"illustrates" poems
Guns and more guns need to be put down
Bullets should be replaced with education being the sound
It’s time to become a success
Yet it’s up to our young people to put that to the test
Their testimony surrounding confess
Everyone has capabilities to learn
However, one must adapt to theories forming concepts
Imagine having a college degree for all to see
Having confident being your own decree
The movement of action in making education what it should be
A mind is a terrible thing to waste
But the key is to make education your base
Former President Barack Obama had the right idea, “You Can”
But the new continued motto, “You shall Until”
A young man at a United ***** College Fund Raiser said this vital point, “Blacker the college Sweeter the education”
Education being the unity, but bring back to the community
Determination in step out and explore
Seeing one’s horizon but beyond the shore
A college education is an opportunity being a chance
Knowing the theories is how one will advance
Higher Education means being one step ahead
But the opposition wants minds to be misled
Prove to yourself what education can do for you
It’s a journey being a must to go through
Achievers such as Dr. Martin Luther King, Medgar Evers, Dr. Maya Angelou and scores of others
They instilled the passion in how to achieve, and determined education was what they were going to receive
They were ready no matter what
Fasten your educational seat belt as you will be taking off into Higher Learning Institutions in education beyond measure
Education is, but hold tight to the learning saddle
It might seem like a battle
But the end rewards is succeed
Slavery that was while be came destined for education now
One word leads to a complete sentence
One’s thoughts illustrates the understanding
Adaptability of the concepts gained
Long lasting knowledge is what will remain
UNCF philosophy, “A mind is a terrible thing to waste”
But the mind must be ready to spiral and absorb
But education and knowledge work all accord.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
you told me
to write down my feelings
and share them with you
when you wake up,
but drawing out these emotions
isn’t easy because
they’re pale and indefinite
i cannot distinguish
a path to take,
whether it’s winding
or cobblestoned,
or so overgrown with trees
that i cannot see the sky
so maybe in the meantime
i’ll sit in my room
and fold paper cranes
on rainy days
till a map that illustrates
how to carry on
makes its way
into my muddled hands
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
Something about the woven leather
Reminds me of sandals you once wore,
In the garden enjoying the sun.
Your shorts and that old cotton vest
the one that was probably once white,
but Nanny wasn't around to do your whites anymore,
and so it grew greyer as your hair grew whiter.
The sun's rays danced through the waves of your hair
and into the garden,
Filling it with light, shining down upon plastic flowers planted among coloured stones.
Smells of stale cakes from bargain stalls and the sugar from flat lemonade in murky cups wafted out the back door and clashed with that overpowering cooking smell as you sat in your sun lounger and baked yourself in vegetable oil, cooking your Irish skin to a crisp!
The flower patterns of your walls in the garden and cast iron patio furniture,
The plastic mat that covered the carpet and always managed to trip us,
The halogen heater in the parlour and blanket on your knees,
The clumps of bullseye sweets in your locker and Quality Street tin of empty wrappers,
The damp and stale smells of the kitchen in your care,
The holy pictures and moving Jesus on the stairs,
The bath marbles we loved to play with and how they'd smash upon collision,
And the pink, silk quilt that enveloped your bed,
They're all pieces in the mosaic that illustrates your memory now and they'll never be broken.
I've glued them so tightly together it's as strong as your jaw!
Your jaw, always known to make eyes water when you'd turn during a goodbye kiss on your cheek and crush our noses! Even when we tried to approach with caution! But oh what anyone of us wouldn't give to feel that again, just to say goodbye and think we'd be over to the Bluebell to see you again.
So now I sit and look at the woven leather on my sandals and remember all the details, all the memories that are woven together to make you. Sometimes I wish I could click the heels together.
Bluebell
Bluebell
Bluebell
And be back in that garden, once more.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC
A place in which I know nothing about, an unknown world
A world unlike any I have ever known to exist, an opposite of this reality
A place only to be traveled to by deep sleep or sweet reverie
A world of pure innocence and raw creativity, a world of adventure and fantasy
A place where you can fly into the cosmos
And soar through the universe until you become nothing but sparkling stardust
A realm where blood isn't pumping through your veins, but rather what flows through is stardust
A world within a world
A realm where physicalities are meaningless and existence lies within the cosmos
A world that causes you to question your own rendition of the word "reality"
A realm that both defines and illustrates the meaning of the word "fantasy"
And is inherently bigger than any one dream or reverie
Something like that of an endless reverie
A myriad of universes and ever-glowing stardust
Something like that of an endless fantasy
A myriad of imaginings and an ever-growing illusory world
Something like that of a castle in the sky, nothing like that of harsh reality
A myriad of thoughts that turn into pictures and skies that turn into the cosmos
Have you ever journeyed into the cosmos?
Through shut eyes and intense dreaming or through glassy eyes and pleasant reverie?
Have you ever left this reality?
Joined the entities of another realm, disintegrated into the galaxy and became stardust?
Have you ever traveled to another world?
Became another entity, fully embraced a potent fantasy?
I wish to travel to this place and immerse myself in the fantasy
I want to become one with the cosmos
And escape the physical world
I wish to travel to this place and immerse myself in the reverie
I want to become one with the universe through the merging of our inner reaching stardust
And escape this tugging reality
Nothing is more terrifying or confining than what I know as reality
Nothing is more appealing or liberating than what I know as fantasy
I am a soul and I am stardust
I am the universe and I am the cosmos
I am a dream and a reverie
All within a world outside of a world
A place existing outside the lines of reality, a place within easy reach of the cosmos
A world born unto fantasy, a world fueled through reverie
A realm overpowered by stardust, a realm that is not of this world
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
The solid color of blue
An assortment of color with enhancement of tone
Seeing the true blue you have never known
Look straight up at the cloudless skies and observe the blue in how it’s shown
A background of blue in what it creates
Now add another shade to blue and see what it illustrates
You will see a totally different style
This was all during while
Blue staring you in the face
The contrast that you can’t erase
It’s the blue that illumines with might
The color blue being well seen in sight
It’s the same blue that stands out bright
Then with another added shade that will simply excite.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
allocation of supreme alliteration illustrates perpetual contemplation and concentration that dictates a maligned mastication of federal incarceration of elongated complementary probation leaving you cuffed and based on baseless accusations conducted in aboriginal abbreviations masked task force concluding a course of brevity conducted in coordination then coordinating and copulating condemnation for a homeostasis of thought bought scolded eroded and shot inefficacy perpetrating cultural holocaust irrelevance somersaults galactic static of mathematical bombastic smack addict glued shut in a craft attic floral resurrection gartered section of ****** selection she moves fluid through unaltered perfection of cosmic bypass past the point of extemporaneous infinitude reciprocating fortitude of sinews congregating fabricating visuals of vitality soldering axonal membranes on the cerebellum and cortex simulation of sensual vortex demented fusion more blessed I am that which stands to understand the incomprehensible unconsidered options of racial conflicts the screaming round of unaltered copper fiber severing life from the living only now can we debunk the years
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
Bleached walls, and incandescent lights
The mind illustrates it’s own world
With dreams, desires and abstractions
What it wants, but can never have
Droned out vocalization, and exaggerated sighs
The mind fills in the gaps
With chatter, remarks and laughs
What it wants, but can never have
Concrete floors, and tiled ceilings
The mind creates it’s own scenery
With grasses, mosses and trees
What it wants, but can never have
Constant progression, and flooded walkways
The mind orchestrates it’s own utopia
With sunshine, breeze and cloudless skies
What it wants, but can never have
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
Busy streets of China town,
busy folks with their heads down
busy people blowing cigarette smoke.
We'll sneak past the man
and run as fast as we can
to hop on the train because we're broke.
You're sat next to a crazy
and though this Sunday should be lazy,
we've taken on another task.
You shelter me away from the homeless,
but we're too ignorant to notice
the irony as we drink from a flask.
Too young to not be reckless,
but too old to be this senseless
when it comes to ignoring the label
that illustrates blackened lungs and hearts
Still, we ask strangers for darts
to get the cheapest high available.
They say the human world is a mess,
but we'll accept nothing less
than all the adventure life has to share.
Obsessed with our youth,
unsure of the truth
but too madly in love to care.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
the unattainable girl in cotton dress with her untouched hands
her perfections body and soul are store purchased at trending boutiques
she illustrates the room into vivid colour with her casual presence
she becomes the motion in the still life drawing you live
she is the utterance of everything to be attained by dreaming
by hope
for you
the unattainable
she leads you through the broken gate
a backyard overgrown and
past the rusting skeleton of a child's swing set
night has rendered it life
and it looms large in the minds eye with terrible
wrath for its cheated years
inside the bare room
streetlight filtered by the boarded up window
sound is muffled in here
her voice strangely stagnant and heavy
as she clumsily removes her shirt
laughing a small embarrassed laugh
so unlike her cool and convincing hardcase appearance
the two of you rest a few hours cupped in eachothers arms
till daylight leeches your sleepyheads of dreams
but the tattered cover of your romance novel
is by no means a feat of strung out fairy's on a mission to condemn
they only want recompense for the time they spent wrapped in the
soiled leather sheets entertaining some middle aged naked man
and his sole desire to be pretty
she sees all this
she sits in the dry corner
eyes wide but unseeing
a song of terrors paused on her lips
the reality's of reality has not yet sunk in
but its soft spoken voice is whispering to her now
it sets its christmas card well wishes on her mantle
it lays its warm gifts on her bed
careworn toys of her bitter embraces
sit in the grey snow abandoned like her lovers
now that she found her nirvana
she will spend her days
in hard red leather and fishnet
plying the flesh pots and the mystery's exposed of naughty naughty
the unattainable girl is just a photograph now
one dimensional image of a four dimensional demon girl
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
My Poet:
*tho evening draws nigh,
on this our wedding day,
the stars, guardians of our canopy,
reminder twinkle it can never be
fully complete, for you always make
a moment in time for me,
today we wait, synchronizing seconds
until both pronounce,
I do
let my hands,
in my tenderest embracing grasp,
perforce, when I hold you face,
still cannot hold your entirety,
for you always make and leave a space
for me to seal our universe
today, you need me to fill you,
so together, ever forward,
we will define and explore
the edges of our redrawn,
now, single unified line,
our ever expanding contiguous boundary
our blood is not commingled
but when our bodies unified,
the physics of our conjoining,
illustrates that those in our
surround of time and space,
in the aura we create,
not so very great,
and yet our oneness
'tis a shining upon the countenance of our place,
a luminous emittance upon this earth
when you write your poetry,
it always finishes with me,
I am the native child of thy words,
I am the filament webbing
illuminating the spaces between each line
but more than this,
I am your beginning,
you are my destination,
together we make,
The End
they ask me to vow,
demand I swear, make promises,
certify, preserve, record and store
the solemnity of this marriage born,
in ledgers of the city,
before an invisible god
I eschew all this
for nothing in life
ever guaranteed by words secured,
but this I know true*
My Poet:
*what I shall give to you,
and you to us,
cannot be spoke,
the words, not yet,
have we originated
for each day
will we compose anew,
each day, shall be
a new combination
under new stars,
our canopy unfolded,
our joining sanctified,
by the simple truth of us*
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
I need to write a poem about a ***** cell
something that illustrates
the magnitude
of existence, specifically
.5 our origin.
This poem should pluck heart strings,
our strum like violin (redundant?)
as that’s what good poems do,
and we are emotionally wired
from birth to death.
During conception
our parents were not thinking about us (though
God was, and his warmth
is warmer than the womb
or Sun) and that brings us to the pleasure
the stimuli integrated
within the net
mesh pocket of living organisms.
What strokes a heart? Not a violin,
no, empathy, understanding, the saliva
of love and lust and passion, so much to
discuss, so many images
to muster into paper.
Do you see the futility in this?
**** this poem,
this poem is not important.
You are the individual that rocked the chances of time and genetics!
You are the individual that mastered death with breath!
You are known before birth and post mortem,
as there is transcendence beyond
that ancient brain of yours, dear reader.
There were billions of potential combinations
of ***** and egg, and you
are the ***** fish caught,
and you
are the one bathed
and you
are one of ***** suds.
Your rituals of wallets and currency,
your miss-personifications of love,
all irrelevant.
You are only known whole-ly by God
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
My birthday is today
Seventeen years since another Sunday at 9 AM
On top of a mountain called Ozark
In a land that reminded me of Harry Potter
Called Pettigrew like Peter
It's forests elicited sprites and daddy long legs
Made of me a changeling then spit me back out
I learned what real ice tea was at the age of three
It was my birthday
Doing Pirouettes on my aunts Patio
Again, under Arkansas stars
With faery lights leading my way
I ascended to the brush behind the house
Got lost in the greens and browns of paradise's supply
Returned with flesh painted the colour of love
In an apartment overlooking crab apple trees
Fresh Canadian foliage fostering a well concealed creek
On a 90 degree angle over a dark chocolate cake
My ninth birthday
I drank pickle juice because Vinny said it was limonade
I wore dresses that year
And coveted baskets filled to brim with blossoms
Baked the crab apples into a pie
But preferred mama's banana cream
I wore bandages on my arms
and grass stains on my knees
My tears washed away like Crayola markers
And my biggest inner questions had to do
With what was for breakfast
And the lifespan of a temporary tattoos
14 came with a big black bow
Done up gaudily in greys with a sad little smile
Three years marked with pink splotches and lines
A subject to hormones and arsenic tones
My birthday
A celebration of decay
And mama still sang, and baked, and kissed my face
And didn't wake when I placed cotton ***** in her ears
Because I was a happy girl
Today is my birthday
And mama exclaims
"No more babies! All four of you are so grown!"
But the mirror still illustrates an odd little show
With a baby face
A girls chest
And a womans hips
An ordinary freak all stitched up
Awkward and too much of everything
But not enough all the same
And inside I know
Is a sea of paradoxical Samanthas
Some stubborn and loud
Some shy and reserved
All with changes to make
Books to read
And places to go
And only few that are quite wanting yet
To be 17
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
*"More squirrels"
She exclaims
And I wonder what
In the world
Could it be
This particular time!?*
It usually starts like this...
Every once in a while
I find her
Lost
In her own thoughts
Gazing
At nothing in particular
But everything
At once.
At times
Like these
She is a genius
Gone crazy.
I catch a glimpse
Of those star-bound eyes
And try
To guess
The stride
Of her imagination
Without
Much luck.
Could she be thinking about…
A universe made entirely out of glass?
Why humans don’t have a tail
Anymore?
Reasons behind love at first sight?
Or what to name the 3rd butterfly
She saw today?
In her picture perfect
Stillness
I can viscerally sense
A divine flow
Of thoughts
And it evokes in me
The wonder
That one experiences
While watching
A calm river flow
Knowing
Turbulent currents
Are ever present
Just hidden
Deep inside.
If I
Shake her vigorously
I know for sure
At least 23 ideas
And 47 musings
Will fall around
And we will
laugh hilariously.
But I dare not
For the fear
Of my life.
She is an artist
Painting
With her imagination
And you
Don't disturb artists
Do you?
Once she’s back
To the material realm
She comments
Randomly
About how we need
More squirrels
In the world.
I almost always
Immediately concur.
Then slowly ask
“why?”.
She gives me
One of those looks.
Like the ones
You give your dog
When it’s looking
At you eating food
And you’re deciding
If you should
Give it a small bit
Or not.
If I am
persistent enough
She gathers
All her thoughts
And illustrates
With one of the most
Amazing stories
The important role
Of squirrels
To save our
Doomed world.
After listening
To her
Seemingly logical
And
Completely weird
Stories
I nod obediently
Then carefully
Check
If her coffee
Has something mixed in it.
The gesture
Makes her
Burst out in laughter
Every single time.
And we repeat this
Day after day
Night after night.
I'm so used to it
That now
Even if I hear
"Cement flowers"
"popcorn candies"
Or
"balloon bullets"
I am mentally prepared
To understand
The story
Behind all of it.
That’s how it is.
She keeps daydreaming
About stuff
And I keep dreaming
about her.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
The low cloud above the hill
Would cling to the top of the tallest tree,
And yet no memory of us
Would cling to me the way nature illustrates.
Not forgetfulness, my love.
Not out of spite, my dear.
Just a watercolor of the way we were.
And don't lie, we weren't happy.
Those days where we sat in front of a konbini,
Long after-school after-noons,
Ended far too soon.
Ended far too quiet.
You would stare, stare, stare a storm.
A tempest that I could not see despite examining you for a lifetime.
They said we looked perfect together.
But you never looked at me the way you would the distance.
So instead the distance stood in between me and you,
Kota.
I was so ready to love you.
But we bit off more than we could chew.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 2:42 AM UTC
"I don't want you to think I'm racist. I love black people! I just hate *******
Now, you will not believe how many people have said this to my face.
That they smile, thinking themselves so eloquent and clever,
Illustrates a problem to me much larger than the hatred of a race.
My tongue stays. I wouldn't want my "angry ****** to show her teeth.
She would ask if the color or the speech or the level of poverty made the black,
Or the ****** or the ***** or the **** or monkey or beast.
She may be eloquent and clever herself, but those white ears would never hear that.
We are conditioned to be blind and deaf and loudly ignorant to reality.
The rich and powerful have made us starkly numb to our own folly and pride,
So that we may believe ourselves to be indignant most righteously,
While we unconsciously hate all that is different, opposed, other, outside.
But I will be the same human with all my eloquence and cleverness, pride and folly,
Whether I am seen as "black" or ****** or maybe simply just "Cydney"
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 6:24 PM UTC
Hovering along the river.
A sacred water nourished by water lilies.
The sun kissing each petal evaporating the translucent water drops.
Visiting each lotus, wisdom lies in this pond.
Admiring the serenity and beauty each flower illustrates.
Gaze altered by darkness below.
Discovering the river’s bottom.
The complexity of each flower hides beneath the surface.
Countless lilies firmly rooted in dampened mud.
These magnificent flowers stem from malevolence.
Exploration of each lotus consumed by shadows.
These abused souls have endured untold suffering.
Resurfaced from unbearable knowledge.
Appreciating the resilience of this water garden.
The buds that persisted despite horrific surroundings.
Examining this pond of loti, praising their bloom.
A water of survivors.
Radiance of inspiration.
© Jl 2015
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
The poet is the artist
Who illustrates what others feel
He paints his words
On canvas
For the audience
To reveal
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
*the sun streams down broken by the leaves
and my head sketches romance novels out of the patches of blue sky
that she illustrates with her pleasures,
she weaves a life out of the pure love that she feels
sometimes its pattern of shadows dance with a passing breeze,
sometimes its the harbor lights as a ship slips away out to sea.
she rests her cheek against her arm,
letting her soft brown hair spill loose
cascading down in a strawberry scented river*
lined with lilacs and lilies,
swaying in time to the beat of her heart
she looks to me;
she looks right through me.
Sometimes it's in the cardinal's call echoing through still woods;
sometimes it's in starlight that glitters across rain-wet city streets.
She blinks her eyes,
her mouth moving into a smile;
she speaks, letting every lovely syllable trickle from between kissable lips,
soft, caressing words,
finding their way to the clouds.
*she rises moving into the evening...
letting each supple line of her form be the subject for novellas of desire,
letting her every motion and gesture in my presence
be her love letters to me...
her tender thoughts of our love affair
and of our moments of sharing our very souls
have become her joy which shines from within,
sometimes like cool moonlight on a summer eve in each others passionate arms
sometimes like the laughing abandon in loves playful embrace.*
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:16 AM UTC
I love the number three
In all its numerology.
The universe,
Yes, every atom
Builds paragons,
With protons and
ons and ons...
Three illustrates our progression
As the sum of all before.
Our music finds accord
When three notes
Blend to chord.
Love and all we deem
Of worth,
Is here,
Third planet,
Earth,
Where life gives birth
To you and I and us,
Dependant on
Animal, ore and vegetation
To ensure regeneration.
We grew, grow and nurture
In past, present and future.
Our words, thoughts and deeds
Are civilization's seeds
For a wholesome, safe and peaceful life
With Faith, Hope and Charity.
My favourite three priorities:
Andrea, Maggie and Kathleen.
Now,
With the birth of Aine,
I'm in love with four.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Your beauty in relation to how warm you make me feel; however, remind me of the reddish-pink sun that illustrates the skies when the air quality is terrible... I want you but I don't need you
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
Dripping inks from a dreamer's quill
Trembling tip illustrates a scribbled script
Weary sheets capturing an innocence guilt
Corners not spared for a timeless trip
Walking in reverse replaying all skits
Sorting out smiles from the grimeless grins
Missing a delicate frowned is a vital bit
Expressions throned from denying wins
Drifting words marking of flamboyant speech
Passing judgement even before the trial begins
Anonymous decision narrowing countless ditch
Where should we go now?
Or what should be seen?
Visionary or idealist repelling reality's keep
Spinning ticks as the grandfather clock dings
The journey sails even when our eyelids peep
Lights now shining while we recounting sheeps
Reality is knocking so now just let our
Fantasy breathes
@2014 Maman Screams
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
§
So many beautiful
Wasted words,
that die unconsumed
or else we eat our own meals
In shame,
or throw them out in disgust,
Why keep a log of failures
when the redundancy of its content
only illustrates our foolishness.
Worshipping *** and violence as dark gods
because we are all excitation driven animals.
We fail to comprehend the divinity of these acts.
A merging of twin energies, such as these
creates wild vortexs of contrary paradoxes,
overwhelming conundrums of need and desire.
We beg for destruction,
for we know that the longing can only be dulled,
the aching throb creeps along our day,
seeping in to enslave us in this cage.
In the horrific spiraling mania,
hands reach out, but loving arms are torn apart,
with declarations of desire and dedication
being shredded and scattered to whirlwind.
Long ago, I said this, with a foul mouth,
and you deserved so much better,
So I will say it again, so that perhaps this time
it will adhere to your mind, and fuse with your spine...
You are beautiful in the mirrors of my eyes,
and I carry your image stapled to my brain,
with the words
I love you,
carved into my frontal lobe
with a ceramic knife,
forged out of the powdered bones
of our failures.
Our victory lies
in knowing that our restless lips
await each other with all the patience they can muster
until I am able to touch you
and draw you to me,
so that I can pull forth
the divinity inside of you,
and merge it with mine
in a maelstrom of *** and violence.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC
I adore everything about you.
And I hate that I do.
Because it makes everything harder.
It makes me shake.
I can't even write a euphonious poem anymore because the thoughts in my mind are no longer so.
You're absolutely everything to me, yet, in all honesty, you're nothing.
It's that slightly shorter tooth.
It's that dimple in your chin.
It's that smirk I know you make when you like something I say.
It's when you said you'd like to steal my lips.
It's that moment when you said you'd dream of me after I sang for you.
It's that time you said my skin drives you mad when you think about it.
It's how you're the only one who knows about the hidden devil.
It's about how you love the way my tongue illustrates words bewilderingly so.
It's the way you want my mind just as much as my body.
It's about how you love dinosaurs and your dog.
It's the way you message me 4:00 in the morning with only a heart and a smiley face.
It's how I would do absolutely anything for you.
Like a drug, how I would sell my soul for just one more hit.
It's a lie, when I tell myself I love someone else.
It's the truth, when I say I would wait my whole life loving and waiting just for you.
It's how I pour my heart out this way,
Knowing,
I can never have you.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
I’ll always be the poet but never the muse and very rarely is there an inkling for anybody to wonder about me as I splash ink across blank pages, amid the sheer chaos of sorrow and tranquil solitude.
For somebody to feel each character, pulsing through their veins, losing their breath as I run through their minds with heavy hands and fingers that twitch in the same way that mine do.
With emotions like an ocean that I can no longer mute or the sharp edge on the tip of my tongue that bleeds every last syllable that echoes silently, the ball-point tip that illustrates each pronunciation that slices through paper like a blade.
Nobody has ever twisted my name between metaphors in the same slight manner that I do theirs or felt the lyrics to a love song coursing through their body. I’m never the topic of choice but rather the broken genius behind hidden artifacts. Always the antagonist but never quite the protagonist.
She who shall not be named, the unmentionable mystery that crafts paragraphs from concepts, the storyteller but never the topic, building herself upon beginnings and endings.
I’ll always be the poet but never the muse, pouring out my guarded heart and offering a glass to whoever will listen.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Some will sell you out
For a dollar
Some will sell you out
For free
Some will sell you out
For the hell of it
Cuz they hate themselves
Ya see
She said we don’t need
A month for Black History
And we don’t need channels
Like BET
Simply American
Is what we should be
Wish that were the way
That they treated me
Some will sell you out
For a dollar
Some will sell you out
For free
Some will sell you out
For the hell of it
Cuz they hate themselves
Ya see
There shouldn’t be
An N double A CP Image Awards
Because according to her
That only affords
Black people honors
While whites get ignored
Which isn’t the case
She can rest well assured
I’d like to believe
My country is for me
What the song says it is
Sweet land of liberty
But it hasn’t been
Far as I can see
Everything that
It's been cracked up to be
We’re all just Americans
I wish that were true
What about proud Italians
And the Irish too
Who have days of pride
That she says we should eschew
Which clearly illustrates
She doesn’t have a clue
Some will sell you out
For a dollar
Some will sell you out
For free
Some will sell you out
For the hell of it
Cuz they hate themselves
Ya see
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 11:29 AM UTC