In a world of standing ovations
I have people sitting.

In the Webster dictionary beauty is defined as:
"The quality of being physically attractive"
And it never specifies what attractive is...who gets to decide it
but...
The screens, the magazines, they all scream
In high definition their definition of "beauty"

Beauty is itty bitty waists and walking twigs
negative spaces between legs that subtract another's value
if the gap is not there
It is lipstick and pale pink blush on rearranged faces
like children playing dress up
or a giant game of make-believe we are made to believe
that something is wrong with the way we look
And we have been directed well
the cruel criticism oozing out of over-injected lips
typed out with freshly manicured tips
"she has weird *****" "you have a weird nose" "lay off the cookies"
we read off the scripts, taking turns playing the villain and the victim
and there are no heroes here
There are no standing ovations, no thunderous claps await

Is anyone really watching?
                                                  Does anyone really see?

With pain hardened eyes we glare
we compare compare compare
ourselves to the models, the barbie dolls, the flawless magazines
our friends, our sisters, strangers on the street
and in our rooms before the mirror
our reflection the bearer of bad news
"you are not the fairest of them all"

will we ever be?
So much trial for so much error
we are worn thin and even so
even so we are told to lose a few
And we run, endlessly
in the hopes that we may be worth something


If only we would realize that beauty is a noun, a word created by man
between beaten and become
If we win this race we will have beaten the monster society has become
and see
that we are all worth more than words                      
                                                                ­ **we are flying off the page

Black out, fade in,
spot light on the boy with his guitar.
Dim light, dim blue flush,
she sits in the corner,wishing on her imaginary star.
Same stage, same adrenaline,
same passion but time never intended for them to meet.
She plays on her role,
and he strums away at his gig.
Sound of guitar coming from his window,
no audience and no standing ovations.
On rented wings, she takes flight,
no rehearsals, no scripts,just tucked away passion.
In his camouflaged green,
he wakes up to his responsibility.
In her traditional prints,
she's all set for the working society.
The clock strikes twelve,
it's the end of two thousand ten.
He's at the eating place
and she comes by with her friends.
He's sitting at the corner
and she's at the other end.
Their eyes met for the very first time,
when they reach out to shake hands.
No lights, no stage,
no audience and that adrenaline.
Just the boy with his guitar, strumming
and in his room she sits, watching.
She talks about the plays, the roles
and in his room he strums, listening.
No lights, no stage,
no audience, just he and her,and their spoken adrenaline.
Twenty-six February,
two thousand eleven.
He and her,
like a match made in heaven.
You know what they said about heaven and earth?
A new chapter begins
for the guitarist and the wannabe actress.

~

Shadows move on sheet rock barriers
framed in time of late
Spaces filled with unknown visions
dance about with feet of clay
Gowns of nightmare carpetbaggers
thunder on the floor
Drippings in a mist of nervous breath
blanket my safe haven
and the sounds scream
in voices of past mishaps
Lost in lonely corridors,
wailing on aching skylights
permitting barely a moon glow psalm
to echo of their meaning
in songs from a distance,
of pleading skeletal desire

“I fear for I have no choice”

Doorways yawn in weary ovations
Slanted photos dot the landscape
Windows prove little relief from the cold
as heat pierces my cavities
Gaping wounds of frail memories
clutch at my last ounce,
measuring the words I am reading
Taking a breath, sweet, stagnant
Clawing for an exit only to find
it has stood before me all along
Baby steps, I have been told
Find that trust, slowly…make sure,
reach out for the hand
offered on a dreamscape message

“I fear for I have no choice?”

Eyes, so tired, weeping pools
out of focus since that day, open
(As if sunflowers float on silken wings
and glorious becomes an understood word)
slowly and tentatively,
blinking sorrow’s pathway free
to lead me to you
The imprint of that butterfly
marks my palm in red lines of love,
mapping my skin with a long awaited
smile, dry lips curve as I take your hand
trusting, for the very first time
realizing the feeling
which hath finally…set me free

“I no longer fear, for I have a choice”

He presents what you see
with impeccable finesse.
He hides everything else behind the curtains.
Heavily veiled by his smiles...
Cleverly masked behind his script.

He stands elevated, taking his stage.
From his vantage he sees all.
He allows his facade to bask in the light...
Whilst keeping his back in the shadow.

He's renowned.
By the light that kills the dark.
He's addicted to the nightly ovations,
cascading cheers and gleaming reviews.

But every show has an end.
Come every dawn, he wakes to the reality
that tolls at his door.
He's owned and he knows it...
Too well,
by the stage he built
and the drama he wrote and casted.

And I built shrines in my eyes to you
to mourn what I never had but still held onto.
Dove into an ocean of profound blue
only to come out still nothing anew.
I look out at fig trees
ponder like the Greek’s great Socrates
question my disease,
the words I can’t release.
My life spinning all around him
orbitals of light grown dim.
Through space you cannot swim
from the sins you have been condemned.
If I am mad as they say
how do I still walk the driveway?
Worship on the Lord’s day;
get down on my knees and pray?

Faithful I am, still, to the life I have lived
however disguised.
Loving, as I will when all has died.
Everything you’ve seen is advertised,
a movie set in frames
the tape up in flames.
How tired she is of playing your games,
mouths running to blame.
Me? I am just fine.
Owing it all to bottles on bottles of sparkling wine,
to you and your redesigned
view of the dividing line.

If you wake a girl from her dreams
the gentle chug of a mind’s machine
will it break down, by all means?
It’s better to let her softly scream.
Than distract from the will of inspiration,
of art and death's flirtation.
Continue the persisting narration
speak her mind, give it standing ovations!

defeat is only an objective.
as I lead I gain prospective
haters hate through being deceptive
the envy spreads like sheets infective
while they creep
playing detective
wolve in sheep
until their accepted
their reasoning is subjective
I just wait until they reach
then disconnected their connective
I'm a beast, I can't be infected
work off pure instinct
raw fear instantly detected
human nature,
to be expected
my only actions
moving forward is corrective
i exceed all expectations
with standing ovations,
use to bring power to foreign nations
outworking occupations
make so much sense
i get paid vacations
my buildings, block foundations
I empowered nations for generations

~

Choices



Shadows move on sheet rock barriers
framed in time of late
Spaces filled with unknown visions
dance about with feet of clay
Gowns of nightmare carpetbaggers
thunder on the floor
Drippings in a mist of nervous breath
blanket my safe haven
and the sounds scream
in voices of past mishaps
Lost in lonely corridors,
wailing on aching skylights
permitting barely a moon glow psalm
to echo of their meaning
in songs from a distance,
of pleading skeletal desire

“I fear for I have no choice”

Doorways yawn in weary ovations
Slanted photos dot the landscape
Windows prove little relief from the cold
as heat pierces my cavities
Gaping wounds of frail memories
clutch at my last ounce,
measuring the words I am reading
Taking a breath, sweet, stagnant
Clawing for an exit only to find
it has stood before me all along
Baby steps, I have been told
Find that trust, slowly…make sure,
reach out for the hand
offered on a dreamscape message

“I fear for I have no choice?”

Eyes, so tired, weeping pools
out of focus since that day, open
(As if sunflowers float on silken wings
and glorious becomes an understood word)
slowly and tentatively,
blinking sorrow’s pathway free
to lead me to you
The imprint of that butterfly
marks my palm in red lines of love,
mapping my skin with a long awaited
smile, dry lips curve as I take your hand
trusting, for the very first time
realizing the feeling
which hath finally…set me free

“I no longer fear, for I have a choice”

With pompous fanfare I delight those few,
To smiles and loud ovations from afar,
Who sit upon my daydream's blessed pew,
And light night's darkened pathways as the stars,

With half-truths, bland omissions, outright lies,
I paint the murals colored by success,
To cover over failures, my disguise,
And hide their idol God has yet to bless,

For had I told the truth and never lied,
Those precious few would see and nod their heads,
Acknowledge my ejection justified,
Accept their children's love for me as dead,

For any food that fails to carry taste,
Is cast aside as utter worthless waste.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

The taxi is silent the driver's stopped trying
A crossing appears with no pedestrians crossing
Houses line the street with a warm yellow lighting
The night drizzle lightens, the pavements start frosting.

Shouldn't winter nights be spent comfortably
Rapped in familiarity?

Turn into the car park, the barrier is rising
Wretched is the destination, cold and disheartening
One day you'll return and your mindset will brighten
For now we will visit under the cold grey lighting.

Should I dare to peak inside?
The driver shrugs. I daren't decide.

The automatic doors squeak ominously open
No round of applause, no standing ovations
A pin could be heard, the canteen is broken
Seldom celebrated, there are few worse locations.

Should I lower my temperament
Become stoic and sensible?

The escalator moans while taking us further
The corridors smell stale, they echo a murmur
A slip-away comment in a labyrinth of tension
Hospital blue reflects in the eyes of the visitors.

Could I muster the strength to go inside?
I'm here, I've done it, all sadness must hide.

The nurse hands over the apron, i feel inhuman,
You lie propped on a cushion, restlessly muttering.
'It's a bad dream, it's okay' I'm nervously stuttering.
My stomach churns at the pain you're experiencing.

Should i dare to show my tears?
I needn't alarm onlookers and familiars.

Your bed-light flickers, the room dissapears
In the darkness we're calm, inhibitions are cleared
Such split-second clarity has calmed me for years.
I smile fearlessly pulling your hand gently nearer.

Should I dare to leave your side?
I'd blame myself, it would shatter my pride.

So here we sit for hours on end, semiconscious
Semi-talking, the volta on which all cruxces depend
Your dream-like graciousness cleanses and encompasses;
Myself and others, regale tales of your accomplishments.

My father never told me
To "just be myself"
To "search first for my wealth"
To  "seek ye first the Kingdom
Or quench the fires in hell"

Just one thing instilled in these,
My randomly pulsating crevasses
The sacks now in my chest,
The ever-beating evidence,
With everything I feel
And everything I believe in
Regardless the time or season,
Or the countless cries and pleas for remorse:
That I would know the course

Stay ahead

But now I see within me
I'm breeding with pride and envy
And the sickness is a symptom
Of what makes me feel empty

I'm tired of situations
Calling for analyzation
And heartfelt anticipation
Of other standing ovations
For the things I see are breaking

In here

I'm caged by the guilt I have laid
At the feet of the people I've played
And those I've used as supports
(They caught their heart in the door)
Unaware of what's in store for them

They couldn't see into my eyes,
The disguise through which I try
To hide all my ghosts and why's
And all the things kept inside in order to

Stay ahead

The needy, greedy child with eyes for the spotlight
With emotions bigger, even, than his head
And the same mud blood, barely red
Just like his father's
Who's always "just fine" and says "don't even bother"
Because "today, everything is going my way."

I'm tired of who I am and how people see me
I'm never good enough and there's always a flaw and no matter how hard I try I cannot get past the thought that I am just simply not worth the time.
That even the influential adults in my life have something bad to say and that's all they say.
I'm not worth the positive reviews and the standing ovations because even when I think I'm at my best, someone tears me down.
criticize me on who I am because I make mistakes
like every other human being on this planet
but because I'm young and have more room to learn
I am more susceptible to harsh words and "constructive criticism"
but what happened to building each other up
and as a Christian
loving thy neighbor as thyself
and how God can only judge us
but how come
these words
hurt worse
coming from a friends mouth
about what their mother says about me behind my back.

here lies a name etched into marble stone,
a date of birth, a date of death as well,
a history that now has left its bone,
with nothing more to do, nothing to tell,

inductive reasoning may well infer
the tiny puzzle pieces into one
mere picture, full or partial, one interred
human, or not, you may as well be done,

i've lived an uneventful hidden life,
no accolades, nor sitting mute ovations,
but struggled unsuccessfuly in strife,
a lifetime night, with rare lightning occasions,

so now get up and walk along your way,
make room for other puzzled minds to fray

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

behold the art
of Loghain
a poet possessed
with fine refrain

one is in awe
of his exemplary creations
they're deserving
of deafening ovations

The highway thru bus to love, and as the curtain has arisen, so is the story.  It’s a hot day in the midst of summer when two musicians are about to find each other, and the analysis of Chemistry 101. The story takes place in Downtown Pittsburgh at the Pittsburgh Transportation Center on Greyhound for a journey to New York City. You see, Judy Smith, an accomplished Pianist is about to venture at Carnegie Hall for a concert. Because Judy hit all the right notes of melody, it was University of Pittsburgh in their amateur night sponsored by the Music department under the guidance of Professor Geoffrey Tuner. Now John Minichiello, an accomplished Violist from the Pittsburgh music arrangement society sponsored by the creator, John Carey. Back in his day, he was an extraordinary Orchestra Leader. Joseph was also going to play at Carnegie Hall.

Before the bus even arrives in New York City, there will be a music harmony of its own having a love tone and tranquility in a relationship in the making while at a Rest Stop. At Gate 18, a Greyhound Prevost with the destination in bold letters, NEW YORK, NY was ready for boarding for a 10:00 am departure. It the trip would take 7 hours. The Greyhound Driver was busy exchanging passenger Tickets at the gate, and the Baggage Handler was loading the bus. Judy Smith was in front of Joseph Minichiello, which he accidentally bumped into Judy Smith, which Joseph apologized, and Judy stated no problem. One begins to wonder, was the bump really an accident or a way of getting Judy Smith’s attention. The bus was backing out of the departure gate on time precisely at 10:00 am. The bus was going through the downtown streets of Pittsburgh heading for the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

Finally, the bus was moving swiftly on the turnpike passing cars and trucks. At about 2:00 pm, a rest stop was made at Breezewood, PA. The Greyhound Driver announced that the rest stop would be for 30 minutes. Oh good, here’s my chance too stretch my legs stated Joseph Minichiello. As all the passengers had gotten off, Joseph Minichiello and Judy Smith seemed too settle for another area of the rest stop, where Judy Smith was reading her music that she was going to play at the concert. Mind you now, none of them knew each other, but that is about to change. Judy looked over her shoulder, and asked Joseph, “What instrument do you play?” and Joseph replied, “The Violin”. Judy responded that she is a Pianist heading for Carnegie Hall. What a coincidence Joseph responded, he told Judy he was heading to Carnegie Hall as well to perform. They talked and talked, and almost missed the bus at the rest stop. They boarded the bus and proceeded onward to New York City. The bus was now on the New Jersey Turnpike. In the distance looking close was too far was New York City. It is now 5:00 pm, and the bus has entered rush hour traffic going into the Lincoln Tunnel. Finally, the Hound bus enters the Lincoln Tunnel heading for the final destination of New York City within the Port Authority Bus Terminal. The bus pulls into Gate 64, which the arrivals are Gates 62 through 66. When everyone is disembarking, Judy Smith asks where Joseph Minichiello is staying, and he said, “He will check into a hotel, but Judy suggested, why don’t you stay with me at the Carnegie Hall Tower complex as her University supplied everything, and Joseph said yes, why not.

It was a subway ride to West 57th Street on the R train. Up they went in the elevator to their room, which had a panoramic view of numerous New York City Skyscrapers, which the Big Apple is known for. Joseph stated he wanted to take a shower. So he showered then later came out of the bathroom in just a towel wrapped around his body. It was wrecking Judy’s senses of curiosity as to what size was under that towel. The ripped abs didn’t help either. Out of the blue, Joseph began to kiss Judy, and she became weak under his spell, and wanted more. Joseph then picked her up, and escorted her to the bedroom for unstoppable loving action, which added the tones of sequence with the playing of her ivories of melody.

The concert is tonight, and the music accompaniment is about to begin. Judy smith on the Piano with soothing sounds of peace and comfort, and on the Violin was Joseph Minichiello call of the wild and embracing the soul into taming the beast from within. Then the entire orchestra joined in for a musical night that for the entire audience that they would never forget. Loud applause and standing ovations rang out. This was a night Judy Smith and Joseph Minichiello will always remember. They played musical notes of their own, but not for the audience. They kissed behind the curtain, and it was music of the skies that brought them together, and the intermittent Hound bus for bringing people together.

He entered this world but to be deprived
Through conscious mind as a twinless twin;
A child then teen driven with mother's pride
To defeat daily taunting and chagrin.
His character mold based on poverty
Provided persuasion by song and verse;
He revealed true meaning of liberty
While elite declared he a wicked curse.

Modern lifestyle assured he'd not bypass
Drug induced pain and sinful temptations;
But with early death, he seemed to amass
Rightful honour and esteemed ovations.

His words should be played on neon marquee,
“I'm just the singer who wanted to be.”

she is my inspiration.
motivation,
concentration,
my rejuvenation,
i will make a declaration
for this infiltration
of exhilarating exaggeration,
of our joining corporations.
while your vibrations
trigger my salvation of
sensational temptation.
like a starvation that you feel on
a beautiful vacation.
this flirtation of adaptation
that we take into notation
without any negotiation
of our confirmation that we
apply in applications
in calibration
with our wildest aspirations.
our conversations make me
feel dehydration
like my education is an exclamation
its not an estimation of our escalation.
this desperation
our correlation is stronger than any  confederation.
you're the most beautiful creation,
and you deserve one hundred standing ovations.
i love you

Truth carved by the bold
Wish you were the muse loved by the World
Art belittled to products, hurts like brand-new shoes
My heart brittles for such, coz’ of these brand-new fools
Cheers, accolades with standing ovations feeding our desires
I hear echoes late, is it withstanding storms with patience or cheating the fire? Get to the point where angry is Love,
And touch the soil so you can hang me for being a dove
Unnatured species promiscuous with the bloodline of Iscariot, the nerve…Read this uncensored thesis, like how you believe in Prometheus, syfys and these patriots you serve...
I’d Love to tell you that the yolk of my heart resonates a planet unknown…That the Soul of my Art will exonerate you from this magnet ten fold. That Existence is preliminary to existing, not the other way round. That this is the military of my existence, to figure the way out…

**But…when last have you seen a human being?

Love's garment woven with endearments
Ovations shared in heart harmony
Vows- the genesis of love's endeavor
Enduring love cultivated with kindness

          ~when love precipitates, selfishness evaporates~

There were no grand pronouncements
No standing ovations or help desk waiting
No nurse on standby for a stand-up guy
No friend at Jack’s bar to pat him on the back
And send him home in a taxi cab

There was no Monday mail that wished him well
No national pride that made him swell
Just this hell a sorry state for sale
And no one he wanted to tell

So, with nothing to show
He let the bullet go and watched the blood flow
No fire alarms sounded, no ambulance rounded the corner
No other mourners other than the quiet night coroner
Nothing left but an empty room and a short obit
That gave his name cause of death and that was it

The flags languish
expecting to see
no light of day
until
once again
proud veterans
march down
a thousand main streets
their shiny shoes
striking pavements
their ears filled with
standing ovations
their faces
smiling with pride
as they pass by
in
perfect
parade
formation

satisfaction when falling
into the bottomless
two minutes slip by

all my lifetime of trying to recognize
spiritual masters, instead -
potential parents
flood the tunnels with the bad manners and
dressed in dark grey and green

such repugnance -
decadent as **** malevich
i crawl into his smoky rib cage
forget that the language
is dead.
he pauses, rushes and pants
paints his face skeleton
eyelids blank like i pictured - but
no seattle sound. math rock and machines going off they rocker
no rolling stone
**** her string along that neck
come back reborn. shut the door
collapse in the bathroom, throwing up
into the telephone -
sa ding **** made up words
or looped cuban songs -
back in the day is gone
not anymore not anymore

what do ripped jeans mean to you?
or 16th century persian poets?
when your mind is set afire
swarthed
you like women in klimt’s canvas
light beams through your slits
so you won’t drown in
ruthless thoughts stream
when your deafened ear catches
the ovations
pervading, dying blue note
still not the ending

madame blavatsky unfolding the envelope:
i’m the circle on palm leaf manuscripts
with a dot in the middle -
you’re the reason. the clarity and the void
the eye in between
the missing capstone, i am the folklore
strange beings with fishtail and
i might be the lizard
king, violet violent dressed in crimson
you squeezing them lemons
tequila so creamy
when spiky black leather rips through
the wires, sound effects are your favorite
print shops, in them zines. your dialect
you savor - licking your lips,
saturated and smeared, paranoid
black sabbatical
moon-kissed.

i know you all umbilical visceral
bite your teeth into and cut
catalonia - two halves, dry mouth
and scorching sun
you know i’m subtler than the red
a lotus flower growing in the west
silk sheets in ultraviolet, as soon as
you come to rest
i can smell the war in your curl
jet black and charcoal -
no matte.

no hole in your chest - yet
microchips, they flicker
under your skin as the muscles twitch
in the rem sleep;
black madonna’s humble soft gaze
through the painted veil. marble or onyx
did you feel defeated? when you’ve fallen?
into the bottomless - unknowing
fungus-like growing
upsidedown along with the
torus

cycles and waves, when it’s not subatomic
i wish we’d perceived past the
electromagnetic; distant planets and stars
tease my potential. if only
i wasn’t eclectic, if only
i was in zazen

i accept; sit back sense the vibrations
mind-vacuumed perception not split into parts;
a black whole: if you, color, still there
up high; this deceiving metronome
sound time-travelling in circles
splashes across; carmen in carmine
a girl walks home alone
feline; l'via, cygnus,
jimi,
come on
why don’t you set me free

reality is all that exists.
context is the curtain edge of
the proscenium.
the play is
you and I
performing every day.
ovations and uproar
are all just noise in the end.

She barely remembers the first time she receives flowers, a quiet girl of 6 or 7 standing amidst glaring lights in well worn ballet shoes. The faces of the audience in front of her are a blur; all she knows is the mixed rush of relief and gratitude that months of hard work have culminated into a show worthy of standing ovations and teary eyed smiles from proud parents. The flowers aren't even truly for her, she's only a carrier for them - her ballet teacher the true receiver - but she supposes that for a moment before she passes it on she can pretend the bouquet that covers her face entirely is hers, pretend that she warrants the same pride that everyone else seems to have obtained but her.

The second time is slightly different, more memorable only because she's near death (or dead, there isn't really a distinct difference at that point) on a hospital bed with the light filtering in through the blinds. The doctors can't figure out what's wrong so they inject her body with every sort of painkiller imaginable to the human body. She's pretty sure 12 pills in a day accompanied by an anesthetic drip that slows her system to oblivion has to be illegal somehow, but she can't stay awake for more than half an hour at a time to argue so she takes them in anyway. The flowers are a gift, a showcase of love and concern- although from who she really can't recall - and are a welcome addition to the dull palette of the room. They're the first thing she sees when she wakes up and the last thing she sees before she dozes off, and since she miraculously recovers after a grueling 2 weeks of pain she's sure they're magical somehow. "They must be," her mother says, astounded when she listens to her daughter speak, "I didn't see anything there."

The charm hits by the third time she receives flowers, standing face to face with a boy she's only met once but felt too much with, dim lights casting shadows on their figures. She can't hide the shock on her face as he abruptly thrusts the bouquet into her hands, pastel pinks and purples coming into view. This was never part of the agreement - although really, the entire situation was never actually a choice for either of them - and yet somehow a pleasant surprise. As they tumble into the car, she thanks him and asks his reasons for the unexpected gift although she's pretty sure she already knows. "I just wanted to get it for you." He replies, eyes sparkling with something she can't quite name but knows anyway. The rest of the night continues that way, unreal and perfect. She was right, she thinks, a smile slowly making its way across her face; maybe it'll be okay this time. Maybe it'll finally work.

-

There isn't a fourth, fifth or sixth time she receives flowers, but she can tell you the number of times she's experienced heartbreak on the tip of her tongue. She receives it in the same way the petals before have fallen through her fingers, giving her something to feel besides numbing shock. Maybe constant loss is similar to the flowers she has held before in some twisted way; aches blooming in the form of bruised hearts, wilting in the dark, temporary, fleeting.

(A.H.Z)

Butterflies clap wings,
Orange poppies splay in wind,
  .  .  .  Ovations to the sun.

Heard powerful words move men to
action
“Hail ******”
Millions of innocent souls lost deaths
so hideous
ironically
there are no words to describe

“I have a Dream”
50,000 Americans march onto their
capital to claim the God given right
to be equal.
The same words
Moving through time
staying strong
to where 30 years later
a small white girl
3rd grade
in rural Kansas
echos those same words
in a report on how the world ought
to be

I have seen great words
lost and alone
Concealed beneath pages
Stacked on lined walls
Masters who have manipulated
even the most minute syllable
to affect how you feel, learn, believe.
Vaporized to the literary abyss of the
library Knowledge untapped
Mute wisemen.

Last words
spoken
Desperate to sum up a life in one
B—R—E—A—T—H
what to say......?
what to say......?
One last, “Tell my, fill in the blank, I
love them.”

Or cheaters who manufacture
manuscripts
to be read at their own funerals
pre-written, pre-thought-out ovations
of pathetic lives in an attempt to give
them worth. Sadly, still trying to fool
others by sounding spontaneous
extemporaneous
Even after their heart STOPS

By: Cedric McClester

People don’t seem
To want the truth
Even when you offer ‘em
The naked proof
They’d much more prefer
To believe in the lie
That’s told as a convenience
Or an alibi

People wanna believe
He’s gonna build a wall
That is far and wide
And also very tall
To keep the people out
Who are at their beck and call
But I don’t think he’s gonna
Build that wall at all

He says he’ll undue
Every single word
Of Obama Care
Although that’s absurd
People need their healthcare
Maybe he hasn’t heard
Because he’s so tone deaf
It’s never occurred

They wanna believe
In free education
It’s easier to conceive
Than to sell to the nation
Yet crowds everywhere
Give him ovations
But I know what he says
Will take a lot of patience



Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016.  All rights reserved.

Sometimes I feel mighty powerful
Like a god among men with these words I use
But thinking deeper about it, reveals-
How I'm just a pen in the hands of my muse
.
I twist syllables, wield similes and craft metaphors.
I make stale letters unite into something beautiful.
But beyond that, I'm just another tool-
Like this lifeless stage or the mic I recite through!
.
So, what's my worst fear, you ask?
Well, its that I crave the roar of hands;
That to earn ovations, I write on demand.
I fear falling prey to the desire of my fans
.
Interpretation is the true beauty of art
And at the core all true art, is expression.
Well, until you strike a chord and make an impression-
That demands you to beat expectations and gain recognition
.
But there comes that awkward moment-
When the crude nature of art dwarfs logic
The moment when the fan and artist don't clique-
Cuz the artist's message just won't stick
.
I am a pen in the hands of my muse.
But you're not my muse, you're my ink
We're different, but beautifully in sync
So I hope each poem I pen tells the world what you think
.
I hope that you're not rooting at my witty words-
But the way I tell your story like it is
I hope you're not just hoping I entertain and please-
But that I also show the world the sight of you nobody sees
.
I am a pen in the hand of my muse
I'm inspired by the things you love and fear
I'm moved by your strengths and your tears
But, alas! I'm too human to not be inspired when you cheer
.
I am but a pen in the hand of my muse.
But #TeamXander isn't complete with me alone
You're the ink. Time is frail blank pages, not tablets of stone.
We can't engrave our tale, so we write on every page till its known.
.
I apologize but, sometimes I won't appeal and wow you
Yet again, that's your job. It was never mine
I only hope I represent you in my every line
Cuz truth is, beauty is only experienced when all its facets align.
.
Keep Smiling

my mind wicked, my gut sickened with parallels

my heart sickened with


not willing to fight, held up in some sort of absurd

absurdidies, and powers adding up, having a voice, having a stronger voice than ever before

the stomach in knots, in knots

where to go?  how to defeat?  how to find?  encontrar?  don’t understand?

more beauty?  more virtue?  what exactly can I give you

the heart sick with mental illness, the heart anchoring into steam, into mercy, into help help help

not yours, this is mine, this is yours, do in time

love is true, love is smart, love is wise, or maybe not

some claim to have answers, but I am deafened, hit hit hit, loveer, lover, lover, hand it over!  now!  hit like jugular cancer, in the throat, no succcess, blown out of the river, blown out of the wayter, no turning back

my mind wicked, my gut sickened with parallels

my heart sickened with


not willing to fight, held up in some sort of absurd

absurdidies, and powers adding up, having a voice, having a stronger voice than ever before

the stomach in knots, in knots

where to go?  how to defeat?  how to find?  encontrar?  don’t understand?

more beauty?  more virtue?  what exactly can I give you

the heart sick with mental illness, the heart anchoring into steam, into mercy, into help help help

not yours, this is mine, this is yours, do in time

love is true, love is smart, love is wise, or maybe not

some claim to have answers, but I am deafened, hit hit hit, loveer, lover, lover, hand it over!  now!  hit like jugular cancer, in the throat, no succcess, blown out of the river, blown out of the wayter, no turning back


secrecy, secrecy, beyond anything we understand, behind backs

you're a spy, you're a communist, terrorist, haveyoumightcallit, whatyoumightunderstandit, outlet, let go of time, let go into the limitless pores, scores, scores, wins, only wins, or deaths, beheads, cutthroat cash collections, back to being broke again

you're through, you're in fever, fighting for life, fighting to see through to end, fighting for flight, only few days away but minutes, ticking by, hours turning to half days, turning to evenings, and the writings become even more menacing, silent standing ovations in spring

only for the kid, only for the man, the man, the man, the stimulation, for one more, one more, settling, settling,

holy one more holy holy please bless me, I'm drowning, its my mouth that wants to surface, with the flies,

none for you, none for those that dwell, you are *******

fever, fever in evening, in induced distress, put on the own self, put on without embrace, without surrender, muscles twitching, in the middle of night, disrupted, no humor, no seinfeld, no friends, no life

never finished, never done, a continuing one that wants to keep on going, that is hurting, that is immune to sarcasm, that wishes that it wasn't, wishing it could be closer to, rainfall
, wishing that it could be closer to release,

OF RELEASE, release me!!! I HELD your KEY

I've held it for so long, why must I continue to torment, suffer, why for so long?  hold me in your arms, embrace, to my core, I want to let go and sob, sob into the lap of time, its calling for me, as it has called for so many, why must I be depraved?  why must it continue on this way?