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Dorothy A Dec 2014
I think of her often, for thoughts are all I have—not a single memory. She died before I was the age of two.

From what little that I heard, there was little reason to view her in a good light, but now I can see something admirable about her.  After all, this woman endured so much, and the odds seemed stacked against her. Incredibly, between the ages of eleven and sixteen—at least five times—this poor Lithuanian girl crossed the Atlantic in attempts to get into America. Twice, she was turned away. Some may not have had high regard for her, including her own son—my father—but I can see a heroic nature, a survivor, through and through. Just a toddler when she died, I missed out in knowing her. Throughout the years, I really had only gathered bits and pieces of information while trying to know better about her. It has been like constructing puzzle in which the pieces fit here and there, but the gaps are too big to cover.

This woman that I write about is my paternal grandmother. Out of all my grandparents, her story is the one that stands apart, an amazing, heart wrenching and most thought provoking portrait. Evoking emotions of anger, sadness and sympathy, I find it a rich tale of a poor woman.

This has been in the works for quite a while now—in my head, that is. I pictured what I wanted to say, the words playing out in my mind.  What a story it is, too, a tremendous one of sorrow and struggle, of need for love and acceptance, of perseverance and strength of the human spirit. Yet things get complicated when they come from my mind to the page, as I try translating my vision down into words. Before long, like a snake, hesitation surely comes slithering through, as it quickly snuck its way within, fueling my fear, a fear of disapproval and rejection by two people who are now dead and have been for some time—my father and my grandmother.  

And while writing, I imagine what my audience thinks—critics in my head abounding before I even finish. Well, I am the first to stand in line for that.  It’s kind of scary relating such things. I am not sure I am doing the story any justice.  I’m not sure I’ve captured the essence of it well.    

And who would want to read this anyway? Is it too long and of no significance to anybody but myself? I have my doubts. Celebrities do this all the time, and people just eat that stuff up.  I think we all just want to relate to what others have to say about themselves. But it does bare you—your thoughts, your secrets, your soul, —and it feels a bit unnerving, to say the least.  

So, naturally, I still drag my feet. If she were here right in front of me right now, what would my grandmother think? Would she throw the papers in an old fashioned stove—in the fire—as she angrily did to my father’s flowers?  I can only imagine my father as a child—in an impoverished scene that I only have sketchy knowledge of—with his young heart being crushed and shamed, his sign of affection and desire to please his mother, drastically rejected. In return for his small token of love, my father’s mother was furious that her boy spent a few coins on something perceived as useless, a waste of good money. Away like trash, they went. Like the flower story, would my father be ashamed and angry that I revealed some family history for others to read, stuff that he would rather have kept quiet?

This is why I am mentioning no names. Nothing is sugar coated—it is what it is—often not very pretty. Yet this is not intended as an exposé or a smudge on any family members. A slam on my father and grandmother is surely not my intent—far from it.  Rather, it is my offering of affection. It is my little bouquet of flowers to a history that includes me as a part of it.

Like those flowers of long ago, I’ve so wanted to scrap this story in the garbage. Often seeming like a knotted mass of yarn, I have had to work and work to get a smooth flow.  Like a sculptor, I wanted a fine piece of clay to emerge into form, but the chunks, lumps and bumps just frustrate me to no end.

It’s complicated to relate it all. It is revelation about my father’s origins which hold no real pride for him.  There was much pain and shame associated with his mother’s mental illness, his distant father, his broken home and lack of a solid, safe family structure, his constant poverty and fight for survival—the list goes on and on  As I unravel this tale, I continue to fight with the many tangles. As I try to find the face, I feel that my sculpted story is left wanting. So I continue to chip away.

Dishonoring? Embarrassing? I hope it this tale is not.  I envision an admirable purpose instead of the pain and the shame, redeeming the pride that was lost. My father’s origins are mine, too, and they help me to know myself better, and my father—to build that better, more complete puzzle of my grandmother.

Much of what I heard was unflattering terms. From a young age, I knew she was mentally ill. But what did that mean anyway?  Well, to my father she was crazy and nuts, not a good mother. No, she wasn’t mother of the year. Clearly, she had a temper and was known to instigate fights—with her husband, with one of her sisters. When my young father was physically disciplined it was by her, and it was probably quite harsh. If I didn’t like her, it was due to all that I heard. And when I had problems with my father, who had a bad temper, too, I probably felt that the apple didn’t fall very far from the tree.  

But in spite of all the remarks, I grew to have great sympathy for my grandmother. It makes me wonder how mistreated she was as a child.  My father deemed her as neglectful, not in tune to her children’s needs. It is obvious to me that she was in lack, herself.

So what was she really like? I very much wanted to understand her, to be able to relate with her. I don’t know—perhaps, it is because I root for the underdog.  Often, I felt like one, too. And Lithuania is the perfect underdog, under the thumb of Russian rule until much recently.  Perhaps, it was because my dad’s dislike for where he came from made me all that more interested to discover what his roots were all about.  

History often repeats itself—what has shaped my father had a strong influence on me. Like my father, I grew angry and bitter from the upbringing I had. Getting a similar brunt of problematic parenting made for a tough go of things.  I could have easy said, “Who gives a ****?” I could have been thoroughly disgusted about my dad’s old baggage that I had to handle—all the wreckage of rage and shame that became dumped into the next generation.  I evolved from a more sensitive, inquisitive child to one who battled between the feelings of hate and love, painfully clawing my way out of the emotional garbage and with the terrible stench of it.  

Thankfully, the war is over. I am enjoying the peace.  
  
With insight, I grew to understand my father, to accept what he was—capable of good and bad. I can relate quite well in that sense, for I made plenty of mistakes that I wish that I could do differently, ones that hurt others as well as me.  I could not deny that, in my dad, there was a wounded man who could not really figure that out—not until he was much older. I saw a man who was remorseful, and humbled by his costly mistakes. I was able to heal from some of my wounds with that forgiving perspective, though it was not easy and did not come overnight.

Unlike my dad, I’m surely a talker and I ask questions, perhaps my father’s worst nightmare in that sense——he had to have at least one child who always wanted to know things about him and who he came from. That means both sides of my family. Perhaps, I was born that way, with a tremendous sense of wonder. Curiosity always got me, and I am much too hungry to remain clueless about my more secretive father.

Maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s bad. It involves risk which can lead to a boatload of hurt. Where do we come from? What were your parents like? What were your grandparents like? When where they born? When did they die? Do you have any pictures?  Can you go any further than them?  Sometimes, the answers aren’t what you want to hear.  

It’s nice to belong to something, to somebody. It isn’t always possible or realistic to relate to one’s family, I wanted to belong. Not just to my mom’s side did I want to identify—I wanted to fully belong—to both sides.

My mom and dad both had common backgrounds, both coming from poverty and chaos. The fallout from my mother’s unstable father created a similar unease within her childhood home. Yet her family actually seemed like it existed. I knew all of my mother’s seven younger sisters and five younger brothers, as well as all nineteen cousins. We used to visit mom’s parents in Detroit fairly often. My best knowledge of life in this unfamiliar, yet close by, city—my native city—arose through this connection. I heard stories of grandmother’s German immigrant parents and learned of my grandfather’s Polish and Prussian roots, part of his family’s rise from poverty to wealth—to poverty once more.

Born in the latter part of the nineteenth century, my father’s parents were much older than my mom’s. Impoverished Lithuanian immigrants, my dad’s parents surely wanted to be Americans. My grandmother really had to fight to even be on American soil, and my grandfather sought out citizenship and became naturalized. I have likely seen them both, but had no relationship at all. I heard that my dad’s mom came over our house for Thanksgiving dinner—a rare visit—and she died not long after.

My grandfather died the following year, when I was closer to three. Possibly having a primitive, early memory of this man, I am told my dad had him over the house once.  I have a vague recollection of sneaking into the living room, when I was supposed to be in bed, and got a smack on my behind from my dad, crying in protest as I walked past an older man starring at me. But I’ll never know for sure if that is even a real memory.

Since my grandfather was a supporter of the Communist party—a big taboo in those days with the McCarthy era and the Cold War—my dad was mortified and afraid to mention it.  I doubt I’ll ever know much about this grandfather. My father found only one photo of him in his wallet while trying to claim belongings from his flat after the man died. My father eventually gave it to me, and I was shocked by one of the most bizarre photos I ever had seen. In it, my dad’s father was photographed with a woman that my father cannot identify, but the likeness between her and me is so uncanny. I look more like this woman than I do my own mother, but I cannot say if she is even related. My dad knew almost nothing about his father’s family except that he came from a big one back in Lithuania.

Family must have been like foreign word to my father. I can see why. Since boyhood, my dad lived apart from his dad, and they became more strangers than father and son. My dad even admitted that he hardly understood his own father because of his thick, Lithuanian accent. My dad’s background still remains more like shadows in the dim light.  I don’t clearly remember my father’s older brother— out of the two that he had—because I only saw him three or four times. Since my father cut ties with his younger brother, I hadn’t laid eyes on him. Not even a picture was available. When my estranged uncle called on the phone to try to talk to my dad, I would speak to him, instead. One to be sympathetic, I never got why my dad wouldn’t bother with his brother, though the call usually involved asking for money. I was pretty much told that he was a no-good ***, plenty to keep me fairly leery of him. His first wife kicked my uncle out.  Most of his six sons—just as unknown as their father was to me—wanted nothing to do with him. No doubt, the guy was an odd and deeply tormented man, yet we both wanted to meet one day. If I remember one thing he said, that was it, and I agreed. This did seem unlikely, for I didn’t want to stir up the hornet’s nest, not creating more friction than there was.

Years later, that wish came true. One day my dad did get a picture of his brother from the older brother. Much later on—several months after my dad died—I was able to meet this troubled man when he was dying in the hospital and had tubes down his throat. unable to speak to me any more.  

My mom was my source in finding out about my grandmother, but she knew little.  She admits she didn’t know what to say to her mother-in-law, being young and not very savvy when it came to making conversation. What she remembered about my grandmother was that she was very quiet and often stared out from the position of an obscure woman in a room full of people. My mom thought her “spooky”. My mom recalls that my dad said that she smoked down her cigarettes the nub, burning and blackening the tips of her fingers.  She even might have started a small fire in her sister’s waste basket with a burning cigarette.

There is one thing that sticks out that my mother recalls that is sweet. What my grandmother asked my mother shows her humanity: “Do you love my son? “ It shows a woman who has genuine feelings, has desires, and caring. I could see the love that she had for my father when I heard that she brought his boots to school in bad weather, and he was embarrassed by the look of her—rolled down socks and an old fur coat.  I doubt, though, he ever heard the words of “I love you”, as my father did not say these things to his children.

Near the end of his life, when my father was getting dementia, I knew the time was short for us to talk and now was the moment to ask questions. “I know so little about your childhood”, I told him. He said there was nothing worth mentioning, and when I probed him a bit, he told me, “We were the lowest of the low”. It saddens me that the pain was still very much there.

What my parents couldn’t or didn’t tell me, I learned from a few other relatives. I called up my dad’s cousin—who lives in Las Vegas—with plenty of apprehension, never having met her, and not knowing if she’d want to talk with me. Slowly, I sensed her grow from suspicious of my intent to warming up to me a bit. She said she liked my father, but “he could have been nicer to his mother”. This cousin told me that he avoided her a lot, and she felt my grandmother was aware. My dad’s younger brother did, too, I am told. My mom related to me that once when my grandmother would knock on their door back in their flat in Detroit, in their early years of marriage, my dad told her not answer the door to prevent her visit.

If it wasn’t for this cousin’s mother, my grandmother’s sister, as well as two of her daughters, the poor woman would have been quite lonely—though I’m sure loneliness defined her. I am glad they took an extra interest in my grandmother. They would take her out for coffee or have her over.  This sister “felt sorry for her”, the Las Vegas cousin told me.  I’m glad, but she “felt sorry for her? I hope it was more than that.

Considering all what she went through, I am wondering what went through my grandmother’s head. Did this woman ever feel loved? If she did, it must have been like a glass of water in a desert.

Another of my dad’s cousins, from another sister of my grandmother’s, helped me out. Her family stories filled in some gaps, but what she couldn’t tell me records did. The records seemed to prove the stories correct, as some family stories can be more fiction than fact.

I did my own research, as well as get records from others, and finally hired a genealogist. I verified that my grandmother was born in 1892 in a village in Lithuania, not ever knowing the exact date. Loss began early in her life, as her father died of small pox when she was four months old. He was twenty six, and he wasn’t even married a year. Records show this bit of oral history to be almost spot-on.  My parents made a single visit to my grandmother’s youngest sister, and this great aunt told me that my grandmother lost her father at six months old. My dad never knew his real grandfather died, thinking his youngest aunt had a different father. He was surprised to find out that his mother was the one set apart from the others.

So my great grandmother was left a widow with a baby to care for all on her own. This would have been bad for both, so this gr
Grandmother, may you feel the warmth of God's embrace now, and hope you can know that I care and you DO matter.
Amina Jade Nov 2013
We are the savages,**
normalities stand from a distance and secretly admire
the domesticated eyeing in envy to our resilience of society's taming shackles
so they reject us with pointed accusing fingers
forever deemed an unworthy animal.
We belong to nature and they're all hunters
fully equipped with  nonfictional weapons to destroy the wilderness with in
poaching our furs and horns
only to hold the satisfying idea we are becoming extinct.
We believe in something greater
its a diamond ring proposal of freedom
sparkling in the sunlight of judgment
unfazed by  starless nights
we still shine bright in total darkness
becoming a beacon of light  to the helpless moths.
We are born as nomads of law and principles
they want to break us, bind us in rules and regulations
take our souls and throw them to the masses of cold blooded creatures
they all swim mindlessly in a wonderland of controlled morality
but to the hot blooded, these cool waters are foreign
forever belonging on land
letting our predator  instincts be the guide
knowing what is right and where to flee when its wrong
but they expect us to drown with the rest
in the materialistic greed infested river of the world.
We will never be broken
we are the wild
we are self thinkers
we are the untouchable spirited winds of the world
rebel eyed with our backs against those who have become the thoughtless corps
filled with animosity and jealousy
we are free and we roam the jungles of prosperity
still shining bright, a true savage.
Jeffrey Pua Jan 2015
Tease, pinch me,
Into reality, into
Twitterpation,
Into your memory.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Draft
AJ Jun 2014
There's something exhilarating about watching the hero of an action movie soar across the silver screen, thrusting fists into the face of some grotesque, mustached villain. Every time I see a thriller, I am at the edge of my seat, bubbling with excitement.

When the security guard came sprinting into the lunch room shouting, "This is a lockdown." I didn't feel anything even remotely close to excitement. I didn't want to skip through the commercials, didn't want to turn the page. I wanted to close the book, to pause the movie, to curl up in the safety of my own skin and never leave.

It was nothing like the movies. There was no hunky hero waiting in the wings to save us. There were only teachers on the edge of a breakdown, as they slowly realized that they were responsible for the two hundred lives they had just herded into the auditorium.

The villain was invisible. He was a crackle on the radio, a shadow in the corner, a ghost hanging in the forefront of everyone's mind. There wasn't a clear cut solution, no Bruce Wayne to bust in and kick some ***. Just terrified kids, and the teachers who were so much more human than I had ever seen them.

The girl next to me's hands shook in her lap, her voice carrying a note of panic that I'm sure matched my own. My knuckles turned white as I gripped my phone like a lifeline, trying to send words of love through the airwaves to my everything, who was cowering in a corner of the algebra classroom three stories up.

In the movies, goodbyes are always a performance. They are dramatic and gut wrenching. They are sobs into the sky, and screams into the night. What the movies don't prepare you for is the idea that your goodbye could be an eight letter text message, or a whisper no one would ever hear. As I waited for a reply, I wondered what would happen if this was the end. Maybe I'd hear her name on the radio that the teacher was holding, read from a list of casualties from another teen drama. Maybe I'd come home to find her name plastered across tv screens, my best friend's face synonymous with a caricature of tragedy.

If they made a Lifetime movie about this, I wonder who would play her, what glamorous Hollywood actress would dissect her personality and attempt to transform into a pale ghost of the girl I've known since childhood. I wondered how much money she would make for wearing a dead girl's skin.

Somehow, "school shooting" has become a marketable phrase and sold to me with a perfect soundtrack and a dramatic title. I wonder how much money I have given to the same people who wouldn't hesitate to turn my tragedy into a blockbuster for all to see, as they fill fiction with the faces of the nonfictional dead.

The voice on the radio signaled the all clear. The girl next to me breathed the deepest sigh of relief I have ever heard. My best friend sent back a text much longer than eight letters. A happy ending, I suppose. But as I walked out of that auditorium, something shattered inside of me. I will never hear a gunshot without imagining it coming from behind my best friend, never watch the news without wondering why it wasn't us, never see a bullet without feeling it pierce my mind.

I haven't been to a single action movie since.

I've already lived one.
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
I lay here feeling warm and a bit sickly
Bringing myself back to where I belong
In front of a piece of digital papyrus and my fingers caressing the keys
And creating life in forms of fiction and nonfictional word play
Writing of things I’ve seen, things I’ve done
People I know people who have touched my life in one way or another
Persons who have decided to leave my life
Ah let them go to live their own
All is well
And I have learned that now
I say good bye to the one who made me experience love for the first time
I say good bye to the one who makes callous remarks to ones he held dear
I say goodbye to the one who acted as superior as they wished they were
I say goodbye to the new born youth and wish them luck and my the spirit of life carry you
I say good bye to the one whose time I wasted and to them I give an apology as deep as my insecurities for I wish I was stronger to confront them when you were around but at least now you know what makes you happy
I say hello to the one who is in the pit of despair as I was but only 2 years ago
I say hello to the one who is in a moral quandary not unlike mine all those summers ago
And I say hello to the one next door whose footsteps remain to be right behind mine, my dear friend I love you and I shall help you, all of you for you would and have done the same for me
And I fall to my knees and bow my head onto the gritty ground in praise of the radiant beauty of the soul that has picked me up and taken me to what seems to be the realm of relief
Words cannot express the thanks and worship I have for you
I say good morning to the one who brings out the human in me
I make lunch for the one who feeds my heart with love so pure and true
I will take you where ever you want; you want to be with me
That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard
No wait that is your voice so sweet and honest it’s like the blast from the shiny brass trumpet in a jazz jam
Oh, my life has been renewed
My life has changed
Yet again but it has never stopped
Nor shall I
I will continue to grow and learn and unavoidably get hurt along the way
I had what I thought was the most important thing in the universe taken away and completely and utterly destroyed
I lost my faith, faith in it, faith in myself, and faith in others
Until I saw that nothing had changed I was just facing the wrong way and not listening to my inner self
I am now back on the right track and I will fight to make sure nothing derails me
Dorothy A Oct 2014
I've been quiet for a season
Like the dormancy of winter
Yet I am quite longing for growth of a revolutionary spring
To rise up from my deep hibernation
To bring those tales that beg to take form
The empty screen is longing
To become filled with poetic messages
And works of fictional and nonfictional tales
These fingers itching to type words
To bring them to full fruition
This mind is more than willing
Like a bloom ready to unfold its intricate petals
To spill forth its secrets

Hearing the call
Fidgety to the poking
Feeling the hunger
Responding to the mighty urge
I cannot stop that grumbling murmur within
That has fell into slumber
The reawakening in my soul, stirring
Me into action

So I write, again
kg Mar 2013
a lot of things are a great inspiration to me
so many things catch my eye and make my heart swell
like i've never felt it swell before, feeling as if though
maybe it'll just rip itself right out of my chest
perhaps i'm just too over emotional, because
i'll catch myself tearing up at the littlest thing
that makes me feel like
"****, maybe i can be better than i am
no **** that, i know i can"
or even if it's just a movie about a kid named hiccup
who shows that he's better than all of that ****
to save a friend and show the world that there's more than just this
man, i'll just be a baby in tears, holding myself in a blanket
"thank god there's people like that"
great fictional people, that i admire more than anything
and then other great nonfictional people that do such amazing things
with their amazing words and the power of their voice
never before have i been so inspired
watching youtube videos while i sit on my *** and imagine a better me
in a better place.

i get caught up in the hype and i never push myself to get to where i want to go
and that's the downside of the major inspiration shot
leaving me buzzed for hours so that i can't even catch a wink of sleep
lying in bed staring at the christmas lights that i've hung in the room
strands of the string already dying because christmas joy isn't meant to be left up all year round
where is the joy in the sparkling colours if it's always there to see
the disaster and sadness is a constant need in everyones life
to help push the young dreamer off of the deflating air mattress
stressing to her that this isn't all there is but first things first
is to get out there and remember the old cliche
that if there's no pain there is no gain in the end.

so what if i had an awful childhood
and i drew the short straw and got the dysfunctional family that
has left me with some serious daddy issues that, ****
maybe i won't ever get over
but **** it if i'm going to let it go to me,
and **** it if i dated a boy that didn't give a **** about me
that he gave me a broken heart and stomped all over my feelings
even though i turned around and did the same to another boy down the line
well how about that
it just went full circle,
and i know i'll have those days where it hurts to even get out of bed
but i do it to get where i want to
reaching my hands out for the better day that i know is just around the corner.
Circa 1994 Sep 2015
tell me something,
like how it feels when we finally kiss after a huge fight.
how the cold wind rushes past cheeks flushed red from  the warmth of liquor.
we said so many things when we were upset.
I barely remember why.
I do remember the smooth brush of your stubble
as you'd nuzzle
against me.
And making love in the kitchen,
the smell of homemade tomato sauce still lingering.
Pounds upon pounds in my pockets after a night out on the town.
drinking cider,
drinking red stripe,
drinking wine til I cry.

All those things we said
when we stayed in bed.
Exchange a glance.
have a tumble til our bellies rumble.

This is a nonfictional romance.
for the one I call bub, captain, and boo
Antara Majumder Aug 2019
And she lost her appetite
For books,
They failed her the world they had
Promised in their
Nonfictional narratives: the theory Of Politics, the magnanimity of History, the golden outlines of Economics she felt so proud to
Have touched on her fingertips;
In times gone by,
She could see they pivoted.
She had no use for
Empty things anymore;
Casual walks, casual reading  Casual coffee, casual ***
That the world glorified and lied;
Her rigid mind used profanity
Against whatever was termed
Casual!
Casual was disturbing, blinding, addicting,
Accountable for everything that
Became usual, by the book!
She used to devour books once--
Word by word, space by space, Page after page,
Chewing softly on the paper
Breaking down to its last molecule,
Until she could taste the wood pulp
In her mouth;
She savoured the taste of the dead
Trees on her tongue
And it edged sharper, her mind
Wiser, she bustier!
But the butchers caught her
Poetry in their poultry of unreal
Policies in no time, they farmed
Her brains and she bled profusely!
And the world watched and shrugged
Casually!
She sold her soul that smelled like Papier-mâché and the butchers Could see its potential in the gleam Of their Knives of the dark;
She burnt her books to make some
Light and saw
Through her burning flesh,
Other meats appeared to take her place..
the world as we knew had changed drastically around us, wise minds are sell-outs and bought by leaders of every nation. Books do not uphold the ideals they had shown us, we fell into a series of disappointments.
Author. Nothing his radar
Escapes. All things he knows,
Even the wind that blows.

All gods ere him stoop, bowing
Together to the majesty in
Heaven's realm. Great his manifold
Wonders. Excellent every craft
And work of his hand. The world
Whole waltz upon his golden cart.

Man, the opus of his creation:
The only in his image cast.
Unequalled in form and fashion--
From his first to his last.

Nought exits that was uncreated;
Nonfictional be the Genesis' account.
Scores of theories scientists great invented--
All, Scripture and faith, does discount.

In awe stand: the Alpha hail; laud the Omega.
brandon nagley May 2015
Such adhesive slugs to **** the blood of advocate beings,
Amiss extinct classiness,
None more is around!!!

Industry smokestacks line the insubordinate intellectuals,
Where perpetuals deal!!!!

Irritable bowels rumble,
Tumble to irriversable steel!!!

Kidnapper of kinded phenomenals,
Journals to all biographies,
Juvenile junction games of fallen pained dominoes!!!

Tallons sharper than tatted guns,
Wherein spears go through thy side,
To draweth out thine unholy water!!!!

Sunglassed bringer of right and wrong,
Fiction has been dusked to nonfictional hostile!!

No komonoed kitten here purs,
No lamb to be put for all to gather!!!
No one may lather when none comes around....

No landmark amazement,
No mountainous town,
No linience,
None remembrance abounds to fulfill light footed doers!!!

The pagination of this story counterclocks distant ships emmersed stations,
Where some wherein are strange,
Where the faces you see are painted!!!!

All love,
No hatred!!!

Doth thou ask for a captains ship?
Or a tribal slaves boat?

Which part wilt thou sail among the islands of thy own kind!!!!!
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Such adhesive slugs to **** the blood of advocate beings
Amiss extinct classiness

No more is around
Industry smokestacks line the insubordinate intellectuals
Wherein perpetuals deal!!!

Irritable bowels
Grumble
Tumble
To irreversible steel!!!

Kidnapper of kindred phenomenals
Journals to all biographies
Juvenile junction
Games of fallen pained dominoes

Tallons sharper than tatted guns
Wherein spears go through thy side
To draw out Thy unholy water!!!

Sunglassed bringer
Of right and wrong
Fictions been dusked
To nonfictional jostle!!!!

No kimonoed kitten here purs!!!

No lamb to be put
For all to gather!!!!

No one may lather
When no one comes around...

No landmark amazement
No mountainous town....

No lenience
No rememberance abound to fulfill
Light footed doers!!!

The pagination of this story
Counter-clocks distant solar immersed stations!!!

Where some are strange
Where faces are painted

All love
No hatred!!!!

Doth thou ask for captains ship?
Or a tribal slaves boat?

Which part wilt thou sail amongst?
Island's of thy own kind!!!!!
Every day, except on the week’s tail,
We’d reunite afresh for the ninth time,
This period away from campus,
Behind this small, lonely brick house,
An outcast beside the field of active childhood,
Shielding ourselves within a concrete square
At the edge of the earth,
Where a new world always awaited
For its only population’s arrival
With a train still resting and rusting on old tracks.

I get caught in the moment of happiness.
Your back is up against the wall,
And I am your reflection.
My fingers are warm and moist
As your cold breath is beating on my neck.
“This is what love feels like,” you said surely,
With your cute high-pitched voice,
Adjusting your physique out of self-consciousness,
To attract my shy, indirect eyes for enhancement
When you were more than enough at that point in time.

Glistening sludgy flesh covered with soaked material
Clothed over your bewildered mind
As my heart tried pacing along with yours,
Aching to be one harmonization.
Your excitement was interrupted as you reached the ******,
Still craving for repeated relief and desired euphoria.
Cradling with naivety and no weight to carry,
It was easy to slowly sway like friendly fish at first,
Only a pile of shaky bones rocking back and forth in unison,
Just like the last dance you saved for me four years later.

Then two having the option:
To sit and recite sharp words and hide from selfish society, where promises would imminently be broken
Or lie and make blades dull and stare straight at the blue screen, where judgment would subsequently be found.
Those imaginative and nonfictional stories we told carelessly,
Seeking the sound of our comforting voices,
Just to create conversation and an entertaining impression,
Embodying our lives back into the kids we used to enjoy being.
After the parade, we knew we’d eventually sell out to a cliché.
Laughter would become closure after your departure with the bees,
And our sacred place would transform into any other ghetto by one of us.

At the end of the adventures of Lovita and Stopacho,
I couldn’t resist inhaling missed, edible hope,
As I perpetually did of poetic infatuation,
Near the spot which changed my life alone with you.
I must keep this setting alive for both adolescents,
So we’ll never die like your presence did,
Most importantly, because there was truth in all of that.
Maybe an alternate universe is reserved for us at the same disfigured location.
Those were the most delicious slush floats ever though.
Now they’ll never taste ideal again. Never again.
my healthy body, mind
   and spirit triage progression,
   initially sans just
   an innocuous psychotic spur

severe psychoneurotic
   manifestations didst rupture
whence me childhood's end
   as a psychological postfracture

catastrophically highjacking
   (via overpressure)
   donned with gay incognito
   vis a vis sans
   tartan Scottish Harris

   (Boss) tweed welcome mat
   plain as day affliction
   obvious nondisclosure
whip saw mental health

   pubescent misadventure
with deleterious, hellacious,
   and lecherous mailer daemons
   indelibly etched within mine kempf

   nightmare nonfictional
   sigh hick locust plague
   odious autobiographical literature
at that perilous juncture

when all of a sudden onslaught
   germinated feelings deeply rooted
   finding shattered, leveled, and fractured
   flintstone bedrock

   viz yours truly insecure
pestilential, kickstarted
   littoral heretical, diabolical pernicious,
   insidious, and avaricious
  
   cerebral heady hot house
   embedded, fixated,
   grafted "horticulture"
sowed "Kudzu" tendrils
   analogous to Oriental gravure

   immune to organizing, strangling,
   wrangling foreclosure,
essentially usurping,
   torquing, stagnating,
   rotting prepubescent
   healthy development.
Razo Jan 2018
Highway chasin', lotto cashin
Stashin' out the vehicles to the homies
Girl cheating but I still answer the call
I can block her but she can't stand me
I just relapsed, coincidentally my phone tapped.
Take a seat on his lap, making him proud; clap clap
Paper chasin', police statin',
Mom fainting in the living room
we fight, awake she says im loved
She the key to m heart
When the Glass Shatters, It never Matters
'Cept when you need a fix tomorrow
Looking through the blinds of homes,
forgetting the items you 'tole.
Story be told, I'm made of gold.
Uncut, Original
Lucky, Nonfictional
We busted from the frictions
No rubbers, but I stutter when I lie
Safana Sep 2020
We strive hard
We strive hard
We are not,
Civil engineers
to build a building
we are just, commoners
with nothing to do, we
are the people with
pens and papers to put
an upper and lower cases
to construct a word
and the sentences, to build
an estates of book, towers of
journal, bunkers of magazine,
Dams of newspaper, bridges of
confidential and the cities of poetry,
we are jobless, but we draw imaginations and realities, we
bring light to transport the darkness
away, we think nonfictional and fictionally and we do all and all

— The End —