"guiltlessness" poems - Hello Poetry

Why am I called "white"? Why am I an absence of color To be associated with purity Flawless innocence A clean slate Why am I called "white" When I have the blood of monsters in my veins There is nothing immaculate about my heritage Simply from a lack of pigmentation My hair is braided with the ******* of masses My eyes see the broken lives of the oppressed My ears hear the echoes of homelands invaded And my hands hold the books with the historic lies enclosed Why am I called "white" Compared, as if, to the paper On which my people's crimes could be written Repeating so frequently with so many new victims But we are never called to justice And the cycle remains unbroken When we are addressed We stand up from our thrones, screaming "Unfair, cruel, why attack me?! I don't understand, what privilege do you see?!" We act like the victims, fed by the system And we eat it up with our metaphoric silver spoons Why am I called "white" I've been stained from the years of hatred Perpetuated by a people who claim guiltlessness Just because they are a newer generation What was once called subjugation Is now appropriation But both are used to deny culture and rights from nations But I won't sit by and prolong this delusion that we are any better Any more beautiful then any other one of God's creations

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Apr 24, 2015

Apr 24, 2015 at 5:52 AM UTC

mariah-l-wallace

"White"

Why am I called "white"? Why am I an absence of color To be associated with purity Flawless innocence A clean slate Why am I called "white" When I have the blood of monsters in my veins There is nothing immaculate about my heritage Simply from a lack of pigmentation My hair is braided with the ******* of masses My eyes see the broken lives of the oppressed My ears hear the echoes of homelands invaded And my hands hold the books with the historic lies enclosed Why am I called "white" Compared, as if, to the paper On which my people's crimes could be written Repeating so frequently with so many new victims But we are never called to justice And the cycle remains unbroken When we are addressed We stand up from our thrones, screaming "Unfair, cruel, why attack me?! I don't understand, what privilege do you see?!" We act like the victims, fed by the system And we eat it up with our metaphoric silver spoons Why am I called "white" I've been stained from the years of hatred Perpetuated by a people who claim guiltlessness Just because they are a newer generation What was once called subjugation Is now appropriation But both are used to deny culture and rights from nations But I won't sit by and prolong this delusion that we are any better Any more beautiful then any other one of God's creations

34

Rapturous and overjoyed with the prospect of bridging innocence into essence. Preparations and organisations as the raw love and affection fill your aura. Guiltlessness chastity swells and animates inside the womb. A blank page ready to embark on life, never before experienced the sensations that should follow. The words don’t reach the blissful state of mind at first. Realising the reality of the dreadful situation collapsing into an abyss of hate. The once shinning beacon of life and innocence lost into inanimacy. Still birth is no option; stress and depression are ripping the edges of the soul. Crumbling like stale bread, horrid and sadistic thoughts begin to bloom like mould. The structure of everything positive begins to decompose like the departed carcass inside. Rid of the tiny dead beast that has caused such pain. The hatred begins to mingle with the guilt and the shame. The specialists give negative reactions towards the longing for detachment. Bad they say, recovery is essential now, detachment is the later. As you arrive into the kitchen, the harsh taste of alcohol lingers in your worthless mouth. Neither God, nor the devil will grant forgiveness for what happened next. The half shattered bottle of poisonous alcohol embedded in the belly. The tiny lifeless carcass still not quite developed lay peacefully on the ground. Broken but departed the doctors were right. Twisting the bloodied bottle to the jugular the eyes close. From love to death the pattern will follow. The mercy of above is non-existent. The heart stops. Life ceases. By Joseph Burns

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Jun 25, 2013

Jun 25, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC

joseph-harry-burns

Innocence Lost To Death

Rapturous and overjoyed with the prospect of bridging innocence into essence. Preparations and organisations as the raw love and affection fill your aura. Guiltlessness chastity swells and animates inside the womb. A blank page ready to embark on life, never before experienced the sensations that should follow. The words don’t reach the blissful state of mind at first. Realising the reality of the dreadful situation collapsing into an abyss of hate. The once shinning beacon of life and innocence lost into inanimacy. Still birth is no option; stress and depression are ripping the edges of the soul. Crumbling like stale bread, horrid and sadistic thoughts begin to bloom like mould. The structure of everything positive begins to decompose like the departed carcass inside. Rid of the tiny dead beast that has caused such pain. The hatred begins to mingle with the guilt and the shame. The specialists give negative reactions towards the longing for detachment. Bad they say, recovery is essential now, detachment is the later. As you arrive into the kitchen, the harsh taste of alcohol lingers in your worthless mouth. Neither God, nor the devil will grant forgiveness for what happened next. The half shattered bottle of poisonous alcohol embedded in the belly. The tiny lifeless carcass still not quite developed lay peacefully on the ground. Broken but departed the doctors were right. Twisting the bloodied bottle to the jugular the eyes close. From love to death the pattern will follow. The mercy of above is non-existent. The heart stops. Life ceases. By Joseph Burns

3

I kept a quarter in a drawer next to my bed for when I made decisions that hurt my head where each choice came at great cost to my sanity so I flipped a quarter to cheapen the price to twenty-five cents and I said it's just common sense keeping innocence but it's ignorance and guiltlessness that I wanted for me. When a quarter felt too heavy I moved on to a dime because it was lighter than its cost and fit my indecisive crime but I find I tossed it too high and couldn't always catch it so it clattered to the floor and rolled beneath my dresser and maybe if I left it there, my decision-making stressor would disappear like the dime then I could quit Yet decisions kept on coming and so a nickel would have to do five-cent choices should be worth less than dimes too and yet again, I couldn't bear the weight of my choice. So instead I flipped two pennies, to get my two cents in. One landed heads, the other tails, and I still have a decision. I can't keep flipping coins to replace my voice. My treasure trove of choices worth less than the ones before because they're all plastic, made so I don't have to endure the weight of cost so I selfishly kept on flipping all these coins and kept on wishing they would never land. Fifty-fifty, leave my choice to chance, take it out of my hand. If my coins never land, then my decisions cost me nothing.

0

Jun 10, 2020

Jun 10, 2020 at 10:02 AM UTC

tatiana

Coin-Flipper

I kept a quarter in a drawer next to my bed for when I made decisions that hurt my head where each choice came at great cost to my sanity so I flipped a quarter to cheapen the price to twenty-five cents and I said it's just common sense keeping innocence but it's ignorance and guiltlessness that I wanted for me. When a quarter felt too heavy I moved on to a dime because it was lighter than its cost and fit my indecisive crime but I find I tossed it too high and couldn't always catch it so it clattered to the floor and rolled beneath my dresser and maybe if I left it there, my decision-making stressor would disappear like the dime then I could quit Yet decisions kept on coming and so a nickel would have to do five-cent choices should be worth less than dimes too and yet again, I couldn't bear the weight of my choice. So instead I flipped two pennies, to get my two cents in. One landed heads, the other tails, and I still have a decision. I can't keep flipping coins to replace my voice. My treasure trove of choices worth less than the ones before because they're all plastic, made so I don't have to endure the weight of cost so I selfishly kept on flipping all these coins and kept on wishing they would never land. Fifty-fifty, leave my choice to chance, take it out of my hand. If my coins never land, then my decisions cost me nothing.

24

The glow of the florescent lights, In the dingy bar, Beer-spilt jeans with the day’s shopping. I look for your eyes and only see black. The glow of the moment, That lasted for the first few times. The spark, the light, the eternal radiance. When there was laughter in our voices, A spring in our gait. Everything was new, everything fresh. Just like the first summer breeze. The echoes of escape within me. The wanting, to let go. Why hold on? When it was never meant to be. In the glow of these candles, Burnt and low, Crackling merrily without a care. Of the and that is near. Look up to the stars in the heavens, There is no struggle. It is as simple as dropping the ***** coin, Into the puddle below. I perch on the edge, Looking down in the darkness, I search your face for that look, which says, "I know". The glow of your eyes, The truth and the guiltlessness. Why did you believe me? While I was only playing a game. I had made a perfect bed. In your arms. I glowed in your love, Basked in your attention. Now I need to let it go, without any regrets. My persistent internal struggle, The internal fire inside of me. I can’t risk being with you, Just to forget who I really am. I'll find it again, the day after tomorrow, not exactly, but between the now and then. The creeping cracks of time heals all. While I hold a white flag,and forget you the glow will return again.

0

Nov 22, 2010

Nov 22, 2010 at 1:01 AM UTC

harshita

Glow

The glow of the florescent lights, In the dingy bar, Beer-spilt jeans with the day’s shopping. I look for your eyes and only see black. The glow of the moment, That lasted for the first few times. The spark, the light, the eternal radiance. When there was laughter in our voices, A spring in our gait. Everything was new, everything fresh. Just like the first summer breeze. The echoes of escape within me. The wanting, to let go. Why hold on? When it was never meant to be. In the glow of these candles, Burnt and low, Crackling merrily without a care. Of the and that is near. Look up to the stars in the heavens, There is no struggle. It is as simple as dropping the ***** coin, Into the puddle below. I perch on the edge, Looking down in the darkness, I search your face for that look, which says, "I know". The glow of your eyes, The truth and the guiltlessness. Why did you believe me? While I was only playing a game. I had made a perfect bed. In your arms. I glowed in your love, Basked in your attention. Now I need to let it go, without any regrets. My persistent internal struggle, The internal fire inside of me. I can’t risk being with you, Just to forget who I really am. I'll find it again, the day after tomorrow, not exactly, but between the now and then. The creeping cracks of time heals all. While I hold a white flag,and forget you the glow will return again.

46

Guiltlessness Swallowed my pride and chased it with scotch I’m here to collect my belongings Hungry foxes Emaciated Crawling into the hen house Built this stress Out of bricks of procrastination Boards of uninterest Blocks of hesitation Go forth, don’t forget your pen and paper It’s either now or later Trusting rivers The earth is moving While I unleash truths from a cigar box Contemplate Answering the questions That you were too afraid to ask Go back, and rewrite the letter It’s either then or never

0

Mar 19, 2014

Mar 19, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC

tommy-johnson

In Motion

Guiltlessness Swallowed my pride and chased it with scotch I’m here to collect my belongings Hungry foxes Emaciated Crawling into the hen house Built this stress Out of bricks of procrastination Boards of uninterest Blocks of hesitation Go forth, don’t forget your pen and paper It’s either now or later Trusting rivers The earth is moving While I unleash truths from a cigar box Contemplate Answering the questions That you were too afraid to ask Go back, and rewrite the letter It’s either then or never

20

A Poem For All The Publishers Who Say “No Poetry” I’ve looked it up a million times – (a little bit of overstatement never hurts) I think in meter, think in rhyme. It suits my temperament. Reverts To chimes of nursery rhymes Instinctive in us all – This call to childhood’s guiltlessness. Yet publishers of good repute Refute this claim And to their shame, Their snobbish, profiteering shame, Say No to poetry. We should attack! Abundant in attractiveness are we. Ever clever, disciplined; Deep, reflecting all reality: And yet they say, “NO POETRY, DO NOT SEND POETRY”. Refused, rejected Are we bards dejected? Never! We go on forever, Eager in our hunger. While you publishers go under, We are there, bad, corny, muted, Understated and astut-ed; Couplets, meters, forms abstract, Highbrow, lowbrow, autodidact: Rumbling on like thunder. A Poem For All You Publishers Who Say “No Poetry” 12.21.2016 A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Our Times, Our Culture II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Corwin

0

Dec 21, 2016

Dec 21, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC

arlene-corwin

A Poem For All You Publishers Who Say "No Poetry"

A Poem For All The Publishers Who Say “No Poetry” I’ve looked it up a million times – (a little bit of overstatement never hurts) I think in meter, think in rhyme. It suits my temperament. Reverts To chimes of nursery rhymes Instinctive in us all – This call to childhood’s guiltlessness. Yet publishers of good repute Refute this claim And to their shame, Their snobbish, profiteering shame, Say No to poetry. We should attack! Abundant in attractiveness are we. Ever clever, disciplined; Deep, reflecting all reality: And yet they say, “NO POETRY, DO NOT SEND POETRY”. Refused, rejected Are we bards dejected? Never! We go on forever, Eager in our hunger. While you publishers go under, We are there, bad, corny, muted, Understated and astut-ed; Couplets, meters, forms abstract, Highbrow, lowbrow, autodidact: Rumbling on like thunder. A Poem For All You Publishers Who Say “No Poetry” 12.21.2016 A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Our Times, Our Culture II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Corwin

33

Drink responsibly: don’t spill it. They said what doesn’t **** us makes us stronger. I guess I was strong enough to overcome the idea of ending my life haunting me like a predator clawing its way through the rubble of my conscious belief that life indeed is a gift so precious, I don’t think I deserve having. They said a half truth is a whole lie. The truth is I am half afraid of dying and half afraid of living for I haven’t figured out which is worse: living or leaving the ones I care about. So I resorted to drinking as a sort of escape from this catastrophe. They said suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I say alcohol is a temporary solution to a permanent problem. Intoxication is the best antidote to pain, lost in space grasping, babbling words. It disconnects us from ourselves momentarily. They said numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you actually feel it. but what is more rewarding than the fleeting sensation of happiness, of guiltlessness, of chastity from caring and crying, loving and trying? Waking up with a blinding headache.

0

Nov 8, 2017

Nov 8, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC

maine-dela-cruz

Sometimes Suicidal, Mostly *****

Drink responsibly: don’t spill it. They said what doesn’t **** us makes us stronger. I guess I was strong enough to overcome the idea of ending my life haunting me like a predator clawing its way through the rubble of my conscious belief that life indeed is a gift so precious, I don’t think I deserve having. They said a half truth is a whole lie. The truth is I am half afraid of dying and half afraid of living for I haven’t figured out which is worse: living or leaving the ones I care about. So I resorted to drinking as a sort of escape from this catastrophe. They said suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I say alcohol is a temporary solution to a permanent problem. Intoxication is the best antidote to pain, lost in space grasping, babbling words. It disconnects us from ourselves momentarily. They said numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you actually feel it. but what is more rewarding than the fleeting sensation of happiness, of guiltlessness, of chastity from caring and crying, loving and trying? Waking up with a blinding headache.

50