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pandemoniac Feb 2022
the pen is not mighty
the lily is not pure

and blood is not vengeful nor beautiful
it is just red

but i like stories


that white shirt you once wore
now yellow with use
that sweater you've had for years
adorned with the patches
of accidents gone by
that scar on your back
from when you fell off a swing
those lines by your lips
the remnant of a smile
and a smile and a smile

I like stories
i love reading yours

there are rabbits on my moon
divinity in my incense
my oaks stand mighty
my sun rides a chariot


park benches donated in memory
hasty scribbles on classroom benches
superstitions about crows and cows
love stories to make word games

i come from a world of stories
where the people are made
of matter and molecule
of memory and metaphor

i like stories
and this one's my favourite
a little happy poem i wrote when i was bored in class
Jarel Allen Dec 2014
FAQ
Dear american, I am a 19 year young soul in a vessel that does not belong to myself, but with my exterior, you would say is of the lesser and I understood the immediacy of you putting a target upon my head, and let me announce this to you now that I am not infuriated by this. Why must we still live in a time that as a young black man, I have to work twice as hard to live up to standards your own was never meant to climb up in order reach the bar for. As a young black man, why should I be ashamed of my own intellect, wanting to disguise it by ignorance or to impress you with the dribbling of a ball or the handling of a mic? Dear America, my great grandfather did not have a middle school education, but even in the least that does not make him "another dumb"_" rephrase, an uneducated person, for the work he knew how to do with his hands makes up for those years missed, and the hands of a man like his tells a story your own great grandfather could never tell. To this day I still look up to him, for he had class, he had knowledge, he had wisdom he had God. He had God! Dear America, I will not sell myself short of my dreams just to become another number of your system. Dear American, I wonder if one day you'll understand. The hands that I have to offer you, will not share what my grandpas had. But my brown eyes will tell you mystory. My skin brown skin will tell you our story. My presence will alert every one of you the moment I succeed, you will frown at the thought of another successful black man. Ashamed of your own son, because he let another young black boy beat his own rank. Dear America, why must you be the police of the world when you cannot face your own issues at home? Dear America, I write you this letter in hopes that it Speaks to you. Dear America, I am not afraid. Dear America, I will stand my ground. Dear America, my hands are still held high. Dear American, I wonder how I made it to the end of this poem, because I still can't breathe. Dear America, why have you put the fear in our mother's eyes allowing them to believe that if their sons do not obey you, we can be here one second and gone the next? Dear American, do you realize that this message I am unraveling is too real to go unnoticed? Dear American, do you see that my message is too hard to make up? Dear America
Just a bit of morning thoughts on stuff that is too hard for me to make up. So, open your eyes, and utilize your brain to understand what is really going on.
B Young Feb 2015
For you my valentine
I can think of no rhyme.
For you, like St. valentine
are history.
As I soon will be, his story.
Let's agree-not to he forced
caught in meaningless circumscribed tradition.
There be no meter measure rhyme nor mission,
which can calm human insatiable desire.
If love be a chess board my fawn.
I do not know what the **** is going on,
here have all my pawns.
Check
My
Mate
Check
Please
Waitress

Capture my king as my queen escapades away, running, fleeing, free.
What possibly more? What other than frail fragile, loosely connected filaments of sin do you see me in? If You deem, what more? My God? My soul weeps for thee as Solomon did 2000 years before a random set of circumstance produced, birthed, this Young soul. Searching gnashing in his forgotten temple.
Attempting to circumscribe with
his own repeating circle of
history
mystery
mystory
my Valentine
my divine
my fine wine.
My God
send a divine flood
to wipe the swine
from my mind.
Bath me in the blood of your
crucified son, for am I not Yours?
What sick Christian symbolism
must I entail to rid myself
from the weeping wall at which I flail.
Why must my words always fail?
Rain down the plagues, hail! There is hale and kale and all.
My blood sweat and tears shall prevail, un-availed, lest pharaoh comes in hot aiming to derail. But with Moses as my guide I will not fail.
I will leave my pursuers in the Red Sea...
Flail,
Flail,
Flail.
nactuyah May 2014
I walk the line of a stranger, every day I have walked the Earth it has been nothing but a mystory. The trees whisper their songs of sorrow and days of joy. Their spring of rage and guilt sways like a snake through the never ending path. The mountain's peak looks as deadly as a knife's edge, but to others it seems harmlessly and utterly defenseless. The sun shines upon its snowy tip as the night's eye makes it shimmer. I have never seen the mountain up close, but from afar. Mother says a lady should never gaze upon its ungodly hight. Yet I think differently than others, and often dream of touching the snow tipped mountain.
I too and defenseless against the stories the trees and animals have to tell. I sit and listen like a stary eyed little child would listen to his or her grandpa tell stories of old. Their stories always leave me sitting in the tall green grass as the next one begins their tale. They say the stars tell the biggest story of all, and all the history of the world can be read if one reads with a close eye. The stars have their story as i have mine, but mine may be harder to tell. I listen to the animals tell their stories with ease, but for some reason I can never seem to find the words to tell mine.
this is not yet finished but I would like your opinion. Should I keep writing
ššƒšš‘ššŽ šš›ššŽššŠššœšš˜šš—
š™ø šš ššŠššœ šššš‘ššŽ šš›ššŽššŠššœšš˜šš— šš šš‘šš¢ šš–šš¢ šš–šš˜šššš‘ššŽšš› šš ššŠššœšš—šš šš‘ššŠšš™šš™šš¢
šš‚šš‘ššŽ šš’šš—ššŸššŽššœššššŽšš šš‘ššŽšš› ššššŽššŠšš›ššœ šš’šš— šš–ššŠšš”šš’šš—šš 'ššœšš’šš•šš•šš¢ šš–ššŽ' šš‹ššŽššššššŽšš›.
š™°šš•šš• šš’ ššŒššŠšš›ššŽšš šššš˜šš› šš ššŠššœ šššš˜ šš™šš•ššŠšš¢, cāƒØššŠšš—šš šš‹šš•ššŠšš–ššŽ šššš‘ššŽ ššŒšš‘šš’šš•šš šš’ šš ššŠššœ

š™»šš’šš”ššŽ ššŠšš•šš• šššš›šš˜šš™ šš˜ššžššššœ šššš‘šš’šš—ššššœ šš ššŽšš—šš šššš›šš˜šš– šš‹ššŠšš šššš˜ šš šš˜šš›ššœššŽ. š—‚ š—š–ŗš—Œ š—…š—‚š—„š–¾ š–ŗš—‡ š—‚š—‡š—Œš—‰š–¾š–¼š—š—ˆš—‹ š—ˆš–æ š—Œš–¼š—š—ˆš—ˆš—…š—Œ š–ŗš—Œ š—‚ š–¼š—š–ŗš—‡š—€š–¾š–½ š–暝—‹š—ˆš—† š—ˆš—‡š–¾ š—š—ˆ š–ŗš—‡š—ˆš—š—š–¾š—‹.
. .   . š–¶š—š–¾š—‡ š—š—‚š—†š–¾ š–¼š–ŗš—†š–¾.....
š™ø šš ššŠšš•šš”ššŽšš šš˜ššžšš šš˜šš šš‘šš˜šš–ššŽ ššŒššŠššžššœššŽ šš–ššŽššŠšš•ššœ šš ššŽšš›ššŽ šš‘ššŠšš šššš˜ šššš’šš—šš
šš‚šš˜šš˜šš— šš’ šššš˜ššžšš—šš šš›ššŽššššžššššŽ šš˜šš— šššš‘ššŽ ššœšššš›ššŽššŽššššœ
šš‚šššš’šš•šš• šš—šš˜ šš˜šš—ššŽ ššŒššŠšš›ššŽšš
š™ø ššŒššŠšš—šš ššŒšš˜ššžšš—šš šš‘šš˜šš  šš–ššŠšš—šš¢ ššššŠšš¢ššœ šš’ šš ššŽšš—šš šš šš’šššš‘šš˜ššžšš šššš˜šš˜šš šš˜šš› ššŠ šššš›šš’šš—šš”
š™½šš˜šš ššŽššŸššŽšš— ššœšš•ššŽššŽšš™
š™¶šš˜šš˜šš ššœššžšš›ššŽšš•šš¢ šš™šš›šš˜ššššŽššŒššššŽšš šš–ššŽ ššŠššœ šš’ ššœšš•ššžšš–šš‹ššŽšš›ššŽšš šš˜šš— ššŸššŽšš›šš›ššŠšš—ššššŽšš›ššœ ššŠšš—šš ššžšš—šššš’šš—šš’ššœšš‘ššŽšš šš‹ššžšš’šš•šššš’šš—ššššœ
šš‚šš–ššŠšš›šššš•šš¢ šššš›ššŽššœššœššŽšš šš’šš— šš–šš¢ šššš˜šš›šš— ššœšš‘šš˜ššššœ ššŠ "ššœšš‘ššŠšš›šš™" šš•ššŠšš‹ššŽšš•šš•ššŽšš š™¼ššŠšš—ššŒšš‘ššŽššœššššŽšš› ššƒššœšš‘šš’šš›šš šš’ šššš˜šš šššš›šš˜šš– šš–šš¢ šš ššŽšš•šš• šš˜šššš šš‹šš›šš˜šššš‘ššŽšš›
š™øšš šš ššŠššœ šš˜šš—ššŽ šš’ šš šš˜šš›ššŽ šššš˜ ššŒšš‘ššžšš›ššŒšš‘ šššš˜ ššœššŒšš‘šš˜šš˜šš• ššŠšš—šš šš™šš•šš¢ššŽšš šš’šš— š—š—ˆš—ˆ
ššƒšš‘ššŠšš ššššœšš‘šš’šš›šš šš ššŠššœ š—š—š–¾ š–»š–¾š—Œš— š—‚ š—š–ŗš–½.........

š™·ššŠšš•šš šš—ššŠšš”ššŽšš šš–ššŽ šššš’šššš—šš ššŒššŠšš›ššŽ, šššš˜šš› šššš‘ššŽšš— š—‚ šššš’šššš—šš šš”šš—šš˜šš  šššš‘ššŽ šš šš˜šš›šš šš™šš›ššŠšš¢ššŽšš› šš˜šš› ššŽššŸššŽšš— šššš‘ššŽ ššŽššœššœššŽšš—ššŒššŽ šš˜šš šš”šš—šš˜šš šš’šš—šš š™¶šš˜šš
š™ø šš‘ššŠššššŽšš ššŒšš‘ššžšš›ššŒšš‘ šššš˜šš› šš’ šš ššŠššœ ššŠ ššœšš‘ššŠšš›šš–
šš†šš‘šš’šš•ššŽ šš˜šššš‘ššŽšš›ššœ šš ššŽšš›ššŽ ššœšš–ššŠšš›šš, šš’ šš ššŠššœ šš›ššžššššššŽšš ššžšš™
ššˆššŽššœ šš’ šš”ššŽšš™šš šššš›šš¢šš’šš—šš šššš˜ šš”ššŽššŽšš™ šššš˜šš’šš—šš šš‹ššŠššŒšš” ššŠššœ šš–ššŠšš—šš¢ šššš’šš–ššŽššœ šššš‘ššŽ šš›ššŽššŠššœšš˜šš— šš’ ššŠšš– ššššŠšš–šš’šš•šš’ššŠšš› šš šš’šššš‘ ššŽššŸššŽšš›šš¢ šš›ššŽšš•šš’šššš’šš˜šš—
š™ø šš–šš˜ššŸššŽšš ššŒšš‘ššžšš›ššŒšš‘ šššš˜ ššŒšš‘ššžšš›ššŒšš‘ šš–šš˜ššœšššššžššŽššœ šš’š—‡ššŒšš•ššžššœšš’ššŸššŽ
š™ø ššŽššŸššŽšš— šš•ššŽššŠšš›šš—šš šš‘šš˜šš  šššš˜ šš›ššŽššŒšš’ššššŽ š™øššœšš•ššŠšš–šš’ššŒ šš™šš›ššŠšš¢ššŽšš›ššœ ššœšš’šš—ššŒššŽ šššš‘ššŽšš¢ ššŠšš•šš ššŠšš¢ššœ ššššŠššŸššŽ ššžššœ šš™šš’šš•ššŠššž ššŠššššššŽšš› ššœšš ššŠšš•šš•ššŠš—. š–®š—š—š–¾š—‹ š–¼š—š—Žš—‹š–¼š—š–¾š—Œ š—ˆš–暝–暝–¾š—‹š–¾š–½ š—Žš—Œ š–¼š—…š—ˆš—š—š–¾š—Œ š–ŗš—‡š–½ š–暝—ˆš—ˆš–½ š—Œš—š—Žš–暝–暝—Œ š—š—ˆ š–¼š–ŗš—‹š—‹š—’ š—š—ˆš—†š–¾.

š™¼šš¢ ššššŽššŠšš›ššœ ššŒššŠšš— šš—ššŽššŸššŽšš› šš›ššŽššœšš šš’šš— šš™ššŽššŠššŒššŽ šššš˜šš› ššžšš—šššš’šš• šš’ šš–ššŠšš”ššŽ ššŠ šš‹ššŽššššššŽšš› šš–ššŽ ššŠšš—šš šš‹ššŽššššššŽšš› šš˜šššš‘ššŽšš›š—Œ šššš˜šš˜.

š™¼šš¢ šššš˜ššŠšš•ššœ šš ššŽšš›ššŽ šššš˜šš˜šš ššŠšš—šš ššœšš•ššŽššŽšš™
šš’ šš‘ššŠššššŽ šš—šš˜šš šššš‘ššŽ šš šš’šš•šš šššš˜ššššœ šššš˜šš› š—š—š–¾š—’ š—ˆš–暝–暝–¾š—‹š–¾š–½ š—†š–¾ š—Œš–¾š–¼š—Žš—‹š—‚š—š—’ š—ˆš—‡ š—š—š–¾ š—Œš—š—‹š–¾š–¾š—š—Œ š–ŗš—‡š–½ š—‚š—‡ š—‰š–¾š—ˆš—‰š—…š–¾š—Œ š–暝–ŗš—‹š—†š—Œ š—š—š–¾š—‹š–¾ š—‚ š—š—Žš—‡š—š–¾š–½ š–暝—ˆš—‹ š–暝—‹š—Žš—‚š—š—Œ š–ŗš—‡š–½ š—Œš–¼š—‹š–ŗš—‰.
š–¬š—’ š–½š—‹š–¾š–ŗš—† š—‚š—Œ š—š—ˆ š—š—Žš—‹š—‡ š—š—š–¾ š—†š—‚š—…š—…š—‚š—ˆš—‡ š–½š—ˆš—…š—…š–ŗš—‹ š—†š–¾š—†š—ˆš—‹š—‚š–¾š—Œ š—ˆš–æ š—‰š–ŗš—‚š—‡ š—‚š—‡š—š—ˆ š–ŗ š—†š—‚š—…š—…š—‚š—ˆš—‡ š–½š—ˆš—…š—…š–ŗš—‹ š—†š–¾š—†š—ˆš—‹š—‚š–¾š—Œ š—ˆš–æ š–ŗ š–»š—‹š—‚š—€š—š— š–暝—Žš—š—Žš—‹š–¾ (#š—š–¾š—‹š–½š—Œš—†š–ŗš—‡š—ˆš–暝—‰š—‹š—ˆš—€š—‹š–¾š—Œš—Œ)
ššƒšš‘ššŽ šš‹ššŽššŠššžšššš¢ ššŠšš•šš• šš•ššŠšš¢ šš’šš— šš–šš¢ šš’šš—šš—šš˜ššŒššŽšš—ššŒššŽ šš˜šš šššš‘ššŽ ššššŠšš¢ššœ.

#supportachildbuildthefuture
#herdsmanofprogress
#mystory
We'll all be born again
only to be torn out
again
from the book of
stories,

I was toying with the idea of history but it could be herstory or even theirstory,
a mystory, bi-story, maybe a hightowerblockstory,
but
I think the book of stories covers everything

— The End —