Pathetic parasite
of a woman
perpetuates
love indefinitely,
a plague
upon hopelessly
romantic people.
A performance.
Smiling, always.
Hates
good news and
sleeps around,
sleeps
surrounded
in black light.
Wearing sunglasses.
Her day is
nighttime.
She breathes
aesthetic,
instagram posts
to survive.
But thrives, only.
The numb gummed
princess cries
every day and
yes. She said it,
even
a hundred times
but
language
proves flexible.
Same words mean
different things
and we
obviously don’t
speak the same
language.
I meant mine.
I didn’t know
she’d sell hers
for snow.
Fame.
Attention from strangers.

Welcome home.

Winter came and stayed,
love never lived here.

The impoverished wasteland
That keeps you from changing the world
Will never be your home

Not if I'm here

You don't know how much people will try
To drive you away
To keep you ''where you belong''
A waiting place

The place I so desperately fear

Not for me; I'm not one of ''them''
But you are; according to the authorities
I can hide: we don't have race wars here
But how can you avoid it if the government perpetuates it?

I nearly shed a lone tear

The Canadian Ghetto
It's where you're destined to stay
If they, we, I let you fall
If the people convince you you're inferior


But you have nothing to fear.

I'll won't stop making you
                                                Braver
      ­                                           Smarter
                                                   Stronger
                                                     Aware

And when all is said and done
And they've taken your ability to give a ****
You still won't surrender

And I'll shed a joyous tear.

Women are born with heavy feathered wings
Hands that hide starlit craters
Celestially they spin in infinity and find each other
Stroking the softness, in awe at the wonder of the unashamed mystique
That perpetuates newly hatched faces

A world without the incessant need for reassurance
Which towers intimidatingly over the forest border
Small ordinances that keep themselves airless
No longer striving for the greater force of flight
Clipping away their feathers with garden shears, hosing down the blood

Tuscan architecture abandoned countless ages ago
Ancient in idea and aesthetic
I’ve wandered many miles to reach such exotic visions that have been dead for so long
The heads of kings lined up on the edge of a waterfall
Their bodies still holding onto the swords they clipped their wings with long ago

A little further, a river emerges and spills cold water from the azimuth of God
There was a communicator present at the time of cleansing, unbeknownst to me
To accept ones sins is to be cleansed of them, don’t you agree?
He asked this with shaking shoulders, his robes unraveling to reveal the scars on his chest
One for each pectoralis
I looked away in tragedy

I enter the wooden gate, into the Macedonian fortresses of old
My torso has been replaced with a harp, which I feel these princes pluck so sensitively
I hear the timber echo throughout my chest and vibrate in my throat
My back has merged without consent to a beast that bends backwards
The harp strings have been torn
I am now mute

Raising the weary head of the sleeping dog and the sleeping disdain
I slept in an isolated piece of land untouched by human hands
And sank into the forest floor
In which the grass and all living creatures decided I had left the physical form
My eternal resting place

she jumped off a cliff at night and fell into some insight
longing for the wind to carry her towards her inner vision
her darkest demons came to display their fearsome faces
yet despite their frightening efforts they could not dissuade her
she approached her sparkling soul with many expectations
her hopes, desires and dreams she swore she would not forsake them
many tired eyes and hands reached out in vain persuasion
trying to break through the light she had rightfully cultivated
words and forms took on different bodies and danced before her
with her diamond sword she cut off their heads and tore their bodies into pieces
no more could they taunt her with their mellifluous and insidious voices
her mission was to resurrect eden from within this grave of poison
her body's wisdom told her that she was ready
to give birth to a sacred garden
that would become a sanctuary and place of peace for all of Maya’s children


never underestimate the power of the dragon’s tear
it holds the key to harnessing your fear
breathe in this fire and release the siren’s laughter
her necklace is dark and covered with the blackest diamonds
as cumbersome and wicked as her cunning daughters
drunkenly they stumble through the streets of cobblestone
only stopping to spit upon or kick the remains of fallen bones 
how does evil find its way in this world of light and shadow
how does any soul conquer thirst, hunger and desire
first they fight and then they die until all are left asunder
villages are burned and pillaged and all the treasures plundered
are you ever really who or what you think you are
for when all is said and done what is left to be discovered


looking inside I see the light that causes blindness 
in the eyes of old men and women
like fiery emeralds they flash and shine 
but can only reflect back the mind’s madness
dreaming perpetuates the illusion of permanence 
causing them to deny their decline into violence 
walk steadily with rhythmic and righteous cadence 


dance fearlessly upon the spines of enemies 
laugh for they know they cannot evade this
if you learn to jump from cliff to cliff with strength and grace
you shall escape this miserable fate and relate only to your destiny
to be captivated by the sight of the mind’s trickery 
is to sleep restlessly in an eternity of longing
but to recognize your soul and merge with it beyond control
is to paddle your ship upon the surging waves of wonder
until you eventually discover you have again crossed the whole ocean

Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.

Verse 1:
Uh, Seems like we always in a state of emergency,
In a land of democracy,
Things don’t seem free to me.
It’s like trying to wash our hands in ***** water, g.
Everything has a cost, so tell who going to pay the fee?
It certainly not going to be the dominant society.
For the system was build by and for white people to have superiority.
That demonizes anyone that doesn’t conform to their authority.
Spreading a sense of inferiority over natives and minorities.
And I’m not just talking historically, because these issues persist presently.
Change can’t happen unless one is willing to **** the teet of the majority.
For we live in world that separates based off of hierarchy.
That strips down and overgeneralizes our identities.
Then when one overcomes these disparities they are seen as the unordinary.
The exception to the rule,
Like *** is that supposed to mean?
Think I’m about to lose my sanity, dealing with an uneducated narrow minded humanity.
In a state bombarded with atrocity after atrocity,
Yet people have the audacity to tell us to get over it instantly.
Living in a democracy that doesn’t have time to listen to me,
Living in a world where history repeats,
Perhaps I guess we just can’t get enough of insanity.
It just doesn’t make sense to me?
I thought we were supposed to be evolved,
Yet be so devolved mentally.
Like how can indigenous people asking for clean water cause so much controversy?
For if your province or city didn’t have access to clean water, wouldn’t you worry?
Wouldn’t you start protesting firmly?
All I ask is that yawl start checking your privilege homie.

Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.

Verse 2:
Water is the foundation to survival,
Water can also be a philosophical symbol,
For we all thirst for something,
It’s like we are cursed or something.
Being immersed into desensitization,
Becoming numb to everything.
Needing to wash away what is obstructing.
Blocking the path towards transformation.
As established norms perpetuates discrimination.
Whilst also justifying racism and condemnation.
I didn’t choose to born,
But yet that some how qualifies me for damnation.
Because my skin colour is seen as being sinful, that needs to be put through sanitation.
Becoming guilty on the basis of association.
Which makes it harder to find the equation.
As everyone has different values, beliefs and expectations for how to fix this situation.
***** water sure is a contamination,
Thats been leaking out since creation.
That has divided not just people but also nations.
If only people could be mature when having these debates and conversations.
Instead of suffocating on our offence,
Or wallowing within a sense of victimization.
****, this ***** water sure has damaged how we function.

Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.

You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is  unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be.

For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.

It caught me off guard, this sudden feeling of loss, this sense that something beautiful was gone forever. I didn't know what to do with it, this overwhelming idea that now, out of neglect or shame or starvation, a work of art had withered away into nothing.
I suppose that I'm beginning to understand that the world isn't a narrative, it's not a story by an author with a plot and a hero.
This is the essential fallacy taught to children with a streak of the hopeless romantic in them:
the desperate belief that somewhere out there is a place for people who live their lives waiting for King Arthur instead of Jesus.

And even now, with every word comes the terrifying truth that my babbling is going to change absolutely nothing, not a single atom is going to **** an electron on the completion.
I won't feel better, the situation won't change, you the reader aren't going to say EUREKA!!!! at the end of it, so what's the point?

Expression, that is the point of it, and to be be completely blunt about it all, I hope some one I love and admire will read this and say the typical things that are said when people are honest on public forums. Do I have a point? No, not really.
So what do I do with this loss, this empty fireplace in my soul?

I drink and smoke and **** it away, stay so busy that I don't have time to consider it, this knowledge that the fire has gone out. How typical of me, how unoriginal and bourgeoise to write another ode to the trials of the individual.
Who am I to feel loss and pain when my stomach is full and my needs are met?
Aren't I another servant of economic output?
Should I not donate time and money to a cause more worthy of respect than a withering example of excessive individualism such as myself?

No, and what's more, ******* society, ******* for taking away the only haven I ever had: my head. ******* for marketing my imagination,
for inventing a bunch of ******* about responsibility for the greater good,
for poisoning the little freedom I do have with feelings of uselessness.

And most especially ******* for your greatest crime of all;
implanting this feeling of guilt whenever I do anything with my own well-being in mind.
You have created a system that perpetuates itself on shame and output,
you have killed the desire to create for it's own sake.

*******, and I'm going to unplug from you if it's the last ****** thing I ever do.

There you are, still; untouched
By the wind, waiting for somebody
To save you from oblivion.  Your
Solitude  in time and space

Perpetuates memories of childhood,
Enough to engulf the eyes with tears
And the heart with hopes. In many
Times, the wandering whims of mind

Return to you like a tired traveler
Longing for rest and renewal. Because
Your presence is a poignant portrait of
Possibility and providential.

O! How the winds cry!
O! How the earth weeps!
O! How the heavens pour forth their tears!

Thy face knows no blemish!
Thine eyes rich as diamonds
Your perfect attributes cause all others to pale in Comparison, like the tapestries of Arachne!

O! the Sun wishes to shine as you do!
No! 'Tis blasphemy to even but dream
Of placing oneself above so fair a maiden.
The fury of the Erinyes at those who dare
Is apparent to all.

O! The thought of not seeing
Your impeccable features once again
Is maddening!Heartwrenching!
But my gaze is like a stain
Upon thee. No love is felt
But pain is delt
Insanity comes upon me.
With little hope;much despair
For me, I beg, Send a prayer
I cannot; WILL not bear the agony
Of which is like the apostles upon the stormy sea
Whence Jesus remarked "Oh, ye of little faith."

I am such a man incapable of receiving
Thine divine compliments
Which I save myself from with doubt
And questioning;O! the torment!
I love thee, I try to show it
But I am unable to merit
Affection in return

Time and time again
I exult you my friend,
Yet how can you receive my words of praise
When your words I do but raze?
O! The neverending cycle which perpetuates
The need for love, which does not abate
How can I love you
When the thought of self-love is so new?
But I feel like to you I do belong
Chose me or deny; the point of my song.

Oh! How the crucible of love
Causes me pain in the heart
Self-love does not endure in part
Or in whole, but love for those dear
And love for those near
Is where true love starts.

Yes, we’ll stop talking about it
I promise
There’s no need to talk about all that lost potential
I know, love
Love is harder than
The rocks I fall on and cut my knees with
When I’m not looking
Because there are so many better things to look at with my eyes
Than yours
And your voice
My ears shrivel up
Like a snail garnished with salt
I know, I’m so sorry
So sorry for all that lost time
Broken pocket watch
Repaired with angry hands
I’ll never have time to fix it
I’ll always be a minute or two late
Or three or four
Because who counts when it’s all a pink, burnt haze of mystery
And frustration
And hostility
And fleeting joy
That leaves me fiending for more
Until my head won’t stop pounding
I can see above those mountains again
I can see the whole world once more
And I am frightened
Those mountains unveil my meekness
And instead of feeling humble I curl my lip in disgust
Disgust that
Perpetuates my dissonance
And alienation from that pit of humanity that sits like a heavy stone in my stomach
Weighing on my shoddy lungs
Polluting me with that warm touch that will never flourish
No, I won’t let my eyes seem them any differently
Allow me to cower behind this rocky barricade
I can’t handle the splendor of all those lights
And all those beautiful fields warped into an endless kaleidoscope of green
Emanating kindness and acceptance
Am I doing that again?
Concentrating on those devilish details
I’m sorry, I’ll stop gazing from afar
I’ll move a little closer
And watch it all disintegrate
Into a pool of rejection
With white foam
Turning into trickling madness
My mind, yes
I almost forgot
I’ve misplaced that too
Maybe it’s with the cackling hyenas
Laughing manically at the warm desert sky
Laughing at death, and stupidly brave snakes, and the moons wispy glimmer
They’re so fragile
And ignorant
And brute
Like your perception of my sadness
I know, I don’t cry
My eyes have better things to look at
Than my own blurred pity
The toxic drizzle gets ever fiercer
Bones outside their musty cave
I’ll let them have it
I’ll die and let my parts lie and
Become sodden with dirt
Decaying until their specks of sand
Leaving me with only one question
Where will I scatter among these mounds of gold?
But I’ll have the last laugh
It’ll all drain away
But the cacti will still be there
Staring into the suns hypnotic warmth
Tall and sound
Moving only when the breeze sways them towards the sands silencing caress
They’ll only get to touch it
But they’ll never have it
They’ll never have peace
They’ll never be in pieces

LOVE
resonates
perpetuates
proliferates
aura embodies
reign cloud shines

I'll offer you my hand
A humbling breeze
Earthquakes shake the land
expand beneath the sand
waves rolling, sunshine

raw pure and unclear
dissolving fear
pouring light
fruiting delight
tears of nectar
sweet perfection
ormus affection

candlelight reflection sprouting seeds of our intention
laughter infection- spreading heading towards my heart
tickles as it parts ----- fleeting dogma counterparts

I believe in the moment. what it shows to me
mama earth writing poems to me, streams trees thrones to me
barefeet crush dry leaves, as fear flees these trees
teach so lovingly----- so humbling

Love Vibrations
love lifts altruist
light guides
inspired minds
so shine

restruct time
align oscillating vibes
fractal benign
loveshine
/

A desperate desperado shivering as the sun sets,
casts it's silky shadows upon the hollows below.
Beneath the cascading denizens of light,
a puff of smoke waltzes across the December sky,
a patient without his insurance with nothing left but
callous empty third-person reassurance,
"everything will be better" as she said.
But better is always easy when your hand isn't writing the letter.

Save your proverbs for an open ear,
this one is half deaf and full of itself,
despite your intent,
your lack of action perpetuates malcontent.
After all we're all just passing moments
gone and forgotten, evicted,
convicted of being a gutless mime,
going through the motions,
minus a true notion.

A confused calculator short circuiting under an oil leak
spitting out numbers, complicating already complicated complexities
subtracting numerals adding funerals
dividing families multiplying tragedies
It's just a numbers game, and we can't participate
we're just the studio audience, recorded live without any life.
Flashing signs tell us when to laugh and when to cry,
pre-determined automated messages contrived to convince.

And I'm stuck spinning in the corner,
with my hands on my head.
Senselessly blurting out: Why?!
But don't mind me, I'm just another lost soul
trapped with my head in the sky.

Lucid silhouettes melt the air into psychedelic fluorescence,
realities cast upon fleshy darkness forgotten by the light of day.
Look on with distraught eyes as we dance through dark pleasance.
I wonder of God and Lucifer, good times they had in their heyday.

We race towards an apparent end; it's no apparition.
Return to your mother and her blessings, its time to meditate,
you've almost seen reality; can you finally see the evil of your disposition?
War, I mean ******, only perpetuates the hate.

Coercion and lies spread like wildfire, mystifying mind, body, and soul.
Buy that item, it looks cool. Six months later, obsolete, you fools.
If you've learned anything in life, don't get ****** at the troll,
and don't be scared at the screams at night, just demons and ghouls.

My mind is one hell of a maze, just got lost in a schizophrenic phase,
or was it spirits in the transparent haze, plunging back into my cosmic gaze.

Not a moment sleeps
when our motion wakes
and perpetuates a new arising

The greatest races ever run
are those without a finish
and the hares become confused
to which it becomes obvious
of why the hero was the tortoise

An anti-hero now
when a Casio watch
measures nano-seconds

The western world is exhausted
and the road stretches
past the horizon
and the East have been running long
for over 4,000 years
and they don't even need an inhaler.

So who is laughing now?
Well the answer is quite clear;
whoever found it funny.

Blocos, Bandas, or Escolas!

Not only shows the world to play soccer-

The country that sweats to let the world drive, alas!

One who breeds sweet sweats-

Ethanol perpetuates,

There strives our Harry Potter.

The solitary candy girl sings in the field,

You can hear her in the afternoon-

A black song of motivation that barely covers her guild.

All this and many more,

That gives human skin the bitterness of colour-

They can be ignored driving downn Sao Polo inside a Maybach Saloon.

The same sun, but not the same burn-

Sometimes sipping Caipirinha in the beach resort,

And then while harvesting with a difficult breath, a farmer gives up a life well fought!

My mother is getting ready for work. And I am a child of about 9 years old sitting on her bedroom floor watching her get dressed the same as I would for the next 9 years or so in this house. The house that I remember then use to shake violently from the train a block away and was so glass-fragile and so cold-damp that its walls warped and swelled; making it look like someone had once blown up a large balloon inside of it and the walls curved around it. Even after that balloon popped the walls never managed to regain their original shape. My mother who never complained about the state of our home and in fact rather fancied it would tell me “Isn’t it cozy living in a snow-globe shaped house, and when it shakes we can pretend we’re snowmen in a glass ball.” She would always say things like that. I would always listen; I would always sit quietly with my legs tucked under my *** and watch my mother get ready for work. She would go through the same motions she went through every night and every night in the same order, she did this so often and religiously she had it down to an art, a methodical system of movements that at this age seemed to me more like dancing. I would watch as her dance started in her hands. Her fingers thumbing over the light pale and pink lip paints she saved for weekday afternoons and for Sunday mornings. She instead reached for the bright Chinese red stick she painted onto her perfectly pursed lips. She then reached for her black dress, pressing down the wrinkles smooth as the backs of thumb-tacks, smoothing the fabric over her hips, her thighs, her legs. Next she would sashay over to her vanity, pick up a small container and spread over her eyelids a bright but dusty blue shadow. I love this next part. When she would gently sweep me up and sets me on her bed as she knelt down and told me to sprinkle her face with a shimmery clear powder, giving her the look she always said made her stand out, made her look “unique”. I always thought she looked like she was in the caught in the middle of a snow-globe. Her next step was then slipping her dainty and fragile size 7 feet into heels that I knew would look invisible in the dark night outside our front door, she would look like she was almost floating. I often thought those would hurt her feet as she walked that long stretch of street outside our house.  Her arms then would sway and flick her hands outward, grasping with all her fingers a purple and gold glass bottle of perfume on her dresser. Back then it looked to me like a curious crystal globe of sweet-smelling water that turned sparkly when she shook it. This is my mother’s last step, she presses down the sponge-like pump. I really love this part. The only magical part of my mother’s evening- the part I always thought would make her realize she should stay. As she presses down on the pump I see the shiny and clear purple hued liquid release and bubble out into tiny specks of oxygen atoms, I watch them as they swirl up the golden bottle-the rounded glass holding them in, controlling them, allowing them to eddy and ebb around themselves, to tango around each other within the safety of its bottle. They are dancing, writhing around in their own world, free from the terrors of the outside air, these atoms embrace the chaos and they wallow in the pressure that perpetuates them in an endless looping of rhythmic motion. They enjoy it. They bask in the comfort of the fluid that holds them tight together safe in their glass house, keeping them untouched. I, sitting there eye level to this bottle watching ever so closely as the air bubbles swim closer and closer to the surface until they slowly start to realize that they are being expelled from their bottle. Then they stop dancing and move franticly in a tornado-like motion, they scream and they fight their way back down towards the others like them, wishing to not be pushed up and out into the bigger pool of air they know will surely render them invisible. They wish so strongly to be kept inside their glass world, to always be safe and visible in the enwombing liquid that circles around them in their bottle that reassures them of their existence as a single being and not as a part of a whole. To be separate from the mass of air that awaits them, the air that only yearns to add to its girth, by swallowing the tiny air-bubbles. I want them to stay. Stay in their snow-globe and live forever as air bubbles safe and few, to not swim up to the world that will gulp them down whole. I know they are dainty and fragile and I want to keep them safe. I want to always see them dancing separate and unique and never leaving, yet they do. I want them to stay, yet they do not. All in an instant, faster than the blink of an eye, the once dancing bubbles are gone and are now sprinkled sweet across my mother’s neck. The only evidence of their existence- a lingering scent flowing out of my mother’s bedroom as she grabs her purse off the couch. I want her to stay too. And as she grabs her bag and slams the front door it shakes our house like glass around me. I remember a younger me, left there feeling liquid and weak in a snow-globe house now void of air.

There is
steeped madness
atop mantle piece cliffs
      as if
      poised,
in reluctant certainty at our hot fate.
Somewhere,
in the steamy depths
of man’s mind, our mind
      my mind
      stews and perpetuates
      fuming intent
      eroding at the edges,
of life for what
it is and isn’t
or wont be for
future tenses and a
     conceptualizing
     intensity in a
place which hasn’t
ever been realized
or
even moved along a
     narrow line
     of directed discourse,
     dictated dialysis:
deviation
from the center-ed
path
of righteous, heavenly
glory
      of the gods,
      in the clouds,
      on the prowl in the wicked black of sneering night.
For Retribution!
For Respiration!
For Residual indications on the slick success of cheering fights.
      and on and on
      were that they were
      forever forward still.
But were still revisiting things
which were never seen
in re-wrought thought
I thought
I saw but not
because seeing isn't believing.
    
And believing isn’t anything really
but lengthy
listless lists
and heavy
habitual hope.



© 2011

Slap my hand
Bad! Bad boy!
Too much demand
Too many toys

Toss my heart
Back and forth
Play the part
What it’s worth

Don’t be mad
Are we jealous?
What we had
Doesn’t tell us

The bad ideas
Make us scared
The hate reveals
How we fared

I should’ve known
Should have seen
Karma has grown
From being mean

Protection has cost
Rejection has wisdom
All that’s lost
Perpetuates with them

Now she’s gone
So am I
I’m not fond
Of wrong goodbyes

Please help me stand
Please bring me joy
I’m just a man
I’m still a boy

My mother is getting ready for work. And I a child of about 9 years old sitting on her bedroom floor watching her get dressed the same as I would for the next 9 or so years in this house. This house, I remember, that shook violently from the train a block away and was so fragile and damp that its walls warped and swelled making the house look like someone had once blown up a large balloon inside and the walls still held its shape. My mother who never complained about the state of our house ans instead would tell me, “Isn’t it cozy living in a snow-globe house?” So on the damp floor I would sit and I would watch my mother go through the motions, the same motions she went through every night and every night in the same order, she did this so often and religiously she had it down to an art, a methodical art that at this age seemed to me more like dancing. She started her dance by thumbing over the light pale and pink lip paint she saved for weekday afternoons and Sunday mornings , reaching instead for the bright Chinese red stick she painted onto her perfectly pursed lips, next pressing down wrinkles smooth as the backs of thumb-tacks -on her black tight dress, pressing over her hips, her thighs. She next sashays over to her vanity and picks up a small black container to paint over her eyelids a bright but dusty blue shadow, then gently sweeps me up and sets me on her bed as she kneels down and tells me to sprinkle her face with a shimmery clear powder, giving her the look she always said made her stand out, made her look “unique”. Her next step was then slipping her dainty and fragile size 7 feet into heels that I knew would be both black and invisible in the dark night outside our front door. That I often thought would hurt her feet as she walked the long stretch of street outside our house.  Her then, grasping with both hands a purple and gold glass bottle of perfume on her dresser, which then to me looked like a curious crystal globe of sweet-smelling water, that sparkled like a snow-globe when she shook it. This is my mother’s last step, she presses down the sponge-like pump. The only magical part of my mother’s evening- the part I always thought would make her realize she should stay. As she presses down on the pump I see the shiny and clear purple hued liquid release and bubble out into tiny specks of oxygen atoms, I see watch them as they swirl up the golden bottle-the snow-globe holding them in, controlling them, allowing them to eddy and ebb around themselves, to tango around each other within the safety of its glass. They are dancing, writhing around in their own world, free from the terrors of the outside air, these atoms they embrace the chaos and they wallow in the pressure that perpetuates them in an endless looping of rhythmic motion. They enjoy it. They bask in the comfort of the fluid that holds them tight together safe in their glass house, keeping them untouched. I, sitting there eye level to this bottle watching ever so closely as the air bubbles swim closer and closer to the surface. Until they slowly start to realize that they are being expelled from their bottle. They then stop dancing and move franticly in a tornado-like motion, they scream and they fight their way back down towards the others like them, wishing to not be pushed up and out into the bigger pool of air they know will surely render them invisible. They wish so strongly to be kept inside their bottle, to always be safe and visible in the enwombing liquid that circles around them in their bottle, that reassures them of their existence as a single being and not as a part of a whole, to be separate from the mass of air that awaits them, the air that only yearns to add to its girth, by swallowing the tiny air-bubbles. I want them to stay. Stay in their snow-globe to live forever as air bubbles safe and few, to not swim to the world that will gulp them down whole. I know they are dainty and fragile and I want to keep them safe. I want to always see them dancing separate and unique and never leaving, yet they do. I want them to stay, yet they do not. All in an instant, faster than the blink of an eye, the once dancing bubbles are gone and are now sprinkled sweet across my mother’s neck. The only evidence of their existence- a lingering scent flowing out of my mother’s bedroom as she grabs her purse on the couch. I want her to stay. And as she grabs her purse and slams the front door it shakes our house like glass around me. Me, left here feeling liquid and weak in a snow-globe house now void of air.

I have faith in you, and I know you have faith in me, and solely that is  what perpetuates my life.

To my guides, I love you.

I am adrift
upon a sea that
always returns to kiss
the broken shore.
No matter how hard the two collide
she always returns for more.
I am stranded
upon this constant tide
that perpetuates a heartache,
for no matter how hard I try
I cannot become the foam of waves
I cannot return time and time again to kiss that perfect stony face.

The sea is in love with the shore
but must always pull away.
Only to return once more
with the thundering embrace
of a thousand soft lipped waves.

your heart rate beats
uncontrollably
you look around
and everything is okay .
So you scream!
silently .
on the inside .
As though some force is taking control of you.
Your mind starts to race and you look across the table
at a familiar face,
Your okay
But not on the inside.

They look concerned,
they feel the suffering .
but can't explain.
You can't contain the feeling.
Your okay
But not on the inside.

Your heart want to jump out of your sleeve
through the ceiling
Are they looking? do they know me?
Why do they judge me?
Standing in line at the supermarket.
Smile, Smile, Smile.
No one can see It
Your okay
But not on the inside.

Just a few days ago I was invisible
Now I'm alone now,
the voices in my head
are having their fun
and their uncontrollable
I lay there I just take it
I don't go crazy, physically
I just take it
I know that It's just me
but I can't shake it
I'm okay
But not on the inside.

There's no reason
so it scares me
and it starts again
I'm in the same place
a vicious cycle
it perpetuates
and takes me on a bumpy ride
I'm okay.
But not on the inside.

This fear that keeps me up at night
like I'm ready for a fight
when the only enemy insight
is looking right into my eyes
the familiar glitter of my very own
brown eyes.
I'm okay
But not on the inside. sometimes.

We wish that all our troubles would subside,
And let the wind change the wave of the tide.
But there, our thoughts glamour in sun rays
Falling reflections and crashing these bays.

Listening attentively, a whistling screech
The clamoring tuning to this breech;
That caused the waterfalls from these caverns
Sheltered crevices of depth and humility

Falling all so effortless to answer these calls,
That wants nothing less than it all.
A request not even a personal petition
That lay waste to all conditions.

Here at last, this night and every time
I cannot fall to slumber here
Where days of summer pass time
Insomniac to tomorrow’s fears.

I just want peace in all of our minds
Without the helix of the progressive bind
A want less satisfaction with no expectation
But to see one another with no deviation  

Duality perpetuates in our eyes’ receptivity
To transcend from it is to venture away from this reality.

air invisible
heart vulnerable
Love indivisible
fear perpetuates
peace regenerates

Like a damsel in disguise, she hides within his life
Waiting for a chance, any chance to make her move
She is part of the design, a flower growing on the wall
Not for long

Something will happen, he'll seek her shoulder
Born in him, his love will take her hand
Until then

She waits like a maiden, pretty as a picture
Locked up in a promise, one that he's never even made
To love her and keep her, to choose her in the end
To have and to hold, to love above the rest
He doesn't even know

She longs for the touch of his skin, the way his warmth lingers with her
She ache for the taste of his lips, skilled and soft and tender
She yearns for his charm and his smile, she want to be his heart's target
What she doesn't see yet

He's not in the game for the love, promiscuity is his name
He wants her virtue for a trophy, like a dove in a cage without a door
He wants her just one time, something he's never had before
What will happen

They will play this song and dance, his vices taking her virtue
He will seek her out, a lamb in a den of lions
She will think it 's love, he'll let her believe
He will collect what he came for, she will be alone and broken
And now

Our damsel in disguise, she's vice herself
Another virtue stolen, another night
Her pain perpetuates it'self, a vehicle for heart break

To the person who's sexually attracted to children
but has never acted upon that attraction:
Thank you
it's not always easy doing the right thing
and I understand the stigmatization you face
in a society where advocating killing you is socially encouraged
for the forced productions in the privacy of your mind
usually stemming from traumatic childhood abuse
but don't let them stop you from getting help
for the misery and frustration associated with
constantly denying one's ****** urges
for the sake of others.

Nobody is born an angel or a demon
walking along we pick up horns or halos midstride
often confusing one for the other
often trading one for the other
often naming one for the other
until heavenly hellspawns
attack with horned halos.

To the person who perpetuates the stigma against those people
through edgy internet posts and comments
like it's some sort of controversial sentiment
that isolates those people until they crack
usually just so you can virtue signal militancy
so you can feel good about yourself through persecuting others:
*******.

" The world does not need any more white saviours. As I've said before, this just perpetuates tired and unhelpful stereotypes. Let's instead promote voices from across the continent of Africa and have serious debate. "

Ah David, oh David my son
don't you know by now that white supremacy is the old black
they don't want  the educated black like you
they don't harbour the progressive talented intellectual black
only place acceptable is the sports field, the drug den and their beds
but please remember.......
your only worth to them is your enormous member and passion
your hot chilli drive, your fabled great stamina and that shiny
gleaming mahogany hue, the stuff of dreams, no brains required
NOW YOU BETTER KNOW.......
if you dare turn down a bed invite in East London by cockney wenches on heat
Say good-bye to any life you had and welcome hell's miseries
How dare you, who the hell do you think you are
You think you're better than us, you think you're superior

We will take you down a ****** strip, we will make sure you'll
never have another woman in your life
We rule the world, you better know it, you black *******
How dare you
We will wipe you out, erase you, swat you dead like a fly
We will make you wish you were never born

Bro, you're not supposed to talk back
Know your place even though you're an MP
You are still a TOKEN, still a minority, still a ****** blackman
Just thank your lucky stars and shut up!

WE are the Supreme beings and we rule your ***!

I don’t know how to feel about anything anymore,
I just don’t,
It’s neither here nor there,
Not hidden just never gotten to,
I can never fully open up to anyone,
But then again who really can?

Sometimes I feel empty,
But I soon remind myself how selfish it is to feel that way,
How much suffering there is in the world,
How much I have to be thankful for,
But it’s not the things I have that make me happy,
It’s the people I know and the connections I have.

The only sadness I harness commences from the loss of human contact,
With the loss of a friend,
Being away from family,
Feeling like we’ll never be the same again,
No matter what it’s like I can always be to blame,
For something.

For not stopping what’s wrong,
For not doing what’s right,
It’s always a matter of what’s next,
Who’s next.

Sometimes I feel tears coming on,
But I don’t let them come out,
My chest tightens,
I feel weak; and the sick cycle perpetuates.

But I know it’s nothing out of the ordinary,
Everyone must feel this way,
All people are the same,
I wish they would realize that.

Maybe I am an idealist,
But at least I have a vision,
A vision similar to King’s,
More demanding but less articulated,
I have a dream that one day everything will be ok,
Everything.
I know that can happen.

But they say I’m different,
They mean it in a good way,
So I take it as a compliment,
I’m too shy to ask for clarification,
In fear that I might seem conceited,
Asking to hear more about myself,
Today though, I asked.

He said it’s because I’m not like anyone else,
Well. That certainly didn’t answer my question,
And even if it did, it didn’t make me feel any better,
After all everyone is different from everyone else.

No one thinks the same way,
No one has all the same experiences,
Nor do they formulate the same reactions or reflections,
I believe that if I had started dictating these thoughts a millisecond before or after I did, that they would be completely different,
Not because my thoughts would be changing,
Rather because the kaleidoscope of our minds are always tumbling,
Rolling around,
Re-structuring,
Not in a good way or a bad way.