Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Angela Rose Oct 2017
He made sure I knew just how lucky I was to have him
But he never hit me
He played games with my emotions repeatedly
But he never hit me
He made sure I didn’t leave the house in a skirt above the knees
But he never hit me
He knew the words to say to make me feel so small that I could not breathe
But he never hit me
He tossed me in and out, in and out, until my mind was in an out of control tizzy
But he never hit me
He messed around on the side late at night while I rested in our bed
But he never hit me
He made it clear that I wasn’t to go out at night with the girls
But he never hit me
He told me over and over again just how hard it would be to find anyone else to deal with me
But he never hit me
He fell asleep safe and sound as I laid in bed trying to catch my breath through tears
But he never hit me
He needed to have the password to every device, app and account
But he never hit me
He knew the power he held and used it over my head to weaken me
But he never hit me
He made jokes at my expense in front of friends and family and we all giggled together instead of cringed
But he never hit me
He assured me the women he texted were coworkers or colleagues but I could never know what they spoke of
But he never hit me
He made it clear that my interests and goals were not of pertinence
But he never hit me
He knew the exact words to say to take my entire day downhill
But he never hit me
He broke my heart over and over and over again until it was minuscule shreds
But he never hit me
If you or someone you know is suffering from domestic abuse please contact 1-800-799-7233 this is the national domestic abuse hotline. Abuse can happen to anyone, man or woman. It does not make you weak to seak help. <3
Which of your Favourites you take to Trust
And hoping One of them will fill your Void
So Alone, though in Many you Adjust
Though their trifle pertinence you carry
Those Nerds ahead just consider you Strange
Yet Groupies counteract with their own Praise
Now who is Correct? They sit at the Lounge
Then settle to offer your own Fresh Space
That around your College are Ideals formed
When Some in Prayer may publish their Book
Took you as a Model; And Critics scorned
See their Used Lives in a Better Outlook.
You just have to Smile; And Happy you did
Fan their Frustrations of that Love you hid.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Nick Durbin Sep 2012
Time is of the deception of immemorial agreement...
People, friends and family will get together time and time again -
To discuss what?!?
Most of the time, they petulantly boast about their own personal apotheosis -
What does this prove?
Where are they going with their abrogated thoughts?
The people speak with impetuous pertinence and achieve absolutely nothing....
An asundering of cryptic thoughts that fell into oblivion -
This is the sole reason why the inauspicious world will disintegrate and become a history book for worlds to come...
When time has come to overlap itself . . .
The world's clock stops. . .
Your heart stops. . . .
Time, the inevitable dimension that will carry on with no remorse
When we are gone. . . .
When I am gone..
Matthew Jan 2019
We look into the damp, dark recesses of our mind
to look for finite definition
for our actions and expressions.
We are looking for a straight line in a work comprised of curved loops.
How we don't acknowledge the curved loops' flexibility to

We can only see shapes through our narrow minds.
Not the abstract dimensionality.
The straightening of a curved loop is the destruction of true art.
Moving endlessly with infinite pertinence.
That no one
yet everyone
I don't really I understand what I'm saying, but there's this insinuation that makes this feel expressionate.
You are made of the stars, and in haste
You put my love and my heart to rest;
You are like and unlike a dream today
But I have dreamt since last night
I am a ghost to the resting world;
As much as my poems are, as my words.

You are made of life, hell and heaven;
But I am too far away to breathe your air
And in your pristine eyes, such moments
Are a piece of untouched, unreal affairs
You are but a star to me, not a reality;
I oft’ see you on those stages of beauty.

Who be with me here, ‘tis awkward;
His aura is not thine, I assume,
And his lips, which are blue, blind mine;
Who hath saluted me in the worst of storms
And still, I could not trust for long;
But you may find for me another song.

Who be with me here, ‘tis strange;
Your love is sadly, not in such range,
And my whining is deemed absurd;
I am entrapped in a loud world.
What is a charm then, when not thine?
What are the workings of one’s mind?

What be this song I sing to you, my love;
In a word so surreal and full of images,
In a cry so full of anger and rage;
In a mortal chain but of my sonata,
I cannot afford to hate my enemies,
I cannot be the least of kisses.

What be this poem but of thee, my darling;
In the graphs that carry you, in grayness;
In a pertinence of shots, and obedience,
All those frozen moments of resilience.
You, standing there in silence, to say
You will charm me through the night and day.

I looked at the sore stars last night;
And one looking like you, that high
I cannot reach such heights, to see
To love you then, my celebrity;
Her heart hath taken you from me,
Leaving my youth alone to sick poetry.

I looked at such grey film, and thought;
Their births were not those of my books,
That even being in love is not sane,
I am not among the best of their men;
Even my love is not lithe to you, and him;
That such bounties are to remain a dream.

For the rose to see me, on rainy nights
To sit by me and the Northern Lights;
To watch the rain stop and stand still,
To comprehend the fetal crush I feel.
I see my naked heart, on the rough floor
Battered and smothered outside the door.

For the sun to shine on me, on cold nights
And to bring you over, my starlight
To walk me down the earths of fame;
And to make time recognize my name,
To tame such an unloved fate, and seem
Like all these are not just a dream.

For my crush to walk me, to your heart
To feel the excitement of loved delights;
Perhaps my lover, is not a celebrity,
But a reality to be handed to me,
To replace my faded fame that was stolen;
To free me from my shielded torments.

For such a continuation, and rain
For the rain I always long to have;
The one separated from me, like you,
I may wish for such longings to be untrue,
As there is no continuation in reality,
But dreams, they are to me an eternity.

For there is no virtue, and unlike thee,
My beauty is no good to myself;
Perhaps the highest misery lies in me,
And this loneliness is virtuous poetry.
For there is no handsomeness like yours,
But ‘tis only a dream to be in your arms.

I walk away silently, as always;
You are not acquainted with my ways.
Who am I to actuate a dreamy kiss;
I am not even a retort to lying bliss.
There is no fate in our hands, ah;
I have been consumed by all fiends.

I read away in silence, as always;
For love hath seemed too awkward to me,
There is too much sunshine every day;
That I am blind, I am not sweet to beauty.
Just like the famous days you celebrate;
I am not to know my own self, even late.

For love hath seemed to cruel to me,
One that consumes me with too much vigour,
Too insolent in its youth, merciless;
Mercies have left it, and not returned;
Love has corrupted, and stained me now,
What my edge shall bring I not know.

For love hath too much intensity, so now
I may and may not be able to love you though,
To say your love to me out of this dream,
To make all that scream sounds possible;
To make me trust, more than it seems,
To make this sore heart endurable.

For love hath broken me, and my vow
To love you might not be the one now;
Love hath had my chastity too high,
That knowledge may not be amicable;
That my prominence is but not the sky;
That my memories are not speakable.

For love hath had me, rendered me low
I am not noticed by my window;
And everything in my midair looks stale
And all of my sins may not be purified.
I am tortured and conjured in my shell,
But no love shall amend it right.

For love hath spent me, and stepped on me
Breaking my every inch of beauty;
But what is my beauty—a history to all,
I am not known beyond my artist’s wall;
I am a silence, to all circles and worlds,
I am not heard beyond my murdered words.
13 May 2014
Now is not the best time to explain things
I've only just started piecing it together and I'm already growing impatient to let it out.
We all dream, keep your defenses.
It doesn't matter if you can't remember, or you simply choose not to, your mind works while you're asleep whether you want it to or not.
Monks are lying *******.
They dream of more **** women than Hugh Hefner dreads to.
It's a cognitive world within your own. You control its limits, you rule its boundaries... you bend reason. Your very own simulator. A poetic response to your inner turmoil and imbalance. Capable of flow, direction and evaluation. Something to teach you while you're sleeping or entertain you while you're easing.
But more often than not I end up on the dark edges of my mind's shriveling synapses, desperately trying to make sense of the erupting chaos within. A strategic backlash of reality with grim undertones. Void of logic or pertinence to anything even remotely related to my life. Almost senseless.
Dreams are for the innocent. Nightmares are reserved for the wicked, or so my elders said. But when you grow up, your nightmares grow with you becoming darker and bleaker with experience and knowledge that you've consciously or sub consciously gained with age. A cacophony of thought igniting every mental nerve until the shock reels you from your hell.

Lately, my dreams have been lucidly obscure. Irrationally dim.
Two, three, sometimes even seven, one after another. Within the span of a couple of hours my mind is thrashed by the recurrent horrors of imagination. Uncontrolled and violently debilitating, I lie weak and drained in bed every afternoon. There is no mourning in my day. Enveloped by its melancholy I am forced to reset my train of thought. The overture of this madness spits on the spark that would otherwise lighten up a new day. It's become a chore to wake up and lie staring into space trying to recollect reality and separate newly forged memories, that shouldn't even exist, from those that should remain. I'm unsure if my eyes are even closed when I am fighting this sub conscious war. Fever dreams are a walk in the park. This is the real deal. A reverie on acid in the river Styx, and Charon is Jesus.

What follows after the liberation is a mess of things. Disorientation and apathy subtly set in. A million questions with no answers and no one to ask but the mind. A mind who's whim even I myself can't fathom. So my tasteless day is decorated with deja vus I shouldn't feel and nostalgia I can't. If I don't pull myself out sooner than I do, I'd be lost in limbo til dusk. Then in the dark I will find more demons running astray. Some at the bottom of a glass bickering away, some in the crevices of the walls preying on consorts and others in the harsher solitude of unsought company wearing smiles to their dismay.

Whatever be the case, I will ultimately find my way back to the bed and into my head, and once again, this motion picture preview I will dread. Another page from the book of agony will then be read leaving nothing unsaid.
Posted on November 12, 2013
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
I am a cube in a dark chocolate bar
seasoned with a milky white
continent of courses
collision of cultures
chili and chill wind season
in overcoats of global ambitions.
Born in the barracks of colonial masters
who took their women from tribal backwaters
of empire. These beauties succeeded
in conquering their Masters
in the art of warfare in bed and beyond.

say what you will
I carry the cost of all completion
and show the combination of colours
on my skin
burnt in the sun of these wars and conquests
all six of us soldiers.

we took his language and her complete
abandonment to beauty grew in the night
of knowing the white ruled the rainbow
and hard liquor while the dark bred the boldness
or so. (Mama said)

we, as children of different cultures
in a  potpourri of pertinence
got licked, kicked, bruised and burped
cooked and laid as chocolates always do.
But we grew in mamas wonder of the world
at large, while Dad knew all the blends of single malt
maidens from the highlands of his birth.

as happy children, aware of hard work and toil
we rose faster than the fumes of spirits
and set about travelling the shores of net profits
and university empires instead.

Mama laughed when we told her
of the worlds and wonders we had conquered
and how the colour of our skin spoke for us.

Dad knew all about peg measures
and pork chops, fork, spoon  and gunpowder conquests
as hollow as his casks of wine
and maturing as slow as his wisdom.
Mama only knew the meaning of knowledge
with no degrees.

God bless them both
as they sit around a table
in that great place in the beyond
and discuss chocolate bars
skin and colourful wrapping
of all six cubes!

I am Anglo-Indian.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
kayla Nov 2014
there is a courtyard
behind the abandoned hospital.
vines crawl up the walls like cancer;
like a sickness that cannot be contained.
just like my irrational eagerness for pertinence.
disconnect my conscious thoughts.
*make this infection disappear.
rob Sep 2014
DARK CIRCLES  under my eyes
weary and TIRED
looks like i got high
in reality ive been ******* with tears in my eyes...
your turn

my turn? my eyes burn as well
The demons of hell have turned my back into furniture
each vertebrae is in pain for heavens sake
My own wake will be replaced by someone more important
and my funeral will be postponed due to rain

comth with your *** sith
its the way of the conservative
so shallow, they may as well be illiterate to human sake
the writing on the walls aching for some pertinence
everyone sees the destruction, the wretched police enforcing it
helpless we die in our filthy wealth
until we learn to save our selves
luxurious items are wicked in the way of souls as prizes
what’s the cost of a couple ***** boys from Africa?
just a sheckle over a diamond why not? im buyin it

****** men, Damning all,
To Satan. To the Demon Ruler
*** siths on tongue and lips
drip after drip on the souls of ancestors
They watch you rule, oh slavers
they watch you drool over riches
to you, these beautiful nymphs
they're doomed to be *******
they follow your lead and become what you want
blame them not
for they are a byproduct of your weakness

Innocent hypocrites, diluted of all culture
vultures infused with stimulants
so stifled we cant concentrate on whats important
high after high
going lower and lower
Now we know the new world order
our graves have been dug
now we shovel the dirt back on ourselves
sleeping better than waking up
this society is an atom bomb
and were all dying from the radiation
noise and light pollution is all we know
where did the stars go?
i need to go find home
pat wrote the parts that are masterpieces
Some, not all, ask for Reference to speak
All, but some, frisk for Pertinence to leak
Yet in your Portrait such Dignity will seek
Adam's Fresh Peel lay bounty for his Eve
If I could guess - your best trial for Art
Which I suppose should renew their Souls click
If such - no doubt - keep your Dimples at heart
Then crease your Buttons for Sun-Babes to lick
After all, this Journal of Good Repute
Offer these Motifs to season the Man
Flexed or Fixed - let your Acrobats compute
To be at your Prime as Fine as you can.
And as I recall, your Tanned Friend deserves
A Place in such Spot; Though prone to Conserves.
Amy Perry Oct 2015
Our memories cannot be put into mediums.
There are no photos or videos,
No stories to be written,
No prime time television episodes;

The indescribable, undeniable energy fizzing,
Binding you, finding me, winding us,
Joined in divinity.

Every way I could make
Our moments into art,
I fall short, full stop -
Are we already art?
The way you affect my heart?

Is it living in the moment?
When we're listening or kissing?
Missing no other component,
No further desires or wishing?

All I feel when around your field,
Is that I'm drinking up Life;
That this is the consciousness I was gifted to feel.
And whether or not reality has anything that is actually real,
Layer by layer, the truth becomes revealed.

It's my observance to every occurrence -
The flow of Nature's currents;
What, in life, has pertinence.
Every interaction with you is marvelous,
and of utmost importance.
You're the physical form of happiness.
And I run into a hindrance,
When relaying my senses,
To anyone else not witness,
To what we feel together in this -
Mysterious, beautiful, eternal, immense.
He's beautiful.
Life is beautiful.
Art captures meaning.
I am trying through this medium.
That for your Mum my Befriend's Flag receive
Since those Lines un-called by Red into Four
I withdrew that Meaning; And kneel to Reprieve
Which divert therehence to Interpret forth
Forgive my Dogs. Plain. Simple. Real. Full-Stop
Which my Elder Flag deems Responsible
For your Touchy Cloud; And Honour begot
Which by Pertinence arrest the Constable
And to see this - Angel - then hem the Wound
Bespoke my Shamed Fears for Activity
Promote this Risk; Yet for Friend's Hands must Sound
To fizzle these Scars for your Harmony.
In turn your Dad's Face; Stamp Legacy you
Lamp's Living Oil extend; And extend a-new.
#will_daley #benjdaley
Ahmad Cox May 2012
Am  I me
Or am I
Someone else
I am constantly changing
Molding into something different
Ever evolving and expanding
Contracting and contradicting
Things about me that used to make sense
That don't have pertinence now
Ever changing
Expanding and knowing
Changing and growing
Shedding off old coats
As new ones are being put back on
Ratula Halder Jun 2016
Sunny, bright and crisp clear
A daybreak ne’er been so dear
Shallow breeze & soothing fragrance
A morning clad in pertinence
No speck of cloud in the sky shone
The birds chirped a merry tone
True to its name, an ideal Sunday ‘twas;
The town folks trotted the city across
The merry making had just begun
For ‘twas the eve of Christmas
Not a moment to forego thus
A gigantic wave of forecast and plan;
Charming was the lively locale
And then without warning it struck!
The sky turned a gloomy gray
And washed away each one’s luck
A colossal deluge threw apart the town
And tossed things upside down
The wind rummaged and knew no bounds
Swept away every bit that came its way
To vengeance seek in geared armour
Turning the state bleak
The rageful storm gave none a chance
‘Twas a agonizing glance
Cate Apr 2015
Face to the sky
Even if the sun is in my eyes
and it's blinding me
so that everything I see is
in moonbeam white
and everyone is just as polite
as I want them to be.

In reality
there is darkness
and it seems it's only me,
who will give as much as I take
thinks promises don't break
knows I am headed to the grave
and (tries to)
make something good of it.

Because driving is just like smoking...
If we walk can we stop?
or at least slow down,
and move in blocks
instead of miles
and across the neighborhood
instead of The States.

The soot in my lungs
never felt so great, anyway.
I think my cue was a while ago.
Excuse me,
I'm coming in late
and these excuses stammered
are layered.

I'm too old to believe prayers
are anything but
a little self recognition and release.
So please, leave me be
while I lay on my face
and cry to the sky
for some semblance of relief.

I'm stoic and solidified
my mind, a block of ice
drifting through glacial tides
of callous contempt
exempt from empathy-
I don't want to relate.

Yet even still, I retaliate.
Home-grown surgery
might do a little good for me
a root canal
for that weird little machine
between my eyebrows
I might espouse humanity
back into my vocabulary.

All in all,
the ups and down will fold neatly
into an interesting
half-page obituary,
the sumination of a
less-than-elegant sequence
of events.

I am ever hesitant to repent
lest I resent my own penitence
for lack of pertinence.

C.e.M. 4.21.15
edited 2.9.17
Amit Pokhrel Sep 2018
The ordinates concealed in your infinitesimal rationale
Insufficiencies portraying vestibules in your feverish attires
Every new soul you see makes you feel homeless
Dizzying altitudes you feel inside the depth of cavities
Indifference on pain and sufferings you crave for
Hell; you feel inside grandeurs of perspectives
Hate; for the dearth of adulation on you
Liken Gaia could have never taught you of your frailty
Postulation of Karma and de-carnation of meanings made you converted
You were on the path of revolt
Against, say, cosmos!

Every symbolic gestures remind me of your meddlings
Penultimate; utter grievance of never ending poignancy
The night sky could have never baffled about your existence
Palpitation could have never made you shiver
But you have cried,
Of your loneliness!

A tiny fraction of clairvoyance I gave
Pulled you down into the puddle of wanderings
Instigation of a melody; created the symphony
A mere touch; drenched you into the silken lake
I spoke for your heart and you praised
Then, I gave you love but I got caged

How could I have done whatever you wished?

Since nobody knows,
The culminating dichotomy of your pantheistic ideas,
And of a maggot growing inside you
Breathless desires governing your feet,
And the time falsifying your plutonic ancestry
Mosaic glittering over your virtuous self,
And the tapestry of vanity covering your abysses
Depleting number of Hordes and Tartars fighting for your existence,
And devalued meaning of your modern-self

All those songs that never could soothe you
Teeny panting of your blasphemous heart
Multitude of distances you travelled
Series of condemnation bouncing between you and me
Your fleeting poverty
Your affections on materials
Like you die the death of pertinence
Love shall never please you

Nonchalant, over the,
Embargo you created on the faith
And the game you created on the bliss
But you shall never win
Since, you are a mere human soul
Bless you!!
A blue door. That's it.

Nothing spectacular or notable whatsoever about this unremarkable passageway. But it had a blue door.

This unassuming mystery trickled through my skull with it's unimportant, unassuming pertinence.

Why would this intrigue me so? Can I recall any instance in which I'd ever noticed such a trivial detail before?

It didn't really matter, and I couldn't tell for sure. This unalluring sense of wonder.

That's it. A blue door.
Adam Apr 2016
Dream big, dream always and never look back.
Within you lies the power and the emotion.
You can demolish all barriers.
The powers of the mortal are not containable.

Feel the power build from within your soul
The essence of your being begins to take control
The proficiency to overcome is an indication of strength
Inhibitions left behind and kept at arm’s length

Remember you are never alone.

No individual is alone within a team
Teams are those who can strengthen you
Those people who empower you to dream
and those who you can eternally turn to

Friendship can mould a team stronger than you can see
From idiosyncrasies arise familiarities
Perpetually an ear to listen or impart an idea
A form of protection or your very own panacea.

Friends can be the joy in your life
the comfort in your strife
never should you underestimate their potence
and never should you diminish their pertinence

Your life and theirs are intertwined
like a guide dog their for the blind.
Patience in each other is a virtue.
I’ve got these friends and you do too.
The edge of the lake was leering off the precipice,
seamlessly melting into the horizon.

Subtle water splashes, those of tossed pebbles,
rippled silently into one another.

A man sat by the shore of the water,
looking almost blankly down the infinite abyss of ethereal,
yet ominous, fog and cloud.

A murky reflection of the man situated itself as he slowly stood up,
revealing itself to be more of an eerie disposition of past experience,
rather than an innocent, child-reminiscing parallel.

The water itself proposed a forlorn, distorted ambience.

As the man stepped, dragging his feet by the coast of the lake water,
he noticed a sudden clap of thunder, although rain was absent.

Trudging along, he constantly scorns at the infinite landscape.

The relatively endless mist levitates as a ghost-like,
dreary pertinence over the seemingly blasé man,
who still yet walks with contempt.

An old, dilapidated pier seems to have spawned in the distance.

Closer, and closer, the man plodded.

A seemingly transient figure takes place abroad the pier.
The figure extends what seem to be arms, in a very caressing manner.

In what seems as one last glimpse, the man peers out, all around him.
Accepting of his fate, he takes embrace of the transient figure.

            The fog clears.
I HAVE COME to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood. That the speaking profits me, beyond any other effect. I am standing here as a Black lesbian poet, and the meaning of all that waits upon the fact that I am still alive, and might not have been. Less than two months ago I was told by two doctors, one female and one male, that I would have to have breast surgery, and that there was a 60 to 80 percent chance that the tumor was malignant. Between that telling and the actual surgery, there was a three-week period of the agony of an involuntary reorganization of my entire life. The surgery was completed, and the growth was benign.

¶ 3
But within those three weeks, I was forced to look upon myself and my living with a harsh and urgent clarity that has left me still shaken but much stronger. This is a situation faced by many women, by some of you here today. Some of what I ex-perienced during that time has helped elucidate for me much of what I feel concerning the transformation of silence into language and action.

¶ 4
In becoming forcibly and essentially aware of my mortality, and of what I wished and wanted for my life, however short it might be, priorities and omissions became strongly etched in a merciless light, and what I most regretted were my silences. Of what had I ever been afraid? To question or to speak as I be-lieved could have meant pain, or death. But we all hurt in so many different ways, all the time, and pain will either change or end. Death, on the other hand, is the final silence. And that might be coming quickly, now, without regard for whether I had ever spoken what needed to be said, or had only betrayed myself into small silences, while I planned someday to speak, or waited for someone else’s words. And I began to recognize a source of power within myself that comes from the knowledge that while it is most desirable not to be afraid, learning to put fear into a perspective gave me great strength.

¶ 5
I was going to die, if not sooner then later, whether or not I had ever spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you. But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for which I am still seeking, I had made contact with other women while we examined the words to fit a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences. And it was the concern and caring of all those women which gave me strength and enabled me to scrutinize the essentials of my living.

¶ 6L
The women who sustained me through that period were Black and white, old and young, lesbian, bisexual, and heterosexual, and we all shared a war against the tyrannies of silence. They all gave me a strength and concern without which I could not have survived intact. Within those weeks of acute fear came the knowledge – within the war we are all waging with the forces of death, subtle and otherwise, conscious or not – I am not only a casualty, I am also a warrior.

¶ 7
What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence? Perhaps for some of you here today, I am the face of one of your fears. Because I am woman, because I am Black, because I am lesbian, because I am myself – a Black woman warrior poet doing my work – come to ask you, are you doing yours?

¶ 8
And of course I am afraid, because the transformation of silence into language and action is an act of self-revelation, and that always seems fraught with danger. But my daughter, when I told her of our topic and my difficulty with it, said, “Tell them about how you’re never really a whole person if you remain silent, because there’s always that one little piece inside you that wants to be spoken out, and if you keep ignoring it, it gets madder and madder and hotter and hotter, and if you don’t speak it out one day it will just up and punch you in the mouth from the inside.”

¶ 9
In the cause of silence, each of us draws the face of her own fear – fear of contempt, of censure, or some judgment, or recognition, of challenge, of annihilation. But most of all, I think, we fear the visibility without which we cannot truly live. Within this country where racial difference creates a constant, if unspoken, distortion of vision, Black women have on one hand always been highly visible, and so, on the other hand, have been rendered invisible through the depersonalization of racism. Even within the women’s movement, we have had to fight, and still do, for that very visibility which also renders us most vulnerable, our Blackness. For to survive in the mouth of this dragon we call america, we have had to learn this first and most vital lesson – that we were never meant to survive. Not as human beings. And neither were most of you here today, Black or not. And that visibility which makes us most vulnerable is that which also is the source of our greatest strength. Because the machine will try to grind you into dust anyway, whether or not we speak. We can sit in our corners mute forever while our sisters and our selves are wasted, while our children are distorted and destroyed, while our earth is poisoned; we can sit in our safe corners mute as bottles, and we will still be no less afraid.

¶ 10
In my house this year we are celebrating the feast of K wanza, the African-american festival of harvest which begins the day after Christmas and lasts for seven days. There are seven principles of Kwanza, one for each day. The first principle is Umoja, which means unity, the decision to strive for and maintain uni-ty in self and community. The principle for yesterday, the sec-ond day, was Kujichagulia – self-determination – the decision to define ourselves, name ourselves, and speak for ourselves, in-stead of being defined and spoken for by others. Today is the third day of K wanza, and the principle for today is Ujima – col-lective work and responsibility – the decision to build and maintain ourselves and our communities together and to recognize and solve our problems together.

¶ 11
Each of us is here now because in one way or another we share a commitment to language and to the power of language, and to the reclaiming of that language which has been made to work against us. In the transformation of silence into language and action, it is vitally necessary for each one of us to establish or examine her function in that transformation and to recognize her role as vital within that transformation.
For those of us who write, it is necessary to scrutinize not only the truth of what we speak, but the truth of that language by which we speak it. For others, it is to share and spread also those words that are meaningful to us. But primarily for us all, it is necessary to teach by living and speaking those truths which we believe and know beyond understanding. Because in this way alone we can survive, by taking part in a process of life that is creative and continuing, that is growth.

¶ 12
And it is never without fear – of visibility, of the harsh light of scrutiny and perhaps judgment, of pain, of death. But we have lived through all of those already, in silence, except death.

¶ 13
And I remind myself all the time now that ifI were to have been born mute, or had maintained an oath of silence my whole life long for safety, I would still have suffered, and I would still die. It is very good for establishing perspective.

¶ 14
And where the words of women are crying to be heard, we must each of us recognize our responsibility to seek those words out, to read them and share them and examine them in their pertinence to our lives. That we not hide behind the mockeries of separations that have been imposed upon us and which so often we accept as our own. For instance, “I can’t possibly teach Black women’s writing – their experience is so different from mine.” Yet how many years have you spent teaching Plato and Shakespeare and Proust? Or another, “She’s a white woman and what could she possibly have to say to me?” Or, “She’s a lesbian, what would my husband say, or my chairman?” Or again, “This woman writes of her sons and I have no children.” And all the other endless ways in which we rob ourselves of ourselves and each other.

¶ 15
We can learn to work and speak when we are afraid in the same way we have learned to work and speak when we are tired. For we have been socialized to respect fear more than our own needs for language and definition, and while we wait in silence for that final luxury of fearlessness, the weight of that silence will choke us.
The fact that we are here and that I speak these words is an at-tempt to break that silence and bridge some of those differences between us, for it is not difference which immobilizes us, but silence. And there are so many silences to be broken.
this isn't on Audre Lorde's HelloPoetry page, and it's not poetry, but it certainly is. This was the 3rd speech I recalled in full from memory in my Public Speaking 101 class, my second semester back at school ...

and I just remember shivering as I read the words Black and Lesbian. I remember shivering trying to imagine working well tired or afraid... but I was working while tired and afraid. Since then her  words have inspired me

to try to find all the words I do not have. And considering the number of apparently non linguistic  thoughts I have; there are so so so so many to find.
What I don’t understand
Is how one simple man
Has the inability
To live his best life

Born with a gift,
Dismissing a myth,
But no sharper than the blade of his knife

Trying to stay relevant
While avoiding all contaminants,
That enter my body
And alter my intelligence
Or was that its original intent?

I’m my own worst enemy,
Mired in complacency
Blinded temporarily,
By what supersedes my transparency

Above the smog;
Below the dust;
Bolstering my pretentiousness

Why address it’s pertinence?
Is it worth the time I must invest?
Whilst outgrowing my petulance,
And being played like a stringed quartet?

A hungry mouth
Forsaken vows
A lifelongs worth of discontent
Standing still
Burning with my past regrets

“Fear” being the four letter word
That starts with “f”
But is rarely ever seen or heard

It runs my world
It’s been rehearsed
It drains me dry
It causes thirst

That once quenched; sets me free
To be or not to be,
With or without thee...
That is the question that must be asked.
Elsie Greek Apr 2020
In rises and sets
My body is given to
What I barely can
Rely on: time.

Though it measures
Breaths, or winks,
or swallows
Of what I barely can
Live through: life.

Hope, it's not all gone,
Sometimes tortured,
Or mocked at, nuzzled into
The very thought of..
but you're a different kind.

The spark of pertinence
You may possess at times,
Giving it all to me
Like you must as a gift
To redeem all the sins.

To reject or submit,
Accept or resist?
I'd leave it all:
You, I never will.
Maybe, if I'm honest,
I could only imply.
I imply..
I will imply it,
poetryaccident Jul 2019
The trinkets tied to memories
collections without pertinence
haunt my dreams in misery
insisting paths I dare not take

leading to the traps of lore
with a focus on lost debris
with only value to the one
desiring more than present draws

these echoes of lost history
consume attention in the sleep
this is an echo of waking hours
exclaiming loudly in danger’s place

while the present asks to be
the past consumes all relevance
as the warnings are broadcast
from the realms of troubled sleep.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190707.
The poem “Troubled Sleep” is about the dreams that haunt my rest.

— The End —