dedicated motion
Maintaining of
Exchange at maximum speed
Invigorating something else
Notion of familial
Virtues vested
In a completement
Of the passing on
And a carrying of values
So well learned
From another before
And His trust given
Rewards of a relay
Are plural
With an instinctual handing off
Of Faith
In a mentor before
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
She said it was alright
When a moment ago
I told her
I didn’t love her anymore
She said it was alright
When a lifetime ago
I told her
I couldn’t live up to her dreams
She said it was alright
When I got down to my knees
To give her an ordinary ring
Because I couldn’t afford anything else
She said it was alright
To any and everything
I had ever dared confess
She said it was alright
Because deep inside of her
Was a love for me, almost endless
It’s true, i could have tried harder
To please her, to love her
To appease her, to deserve her
But i didn’t, and i’ll tell you why
Many a night, i’d seen her cry
Alone and depressed
Confined and distressed
In the familial laws and rules that bind
That told her not to speak her mind
That crush her worse than i ever could
If only, she understood
All i wanted to do was to make her say
It’s not alright and slap my face
Take a knife and stab my heart
For pulling all her dreams apart
But she never said a thing
Bound by all those invisible strings
Perhaps it’s time to end this game
And save her before she goes insane
Save her from this world that binds her
Save her from the veil that blinds her
It won’t be easy but i’ll do my best
Take off her shackles and give her some rest
But she is one from millions in the world
I’ll save one from her prison
But what about the rest?
What about the millions that we blessed
With an eternal veil?
You won’t answer that
Neither will I
After all, who wants to give up a servant
For whom, everything is alright….
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
A seventies child
Born in Wales, one of the four
Countries of The UK.
I remember brown as the colour
of the day.
Fabric embossed wallpaper
all the neighbours names, who married who,
who was carrying on, the alcoholic, the beaten wives,
Even, get this the peadophiles (or kiddy fiddlers as was known)
Dai the milk, Mair the bread, the shop of infinite items.
Rugby practice for dad, baking for mam
(Cake and babies) gossip over the garden hedge
Fish on a Friday a Sunday roast, hot sweet tea.
Bubble and squeak, post delivered before you
left for school. Mist on the mountain, dew on the grass.
Welsh valley life, sounds idyllic
but scratch the surface and a darker colour
than brown emerges. Petty squablings leading to
familial feuds, the Williamses don't get on with
the Joneses, and as for the Pritchards, less said the better.
School, local, no not for me. I was sent to a Welsh
School, taught and learnt the language denied to my
Parents by English politics. Cat amongst the pigeons there.
Did I think I was special? Ideas above her station. That's what
the neighbours say.
Well, you all had the option.
Dr Forbes FRCS
Delivered babies buried men and women
Loved by all, especially his lollipop sweets.
I wasn't a child to get ***** or rip wrapping paper
off of gifts, I liked to go under the stairs (like Harry Potter)
and read. I left the dirt for my sister born 4 years later.
Then in 1982 came my brother, tidy my mother describes it.
'74,'78,'82 poor dad to have to wait I say!
More pubs than chapels, more walking than driving
more rain than sun, more music than ever was sung.
The '80's came, and we had strikes, no electric, candles
toast made with a toasting fork over the fire.
No mines, no steel, no jobs.
Picket lines, dole queues, women in work
latchkey kids, Thatcherism, ******* times.
Falklands war, IRA bombs, Royal weddings
Tory rule
But, the fire in the dragon never went out
and Tom Jones still sings his heart out.
Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gân, deffrwch
nawr, dyma'ch tro.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
I converse with the insane,
And I see dead people,
I seek no fame,
Or salvation from church steeples,
I am alone,
Yet in my head we are many,
A clamoring of voices,
Above the anarchy of it all,
This world is broken, a place where life is a gamble,
And familial bonds are broken down in shambles,
I am a grateful dead, of a time long forgotten,
And like that I shall remain, till my bones are long rotten.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 7:43 AM UTC
I would've loved to meet her.
The sweetness you spoke in her honor.
A gentle breeze in a month of freezes.
Electric, connective, explorative.
I would love to meet the next.
The sweetest of peas.
Only bluest when being overly fruitful.
Reflections of trekking tower of the familial tree.
Expectations of expecting in introspect.
Forgive me for being greedy, wanting to be involved in your life.
Forgive me for involving my love.
I shall let the resting rest, the ones that need rest to get rested, and give my mind and soul a rest.
Ifeanyichuku Okoro © 2023
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 12:59 AM UTC
Someone told me talking to women was completely different from talking to men
Familial desire circumventing physical rationality
I don't ******* get it
Flesh is flesh
There is no separation between this body and the next
No delineation save for my own arbitrary ones
This world is chaos bound by imposition
And none of it is real
I'm not even going to say middle class conceptions of family are constructs
Everything is a construct
Knowledge is anthropic chaos
Don't pretend you can tell the difference between essential existence and our subjective reordering of boundless matter
A gap does not form between a molecule of air and a molecule of flesh
I am trapped in my own sensations but I am not defined by them
So back to the story of material existence reduced to reproductive imperative
Treating all of the other *** as a means to displace one's self beyond annihilation into temporal infinity
Who ******* cares?
Legacy does not carry on after death
Legacy does not even carry through life
Language breaks down the moment we open our mouths
No one will ever view your life the way you view it
Splashing through a pool, ripples morph all reflections into monstrous amalgamations
Hey, tell me
Do you even remember yourself that clearly?
Hollow triumph, grandfather's bones in a grandfather clock ticking past twelve
Sorry, I just don't see the allure of treating half the human race as a means to satiate your own lust whether physical or genealogical
Or even categorising humans into binary dualisms that bored philosophers a century ago
Haven't you heard? God is dead
And there is no meaning to your boring male existence
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
The blind Parisian has never seen the tower, or the lights that illuminate his city of birth
The deaf Italian never heard the opera, or Core 'ngrato from a Tuscany street corner
I never looked into your eyes and saw the cosmos
I am distracted by the power of corporate America
The unflinching pacifist still stands atop a suit of armour with his arms outstretched
and Syria rejoices as the stench of liberty matches gun powder and familial genocide
Oh western world, have you forgotten your past so soon?
Explain to the deaf man how her voice sounds
or
Explain the colour spectrum to a blind child
and then deny the tears that water your cheek
Tell the dyslexic that words are meaningless for it gives him comfort
and turn your back on the monetary religion of which we are indoctrinated
Take your ******* industry and bring it to it's submissive knees
Your weapons too, they are a disgrace
Empathy is universal
Love is blind
[Cliche]
[Cliche]
End.
A return, or a refrain, addendum to the ideas thenceforth
It's enough to leave a man crying in his coffee, Starbucks specialty
**** your poets, burn your books and gouge your eyes
This world is not broken, we are.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
"There in the midst of it so alive and alone
Words support like bone..." Peter Gabriel's "Mercy Street"
Orion abandons the sky
dropping his club
casting his belt toward the horizon
Just once, for a moment, he glanced away
from exalted ****
his vanquished prey
He’d seen the picture—
A girl of sixteen
lying awake—muses in her head
eyes shut, arms thrown back
behind pillow
Tee shirt stretch across lean chest
Hips mingle with blankets
She is scattered there
among the minions of her hair
behind her mouth of unkissed words
_______________
McCaffery's Coffee is open late
He’s seen the picture
Muses in his head
His arm almost around her
Hers on his shoulder
Small—feather-light fingers
lift the hair of his neck
Reaching around her
his hand searches and slides
along her silk-draped hind
...and the view he has is amazing!
_____________
Music— and waves pounding and lapping
at the life he fears....
Little boat stranded in gray mists
till a thousand tiny birds alight
in a peppering and fluttering
stir of time
in greens of brine
as the sun pries through….
______________
McCaffery’s is ready to close
but the owner, knowing
douses the overheads and turns away
leaving candlelight to crouch and duck
and blink in circles
How long and free we
are allowed to gaze....
so full of wind and riffling water
Stars above and stars below
blooming on the floral silk of night
Vespered lilacs exhale
Votives of warmth
beneath his hand
Silk sweating—
familial in their rocking
Distant lightning loosens eternity
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
What does one do when the characters you hate
Are the ones you best construe?
Misgivings and flaws you can relate
To, tho venerable traits you eschew,
The green light gazers and "architect" praisers
Familial leeches or the confessor who preaches
That awareness absolves one of sin,
Compromisers and self-named kaisers
Resound and reverberate within
They pass by in my pages to be mocked and scorned
As evil, cruel, an oaf, or a tool
Too low to respect or too high on their horse
Despicable, maniacal, mediocre, or worse
And I do hate their vileness, I do hate their flaw
I want to shake them and claw at their skull
For nothing more than the gleam of recognition
That by some misfortune of natural law
They and I share a need for contrition.
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 12:41 PM UTC
Well since you gave me the idea,
I'll just to my alley of worship
to sing hymns of ecstasy and ****
to glorify the power of my all mighty drug dealer,
with the rest of my burnt out, strung out congregation.
A few beers doesn't make you an alcoholic
it means you were thirsty.
Before you read the rlab report.
Do you mind if I make a drink?
I wasn't going to show,
but our blood has bound us to the familial microscope.
Blacking out the bull **** with the facts that proove you wrong dancing on the tip of tougne.
Your wasting my time.
I'll be the gentleman and I'll hold the door open for you.
Now walk right out of my life.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 6:20 PM UTC
"Squeeze Please" presents as a cute word rhyme,
But its grip and depth
Is unique and sublime.
Part hug, some cuddle, but
More like a tickle...
It's fickle!!
Yet,
I sense familial love songs
When
My limbs contract to stop his wiggles-
And then,
Before he starts his giggles...
My knees squeeze...
That’s when I heard,
Without one word...
Squeeze because you love me;
Squeeze because I love you;
Squeeze because I feel protected;
Squeezing keeps we two connected.
Squeeze Please makes me feel secure.
Please squeeze... please... squeeze please me more.
Squeeze me to my happy place.
Squeezing tells me that I’m safe.
A squeeze will make me feel content
Your squeezes tend to give me strength.
Then Squeeze tight for respite and peace,
Like a weighted blanket as I sleep.
Squeeze me like a pet boa,
Squeeze because you're my own Granda.
I hear and listen when he says Squeeze Please;
That cute word rhyme really speaks to me.
(Now loosen and Squeeze Please some more.........................)
Jun 10, 2024
Jun 10, 2024 at 1:52 PM UTC
seven years young, always sharing a still smile.
You find him decked out and drowning in choir robes, with
Golden curls placed gently on a hammered head.
This boy plays piano in a dead sanctuary
Following familial rule,
until he let it all go.
the boy began playing music unwritten,
off hymnal sheets
Harmonious melodies stream from dancing fingertips,
Intrinsically clearing the once-cloudy air with vivacious voodoo.
The boy’s fingers groove up and down the piano,
His touch graces ivory keys and
His foot performs a rhythmic pedal-pressing tango.
He calls the audience: everywhere, eyes ignite like flame:
A communal headturn towards the piano.
They need more.
They crave it.
All the sanctuary people rise from the seats,
Abandon their pews, they enclose this boy.
No means to scare him, they want to experience.
The audience turns their ears towards the piano’s emissions,
Emanating from within
Inhaling soundwaves—
Intoxicatingly sweet.
They absorb his notes into every pore of their skin,
Fueling their bodies with musical nutrients.
Electric jolts flow right into the room’s extremities.
They let down their hair and begin to dance.
Until a brief noise, distinctive throat-clearing, came through the speakers;
Heads shifted to the podium, only to see their ticked-off pastor,
Smirking and waving sarcastically.
Discipline.
The congregation stumbled back to their seats.
The boy stopped playing.
Ending the enchantment, killing the sanctuary.
Air again filled with ‘God’s voice’
through the mouth of the speaker.
A speaker who just wanted attention.
The boy slipped out of the piano seat, out the church’s doors.
You want to chase after him, give him a ride
Where could the boy be going in the middle of the storm?
The pastor’s prodigal son.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
Listening to Mr. Noah,
you were like a child at play-time.
Lost in euphoria you never needed to explain.
I saw a lady today,
and for the first time in a long time,
I felt a love that wasn't ****** nor familial,
I learned a bit of friendship,
and was reminded of how much giving meant
when there was no obligation.
It's easy to not to worry when you don't feel
the need to understand.
Listening carefully to his voice exclaiming,
against funny beautiful instruments,
he is like a child at play-time,
worry-free, until the music stops.
Calmness that can be sadness when it ends.
When will you return to the cottage in my heart,
little child?
You play with what you mean to love,
feel sad when it's broken from a lack of care.
But you don't need to understand,
so you smile when the music starts up again.
You were like a little child.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
A delicate crimson rose endures
The snow and winds of winter's grasp
And closes up and wilts a while
Until Summer sun it finds at last
In this world of unrighteousness
Where brutes and ogres' egos roam
And selfishness abounds like weeds
She exists in shattered form
With silent seething disilusion
And saddened, unrequited love
Maddened by the unjust acts
of those who advertized their “love”
A vain and self-indulgent god
Did sieze himself her mind and oath
Presiding as the demons do
In hidden acts pronounced as gross
Enduring the madness of matriarchs
And the hostility of tribal gang
Where smiles of familial welcoming
Turned into savage, jealous fangs
Yet though the bitterness seeps through
And anger permeates her skin
Sweet dignity she still retains
And devotion stll resides within
Her adornment incorruptible
Her spirit mild and resolute
Did not return evil for evil
But stood and conquered it with good
Happy is she who has endured
And in mild subjection did remain
Showing honour to a painful degree
To bring honour to Jehovah's name
And though she stumbled in despair
Yet withstood for righteous sake
Her loyalty, the beast could not sever
Nor divine concsience could he break
For like the rose at winter's end
That bears a striking sharpened thorn
Her petals still are soft and pure
And her soul with beauty still adorned
For the righteous one who sees all things
And whose love she yet retains
Will never for eternity forget
The love she showed for his great name
And should she reach out and beseech
And trust his salvation once again
She would know with certainty
He has never let go her hand
(For my precious daughter, Cheryl, who has been to hell and back)
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
Lady from deepest dirt, deeper than the ocean, denser than Marianas Trench, speaks so proper, in a sweet subtle voice: “I do.”
Gentleman from highest sky, higher than the clouds, brighter than the morning star, speaks so assertive in a firm and quiet whisper: “I do.”
No hesitation in either of their voices, as always they give off the radiant atmospheric glow of love. In their lives, long lasting is his proposal, long lasting is her gaze.
The greatest of events is this wedding, greater than time itself.
He is a ‘gift from God’ to her, and he forever ‘excels’ to stay by with her.
He dreamt of her before, but never like this, she fantasized her wedding but never dreamt of him.
Can there be anything more right than the love of husband and wife?
Can there be anything more right than the pact they have formed?
Can there be any place more special than the familial bond?
If there is than by the magnitude of heaven, it should be destroyed.
Hope is so well-founded, faith is so assured, joy is so abundant, but love creates them all.
He never lost trust in her, she always felt rested in his arms.
Kisses always tenderly embraced, a long ogle at all times; every coming together.
He stands always ***** never bended to one knee, she understood as the love they share together was and is always never traditional.
They understand each other with little but a gaze, they care for so little else but their love.
No necessary dreams of the future anymore; fantasies are now their reality.
Dreams exist outside of the head: the nightmares will be fought together.
The dragon is far from slain, but together they ward it off as one.
One flesh, One soul, One mind, One heart, all fighting together.
The battle will be forever, but Love never fails.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:46 AM UTC
Horatio Alger is whispering his stories in my sleeping ear
painting me as a lowly street urchin
who conquers adversities and moral wildernesses
with only my wit, determination, and guts
and he is painting me as a phoenix of the new world
rising from ashes of banality and
the naturalized familial trappings of my past
a dirt road in the socioeconomic desert
carved out with care by the hands of forefathers I will never know
but Mr. Alger died a long while ago
and the sun inevitably rises
shattering the stained glass story of my rags turned riches
now the big men upstairs
jot me down as numbers on a chart
of consumption trends of millennials
Go to college
they say
make something of yourself
they say
you are all too entitled
they say
What went wrong
they say without a hint of contradiction
I am not equipped to say if the story of humanity
is a cycle or a downwards spiral
I am not equipped to say
that it is the job of every generation
to ensure that they clear the debris
from the path of their progeny
but I say it anyway
everybody want’s a trophy
because we were raised to believe that
everybody deserves a trophy
In the same breath they expect us
to take the puritanical mantle of the breadwinner
the frayed saddle of the noble western outlaw
the lethally honed sword of the entrepreneur
the martyr making cross of the socially conscious family man
and then wonder why we so willingly
give ourselves over to the currents
of apathy and passivity and masochistic narcissism
giving us guns and bullets with no idea how to shoot them
so instead we turn them into sculptures of modern art
and scream to the empty heavens
for just a hint of recognition
I can’t decide if history will forget us
or memorize the lyrics of our collective heart beats
but I have decided
to wake up from my American Dream
have decided
to forge my own reality
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
All the words of love are written,
To my darling, my lover, and best friend,
I am ravished by these thoughts of you,
From every sunrise 'til the day's end.
The day we met, our journey began,
But it began with the end of another.
We brought with us Philautia love,
Loving ourselves before each other.
Ludus makes us dance in the rain,
Like children who love to play.
We joke and tease and tickle,
And we'll be forever young this way.
Eros pulls my eyes in your direction,
Consuming your body with my mind.
Its passion joins our flesh,
And sends chills along my spine.
Philia opens our hearts to one another,
As our friendship blooms like flowers.
We share interests and even secrets,
And talks that go on for hours.
Pragma should take years to mature,
But instead of 'falling' in love we 'stood.'
We committed ourselves in a mere moment,
To forever love each other, we would.
Even Storge has a presence here,
In the eyes the children see you through.
This familial love makes this a home,
And is complete because of you.
And now I find myself in Agape,
A culmination of all of the above.
It is selflessness and sacrifice,
And it is the epitome of love.
All these words of love are written,
To my darling, my lover, and best friend.
I promise you this Agape love,
From now until this journey ends.
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 4:24 PM UTC
She ran to a land of summer and pink kimonos,
Where nurse sharks circled her ankles
And familiar familial flaws faded to vague memories of leather scented hugs.
She learned to walk dusty streets in bare feet, so she could hold the world in her toes,
Leaving crumpled dollars in the hands of beggars
Who saw her light skin as gold.
The cherry trees bathed her in petals soft enough to erase the scars that faded in the sun,
She learnt to run with her hair down and to eat kneeling at a table,
Rearranged her mind with the art of Feng Shui in an attempt to find a way to live away from the dictatorship of the past,
Collecting porous pebbles and lighting candles encircled in jade,
As old leather scents fade to incense and jasmine.
She strings lost stone on a necklace of wood and measures her life in the breaths to come instead of those she has taken.
Her heartbeat beats irregularly but no longer from fear and now adrenaline is synonymous with exhilaration.
And she holds sand in her palms,
No longer scrabbling to catch it as it falls through her fingers,
She now knows that life occurs between her hand and the ground.
She broke the hourglass because she no longer counts the hours
Or clings to the time that is gone.
She lives eternal and bright,
Clothed in sunlight
And a pink kimono.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 3:14 PM UTC
Mockery forcefully tiptoes her way beyond the barricades of fiction, and confronts populated dunes where ambiguous legs protrude.
Are you a prisoner in this proclaimed age of democracy?
The branches of the trees are still, as we avoid the precipice of calamity in the name of upright citizenship.
Therefore, walk with me along the crumbling castle walls and you will learn that there is a familial bond which lies beyond vain constructs of presumed superior architecture.
I know that it is an altered state of consciousness, so it is important to share your perspective because it is a prominent feature.
It is the memories of the living who are tortured by unspeakable possibilities.
Tickle me pink with choreography.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC