"naivete" poems
I am the rose that grew from concrete
Budded from stones, rocks, mortar, cement, broken glass, drug vials and bags.
I am a product of my environment.
What you thought would **** me,
Only served to make me stronger.
Evolved into a hybrid
I'm the only of my kind.
My thorns fortified with brass knuckles,
My color faded from weather beatings,
And all other beatings,
The travesty of my existence
is not lost on me.
Beauty in the midst of pain,
And what is the epitome of ugly.
I don't belong here and never did.
Wisdom I have absorbed
From rains never to come again
Rejuvenates my leaves.
Although I cannot absorb it all,
Through the cracks in the concrete.
I relish what I can
And vow to absorb more the next time,
Should I be so fortunate.
Because the concrete can protect
As well as expose my naivete.
So compelling to manipulate,
It would be ideal to control.
Impossible though.
How can you control
What grows and survives in the midst of chaos?
And at what cost to your soul?
Even through the ominous clouds,
I remain in light.
The Sun has never been immune to my plight.
Providing the strength, energy and hope
I'll need for the next season of my fight.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
She hates that she is a woman
The putrefying weakness perceived in the curves of her body
The naivete shown in her blues
With the unintentional flutter of butterfly lashes
That refuse to meet the glances of those that pass by
The fear-- Of what?
That stereotypes are true?
She doesn't even know
And it sickens her.
She sickens herself.
She hates that she is white
The blandest vanilla
The marble statue
Somehow revered
Worshiped
Privileged
But simultaneously overlooked
Boring
Unimportant
The Caucasian mongrel
In light of the fact that her People
Have no proud history
Which she can name herself heir to
She hates that she is middle class
Not poor enough to struggle
Not rich enough to be free
Just situated dully in the middle
A footnote in the statistic
That they tell her she must use
To identify herself
She hates that her belief system
Has to be called by a name
That she has to choose
To be a part of a group
As part of her "identity"
And she is not allowed
To stand by her own integrity
She hates that she is American
The pudgy, loud-mouthed, laterally-speaking nation
The brashly jumps into conflict
Guns blazing
As its political system decays
In the stench of its overwhelming debt and corruption
But in truth
She hates
That they force her
To whittle her essence down
Into Gender, Race, Class, Religion, and Nationality
A vomit-inducing statistic
As if there was nothing more to her
Than the facts surrounding her existence
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Escape from Planet Hipster
They're nostalgic for a time
When wearing the peace sign
was a revolutionary act;
Now propaganda of the deed
is free shows on ghetto borders
Craft IPAs, grandpa's clothing,
and dismissal above all.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Misunderstood.
Little girl that
Could
Not
Articulate her pain
Stained on her heart,
mediocrity and other's
hypocrisy
Stop and see
for a moment that her
naivete was stolen
Bolden your mind
time for a story,
you wore her down
She shut herself off
all because you scoff
at her pain
Rain is a reprieve from the
judgment you cast
At last,
when the moment is too late,
maybe you'll see
that you created her hate
she is not without cause,
pause and reflect
before you object
Misunderstood, little girl
who's only dream was to shine,
by and by she slowly dies
watch her decay at your
misguided guide
by and by she slowly dies
Misunderstood, little girl
who believed in love
now is wrung of any
positive light,
she's blight with sadness,
and insatiable madness.
Crass she may be,
she always wanted to see
if she could shine as bright
as she dreamed she could be
Misunderstood, little girl
by and by she slowly dies
without cause, without care
you scoff at her pain.
Rain is a reprieve from the judgment you cast.
By and by she slowly dies.
Misunderstood.
Lttle girl.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 2:28 AM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
You carry your life on your shoulders; a swing in a park in a city, with a lonely, shadowy, ghost of you sitting so delicately. As people pass you, they stop and look, and words come to their minds such as "passion" and "sorrow," "broken benches," "spilled dreams" and they couldn't even tell you why.
You wear your heart safety-pinned to your sleeve; a grave declaration that you are not your own person. Someone has marked you, taken something without asking; this you show everyone, not meaning to, in hopes of finding a semblance of relatability. Was it normal, what happened to you? Is this a dark fog everyone lives in? You hope not.
You have an everpresent effervescence of the wrong kind. It's a nervous habit, a shuffling of the feet and a glance to the sky. It's the reincarnation of life before that day, with the tender rips of who you are now. One can only paint over paint so much; mix the colors, they will all become grey.
You've a vague sense of relief when you look around and see no one. It's a talisman, a testimony to your independence, and your dependence on lots of human-free air. It's the writing on your arm, words you shan't forget, words like delicate innocence shame tragedy naivete melody sorrow blame identity apology and the biggest, boldest of all heartbeat.
It's a short cry from here to insanity and you remind yourself that your heart beats in pride, in admonition to the evil. "I am alive. You couldn't **** me. You won't **** me. I have a heartbeat."
I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. I have a heartbeat. And the little girl on the swing smiles to the sky, a premonition of her future, a confirmation of her strength.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
You don't love
me;
you love the
tip of the iceberg
that is your idea of me;
the sugar-coated mute
leading herds
of unfinished sentences
down the copious hills
of his insecurity;
the nice little writer
whose constant attempts
at legendary one-liners
are as hit-or-miss
as a sitcom still airing
far past its prime.
I possess three biomes,
or, rather, three networks
of personalities and identities.
I am much more than
the Jack Macfarland archetype
lip-syncing to Cher in the one
gay bar in town, tyrannically
governing your wardrobe,
possessing a razor-sharp wit
cast toward the backs of his community
in the form of an outdated punchline-
my work on that show
lost its Willful relevance
and Graceful naivete
years ago.
I am of the generation
fed media saturation
three four-hour meals a day,
who ingested cardboard cadavers
as if they were mother's milk
and internally mutated their
thoughts and desires
to fit the compact time frame
of 30 minutes
to settle the series' worth
of traumas and neuroses
while making it home for dinner
to stay tuned for what's
next in the lineup.
Speaking as a casualty of this
inevitable chain of events,
I regretfully declare that even
those who have seen
every episode of myself
for the past six seasons
are still light years away
from the room full of faces
unencumbered by euphemism.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
The foretold episode is ripe
And the childless dawn is now flowering,
The awesome parrots of Africa
Have began swimming in the heavens
And singing the verses of the paraded bees,
For the warrior of South Africa
Has ultimately impregnated the Godsbaa
Without violating her divine virginity,
The black star arouse from Ghana,
Journeyed gorgeously through Zimbabwe
And has decisively descended on South Africa,
Bu this is just the divine seed
Yet to grow into a full black African moon,
For the black star of the black man
Is the religious light yet to radiate on
The colourless naivete of mankind,
Ah, the premise behind this
Exhibition makes a perfect sense,
We did begin it all,
Pilgrimage through it all
And shall end it all,
For the wreckage of
Humanity flies with time
And the megapower status
Of the African is a fact of life,
Today, a new voice has been
Added to the joy of the black women,
Causing the dry bamboo flutes to buzz
With the pantaloons of the ancestors,
Adorn our emerald embryonic pride with
The ambrosial smiles charms of the sunrise,
For he pelts of the peerless mid-night
Has been remodeled with our dark gore.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
Flip flip slide slide
grind grind pop pop
concentration.
hours and hours
sweat pours
bruised ankles bruised kneecaps
scraped shinbones scraped elbows
scabs and scars.
shirts and jeans torn, worn;
shoes a tattered mess--
laces shredded to bits tied desperately
clinging on to lapping tongues.
hair matted to skull sweating within damp skullcaps,
whether be it helmets (by choice or restriction),
or fitted baseball hats turned backwards,
or cuffed beanies in the dead of winter.
(father says the latter choices work well to soak all the blood up, I always roll my eyes in naivete.)
The paved driveway, where on my eighth birthday
a shining basketball goal sat at its full height
towering in the mountain sky--
stood forlorn in place as wide eyes glued to the pavement--
where shoes stood atop the gritty surface of a wooden board
with wheels attached to gleaming metal axles
rolled smoothly excitedly across the pavement in perpetuity.
destiny.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
Nothing is simple now… and nothing ever was.
But i recall the majesty of my naivete’
and linger in the triumphant fog of my illusions
as a young man of almost a Minute.
Be that, as it may.
i am not among the Mockingjays
nor the calendars of arbitrary
Days.
I am the eclipse of insincere Living.
i blot out the None.
with blueberries from an indigo
Genesis: i stain my sky with every unbelievable Promise -
my Calculus can muster. My Love in tow.
I gather at the edgeless mist
of my Identity and etch the core
of my consecrated cacophonies
into the bones of dead whales like Scrimshaw
for deep kids.
And that's It.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 2:21 AM UTC
Rose redoubt
Rose few, in the hate we fed
Rose acts, when charisma is a pout
Rose timid, with a live for all ahead
Round eyes of decorum, vice in a wandering hope
Let to take, a tryst of potential...
Long if tooth, a wholesome day to arrive with our own
Here is my naivete, and a steads sulking breeze so beautiful...
When the world is rounder for a secret asking, to fulfil...
Promise me, a livid course, a golden truth
To the wanted more, when we are a soul of will
The tone of our voice, becomes the drama and decency of accepting youth?
Sophistication in a moment alone, with the weight of the world
Seemingly not, before the needs of others, worth is a means to amends...?
And the coltish example of the future, a repose of justness so early
That a miracle in the form of a wish, is a simplicity we lend?
Tales of the reach, the romance of curious senses
And the heart of essence, we know even will...
When boding hours are to be, the callous works of a world come to ends
With a handful of what miracles were, a common where to the liberty of silence, so real
Jun 7, 2023
Jun 7, 2023 at 2:37 PM UTC
it... it's too small for my hands
I smile winsome to convince
the loose doily cloth of naivete
the backwards crone covered in bark
the little old lady who looks young in the dark
she belongs under secrets in a lemon grove
she's the oldest and newest in all of the park.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 10:20 AM UTC
The path is crooked, long and pained,
but brother wolf walk on
for if it's rained, return we not,
all we walk is vain
The path is crooked, long and pained
the rain obscures the trail,
the scent of prey's not in the air
soaked fur and hanging tail
your dripping eyes and looming gait
tell of your arduous walk
but brother wolf walk on, walk on,
walk on and we will talk
of romance and naivete and hearts that come undone
of moonlit night when flames we met, of sparks and summer suns
live wild and young and free and bold
listen well that you may hear
this hunt, it only passes once, as seasons **** the year
but lone we aren't though wolves we are
and loyalty lies between
these wolves whose pack is not of blood
but of a bond that bleeds
vision may obscure we by the foolish or the brave
by Russian waters, or by lights, from fool's fake flame's that blaze, by passions that we crave
but through it all and by the path when by the way exhaust
your brother stops in passing by and howls "not all is lost"
for today and through the night and through the future fair
be we brother's deathly strong and princes of the air
wolves with wings and sharpened claws and hardened hides to match
we one may fly and one may dive and one day have our catch
after all we walk this path through mazened woods and sky
and after all, and after all, we'll walk it til we die
disorder from an aerial view , the other's taken turns
that crooked lead and path diverge and do our purpose spurn
warn with a whistle, call and care, "that turn will harm our dream"
give advice and give it quick, revealing everything
where brother's blind his brother eyes see not what things seem
the turning trails and easy paths left open to our paws
the trails that take no pain to walk no effort, none at all
are oft the ones that easy take and lead our hearts astray
begin to kindle fickle flames that tomorrow die away
let not our hearts nor paws nor wings nor looks be knocked aside
but be we steady in the brotherhood and steady in our stride
steady in our dreams, and steady be in nights,
steady in our running, steady peering down from heights
the path is crooked, long and pained
but brother wolf, walk on
for if it's rained, return we not
all we walk is vain
so brother wolf, walk on . . .
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
He
Sat by the riverbank
He
Laughed like cold water
He
Brought to me, the ocean
He...
Where the current runs
behind, beneath
The undertow
Of his eyes
drowning Me
He
Left the scent of good-
Bye Before he’d
leave
As the scent of autumn
Promises winter
And barren, silent trees
My oars
set to the waves
To the phantom of
My sea
The wreck was me
Picking up every shell
Listening
for the sound
Of your feet
the waves
in your eyes
Returning for me
I wait with the moon
For your tides
Green is the color
Of the setting
Of my dreams
As they drifted away
In your
castaway-eyes
And I
Knew better
And you
Spoke plainly
And I
Heard nothing
Of the truth
That you
Gave me
But your voice-
It’s remaining
And your eyes
Are engraving
Their colors
on my canvas heart
like your initials
in my ****** bark
That leaves a wound
to die or scar
beneath its message
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
The path to hell
They say it is paved with good intentions
I was never quite sure what it meant
Or who they were
But it felt right
So I did not question it
And walked on
Words are a funny thing
Things so similar in composition
So different in reality
Like ******
And heroine
One a dark hole threatening to destroy a life
The other a strong woman waiting to save you
They said the path to hell is paved with good intentions
So I let her try to help
I thought she meant well
It certainly seemed that way at first
But her presence was a poison, weakening me subtly
Destroying all of my independent strength
Making me reliant on her
****** heroine
Only one letter different
But by definition, they are worlds apart
Or so I thought
In my naivete
Life has taught me otherwise
I know things now
At least with ****** you know what you are getting into
It doesn't have a pretty facade
An alluring smile
It is a type of hell
But an honest one
One that if you commit to, you do in full knowledge
Unlike the heroine that killed me
Because **** me she did
Someone I saw as a hero at first
Turned into a villain
By the fault of nobody
Simple circumstance destroying all
The path to hell is paved with good intentions
And you can get there via ****** or heroine
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
That grin
enviably free of worry
should be an advertisement
for the way things ought to be.
Effusive innocence
casts itself from a
twenty year old snapshot
like juice from a fatted orange
pierced by a thumb
spitting jealous longing
on people who wear pants
giving anything in trade to
erase what they know
about growing up
to sit next to a
gleamy eyed kid
making **** prints in the earth
proudly touting a ***** nose and
Sedona sand on his Underoos.
Must we ever leave there
the paradise of naivete'
devoid of threat
absent of concern
universe of
daddy-can-whip-anyone?
Enemies do not exist
because we have not yet
learned hate.
Joy is first instinct
until we grow into fear.
The world is fig leafs and beauty
before a cynical serpent
has his way with us.
A father begs his son
"STAY THERE! STAY THERE!"
Protection is lost
outside the frame.
There's no recourse
for growing up.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
My pockets hold coarse wisdom stones
that have yet to be eroded and known.
No deed has been done with many tears,
and my matter has yet to turn gray.
Except for two dark circles
wrapped snug around no-sleep eyes,
I am pristine, I have soft skin,
no chips or scratches to bear.
So I sought erosion and tragedy
to inspire wise and epic truths,
but to my dismay! all that I found
was that these only come with age.
Constantly, all day and night,
wonderings overpower my sleep;
I fear these truths, that they might burn
the darling rosebud life I built
into a cynic's deadbeat embers.
So to the stars! I beg to see
if even a fleck of goodness
exists past youth's gilded screen.
For I hope that even through cataracts,
the world will still be good,
that wrinkles will forge deep valleys of love,
that gray hair will be streaked with joy.
I hope my dying hands will hold tightly
to my death bed's plastic sides,
I hope to look in terror at Heaven above,
to whisper, with wide fearful eyes,
"Please, I don't want to go"
But for now, I am young and unknowing,
and I embrace my rose-colored light.
The thing is, though, I must know something,
you can call it naivete,
but whether it be with gray hair
or smooth skin, no matter what,
even if I had nothing left,
I'd still use scotch tape to hold back ****** rivers,
to prove to you that there is love.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC
Take no more of Kronos, in guilt
he speaks his secret name.
Shame on you, the brute who gave us wings.
No longer reaching for our halo,
I let forgiveness pass and regret to feed
the marrow.
And he, who finds himself wise, casts
a shadow on another day-- One who
does not pity the shrew, the innocent mind, a
naivete of perennial seasons forgotten
when the Autumnal blaze of fire and gold
became the death of Eden and
the birth of another ivory bone.
(ehyeh-asher-ehyeh)
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
Once I bore unkempt hair,
a crown over a wondering visage.
Twas a time of smaller age,
when a had nary a care.
I was staff-bearing and sword-wielding,
princess from times of yore
and keeper of lost lore.
But my spirit could go only so long unyielding.
For there was a mask-wearing weaver
of a garish smile
who in his guile,
had made others a believer--
Of his wicked web of rampant lies.
This wretched thief of naivete
Left not a shade of perspective grey--
but black, without reprise.
What cruel beast of human shape
was cast down upon me?
And why could others not see
but merely question with mouths agape--
At the sins of which he reveled
merely for his stature?
Yet if done after
surely they would have been compelled--
To hear my pleas
and punish his evil hand!
And then at last I might command
my woe from drowning me like all the seas.
Alas, twas not
as I would hope, you see
for fate was most unkind to me
though of wrong-doing I had naught.
"But why?" I asked
"Princesses of yore, and wielders of old lore
they know happiness for ever more."
To that end I had been masked--
From the truth before my weeping eyes
that evil always has its say
even on the brightest day,
for peace is the keenest of lies.
Like he, the villains tall and small,
from fiercest orc to goblin whelp,
will always find fate's loyal help
while heroes are left to fall.
That is how it plays on the world's stage
I have learned and learned it well
that where white snow falls, somewhere else burns a hell.
And yet, perhaps this way is not a cage--
To conquer all of worldly ways,
For in my time--made wise--
I have come to see with my heart's eyes
one for whom this pattern sways.
He is a hero brave and strong
no prince and no knight
no dragon does he fight,
yet for him could be written king-worthy song.
So perhaps, the wicked do not always prevail,
not every time at least--but most--
and get their bitter dose
of a taste of what it is to fail.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
Good girl's don't tell,
You should do as I say & not as I do.
Mama said
respect my elders so respectfully
I'll lay here and not make a sound.
You've told me
God
rewards good girls when they obey their parents and being my foster parent I must do as
God
tells me so obey you I do,
I brush my teeth and let you brush my hair,
you lift a trestle
to your nose ,
smell deeply then brush my hair some more.
I must be a sacrificial lamb and let your will be done.
The pink lace type nightgown fits me a bit big, the perfume makes me
sneeze
- -
ahchoo ahchoo
I don't like the rouge on my cheeks and this light brown powdery stuff
smell like old women and itches,
but
I smile cause it hides the swelling purplish bruises
on my eye and right cheek.
It also makes me feel so beautiful,
specially cause of the look in your eyes,
I know that
You
like how I look from
the smirk on your face.
I sit down as you've instructed,
watching you as you go to the door
locking it,
I don't know what to think or how you feel
but you tell me that
I'm special,
magically so and you'd die
if you can't have me.
I don't know what you mean
still
I come up to you and rub your back.
It always worked
when my
Nana
did this to me,
giving me comfort as any good parent should.
You on the other hand
hold
me and tell me I am so lovely
Yet your
not accepting the
father/ daughter comforts I wish to give you.
My naivete's got you looking at me
strangely
and in this fortress- locked room you take it upon yourself
to demonstrate just what I truly mean to you ,
you kiss,
you kiss my lips
, touch my chest,
sliding your hand down
my
underdeveloped
body
with a hunger in your eyes of which
I can't place,
I'm frighten and worried
yet you tell me
to relax and lay on the bed,
repeating to me that
Good Girl's Don't Tell.
Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright 1977 - Present ©
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
If you’re new here
I don’t like my body
And I don’t know how many more ways I can say that
All I know is I haven’t found one that transforms me into a fairy
Haven’t found the magic words, that if I repeat three times fast and click my heels
Will melt away my visage
Make me ready for the ball
On nights like tonight,
When I really don’t like my body
I try to remember that the apples are poisoned
That taking a bite, instead of a dinner plate
Will not make me the fairest thing in the land
That running from big bad wolves
Is not about burning calories
That I shouldn’t look for big bad wolves to run from
Just to try and fit into a red cape
I don’t know how many ways to say
That I don’t like my body
That I feel fat,
Like my stomach has 7 little dwarves sleeping atop it
Like if a prince found me in the woods, I would be the beast
Not the beauty he was looking for
So here I am,
The incompetent one in the Disney movie
While the heroines and heros are drawn impossibly small
Jasmine with her tiny waist,
Mulan in her slim figure
Elsa with her narrow shoulders
The incompetent ones,
Ursula, all darkness and big body above her tail
Russel, with his house of balloons and naivete
The Queen of Hearts, crazy off with your head woman
Even a fairy tale metaphor, can’t bibbity bobbity boo
Away my torn up relationship with my body
I guess these aren’t the magic words
I guess I don’t get magic words
Maybe I would,
If I was small enough to be the hero
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 9:21 AM UTC
over teacup...fine porcelain..
delicately chipped....coniving eyes....scrutinised...tallying..gulliblity..naivete..desire...
wizened fingers...talonlike..
tattoo.....mesmerizing......
rhythms..
.......crystal ball... occluded....
fee exchanged..... hand......
presented....lifeline..short.....
love line....broken...tarot...
offered....indecsion..
..crystal....
....still cloudy...gap toothed...
..contortion...cards on....
table....impaired cognative function..accedes....
fee transferred....
.....cards..shuffle..pirroette.........inverted...laydown misere....
palaver..delivered....twocups... happy but sad.....prince of....
.....two sheets to wind....done
in....teacup rattles......
....session.........ended..crystal ball..sphere of silence....
.......future..still..shrouded..
...wallet..lighter... sozzled.....
laughter...all the.......
.............fun of the fair.........
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
I am chasing this thing that
always
eludes me. In the day he openly
embraces Man.
See, they’ve known each other for centuries,
shoulder to shoulder,
unrelenting hand in unrelenting hand
as they dance betwixt the world of fantasy and pain.
A universe I know all too well.
A courtesy we could never have.
Matta still in my eyes, limbs sore from just being born,
naivete radiating from my skin.
I trail, inquire, plead—
he laughs in my face before evaporating
observe.
I have a plan.
I could forfeit my mind, let ambition and sense
seethe through my temples. Knees the color of
my behind from crawling through the mud.
Pungent fertilizer gathering underneath my nails
as I plant hibiscus, mint and poinciana in a Man’s
garden. My body falling apart and together at the
calloused hands of my oppressor.
There must be another way.
I turned to the sky,
they know us Women well.
Every thirty moons, I offer up a sacrifice.
Take this crimson sea between my anchors
that Mother ordained.
Take it and give us strength.
He eludes me still.
I fight and I protest
and I bawl and I break down
and I stand up and I smile
and I make love to anyone capable of loving.
I am still searching.
Tactile, hard and brown like an egg’s shell
you can’t see this soft, permeable mass
yet it lives, survives.
But the chase is over.
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 12:51 AM UTC
Broke as hell
Blue light eyes
Pity be pity see
Pushing till they pull
Color coded notes on fire
Scholar of all that is okayish
Handicapped lockjaw zombie
Swimmers in the styrian river of Dante’s Inferno
A stop sign growing in the middle of the street
Thousand yard letter grade stare
12 missed assignments
Experienced Naivete
Dementia in progress
Last year’s Amnesia
Crossing busy streets
Vegetative
Dec 8, 2021
Dec 8, 2021 at 4:00 AM UTC