"privileged" poems
The moon has become a dancer
at this festival of love.
This dance of light,
This sacred blessing,
This divine love,
beckons us
to a world beyond
only lovers can see
with their eyes of fiery passion.
They are the chosen ones
who have surrendered.
Once they were particles of light
now they are the radiant sun.
They have left behind
the world of deceitful games.
They are the privileged lovers
who create a new world
with their eyes of fiery passion.
63.6k
The head fuckery of societies rules.
The indoctrination in our schools
has led to the homeless on our streets while politicians count their seats.
The privileged few, too rich to mention
fail to reveal their true intention.
The NHS setup to break by psychopaths all on the take.
Big business stripped of all its gold,
no pension funds left for the old.
Big pharma, they don't miss a trick,
they're making you & I feel sick.
They push the pills that ring the tills
even though they know it kills.
With the best advice and greatest will
our kids are on **** & fentanyl.
While we're divided black & white,
we'd never stand up to their might
So take your neighbour, hold their hand and together we'll reclaim our land.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
I know you want me to shut the **** up
Cut me off and not have a opinion
I try to stop myself from being
My vocal self my very essence
Grab some some tape and have some fun
Wrap it around my so called tongue
That will give you some peace of mind
At least for a minute while you unwind
I’ll spare you my rants and my thoughts
How silly of me to think so much
Why speak up I only complain
Nothing I say has any weight
Smile pretty and behave like the rest
Look good be quiet and don’t protest
All is well as long as you
Do as I say and don’t be brave
Clean do dishes and act like you’re fine
Ignore those voices that tell you otherwise
You are the thing that I contain
Into this box this square this frame
It’s all I know and what I expect
A learning curve and I suggest
Get use to being treated this way
Feel lucky feel privileged And don’t walk away
I hold this over you I confess
But what can you do except, accept?
This is the way that things are done
Don’t make waves or trouble my dear
Just go along with what you hear
If I keep you silent everybody wins
And that is what keeps me, me and you with them
If I hold you down then I succeed
Which benefits us all as you will see
What’s good for me is good for me
And why I want you to smile pretty
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 2:58 AM UTC
Like a beautiful pink camellia that's how you appear to me
That bloom in chilly August on it's dark green mother tree
So bright and fresh and pretty in the wintery wind and rain
That's how you've always looked to me and that's how you will remain.
The beautiful camellia flower that blooms fresh and young today
In two or three weeks if that long will have gone into decay
For flowers have such a brief span they quickly fade away
But in sixty years of living your beauty with you stay.
I feel privileged and grateful for to have you as a friend
And I will love you and respect you until my life will end
You are warm and kind hearted and well loved and well known
And it's due to you and to you only that into a better person I have grown.
You are wise and quite intelligent and beautiful to behold
And you don't have a gray hair on your head and you never will grow old
And on your sixtieth birthday you still look beautiful to me
Like the young and pretty pink flower on the green camellia tree.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:25 PM UTC
I was brought into this house
Ordered from the local furniture shop
Made to order according to specifications
I am a wingback,
Upholstered in full-grain leather
True to my rich heritage
I was placed in the library
Amongst the illustrious works of famous writers
Half- a - century have passed, providing support
To the backbone of the family
Although tired, he finds solace in my cozy embrace
I give him my wings to fly into the world of literature
Cervantes, Bunyan, Bacon, Goehte, Dostoevsky, Chekov, Tolstoy
Some of the names from the illustrious collection
Not all were privileged to have a seat here
He was transported to each era, savoring the rich legacy
Of literature down the centuries
I was privy to the mind-boggling debates
Which he conducted with himself
Trying to reason each work of literature
A mere wingback rose to be a companion
Providing sturdy support on the mahogany legs
One fine day the reading session ended in deep slumber
Five decades of bonding and companionship came to an end
Now, I stand here, forlorn, at the corner of the library
Reminiscing the reading sessions, and siesta
The wingback does not have the wings to fly away from this bond
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
Ask me who is the most generous man I know and I shall speak his name
Ask me who is the most humble man I know and him I shall acclaim
Ask me who is the most altruistic man I know and his face shall be on the frame
Ask me who is the most kindhearted man I know and you will hear his name again
In my life, I've never met anyone like him again
A man devoted to his family and his community
Always preaching the word of God and leading us to felicity
Always ready to sacrifice his needs for the sake of love and unity
He taught us family, love, fraternity, forgiveness, religion, compassion, tolerance, peace and generosity
I am who I am today thanks to his teachings
He was a leader, a guide, our role model
There is no one like him
He was a father, a brother, a friend, a companion, a grandfather
16 years since he is gone but his words still resonate like thunder
You are no longer here but your teachings linger
A man who was not afraid to cry when needs be but also not afraid to yell and impose order
Always playful with kids and receptive and caring with adults
I feel privileged and lucky to have known him and call him grandpa
For in my life he has played a huge and special part
The memories I will treasure and keep them in my heart
Although he is gone, we will always be together
And his spirit will live on in each one of us forever
From where he is, he is protecting us and guiding us on our way
He is praying for us everyday
He used to pray God "Let it be I who fall sick instead of one of my family member. Let it be I who die instead of someone in my family."
What kind of man wishes for that, you ask.
Someone special I will say, a man of love
And I would like to thank God above
For blessing us with this man, with his kindness and love
I truly believe that God has gifted him with something special
He taught us not to let this world be in our heart for it is not eternal
I know he is in a better place
Watching us all with a smile on his face
I hope we are making you proud from where you are
We are still crying an ocean of tears
As we feel so empty and hold many fears
If I could just turn back the time to those days you used to laugh with us and made us feel so special and loved
Those days you pretended to be in pain when we stepped on your feet while we were playing
Those days when they were only you and us in the room with your half covered grey and curled hair
Those days we used to watch tv together and whenever there was an intimate scene you screamed your favorite word "Touc" and scared us (not that I know what it means)
Time will heal so they say
And time fades away
While a part of us is taken away
I know we will meet again one day
But until that day
Know that you are truly missed
Mame Alassane Lahi whom we affectionately called Mame Rane
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
1. don’t be afraid of getting hurt
because in life there are times
when we need to be vulnerable
an unmatchable brilliance is radiated
when you bare your soul to another
and are privileged enough to be shown
the deepest parts of their spirit in return
2. write often
no one has to see it, you can scribble
on napkins and throw them away
but please, allow yourself to know
the freedom of letting words seep
from your heart and relieving
the heavy strain of carrying
so many smothering thoughts
3. never promise forever
because not once have i met
a person whose forever lasted
and i can’t say
i remember a time
when my forever has lasted, either
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
struggle is the art form of the pitied, imagine
living lavishly, lightheartedly like a ladybug
in the spring just outside the city and
bliss: seldom seen in soldiers,
a privilege of the over privileged,
shining a bright, White light on each
and every one’s inner Judas, a way
to justify their means to demean
the conflict of the ages:
stay not in the sad, safe
confinements of that chrysalis or
smell not of that sweet, sweet,
chrysanthemum whose breath rocks of
morbidity.
breaking boundaries or snapping necks like
twigs on twigs on a White winter’s day, the summer:
long gone, and the fall: Black bruised knees and
scraped thighs, and a White world’s worth of words
left to say.
the New Year and the spring, alive and true,
are carried in by the southern wind and
trying times are all but through.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
She hates that she is a woman
The putrefying weakness perceived in the curves of her body
The naivete shown in her blues
With the unintentional flutter of butterfly lashes
That refuse to meet the glances of those that pass by
The fear-- Of what?
That stereotypes are true?
She doesn't even know
And it sickens her.
She sickens herself.
She hates that she is white
The blandest vanilla
The marble statue
Somehow revered
Worshiped
Privileged
But simultaneously overlooked
Boring
Unimportant
The Caucasian mongrel
In light of the fact that her People
Have no proud history
Which she can name herself heir to
She hates that she is middle class
Not poor enough to struggle
Not rich enough to be free
Just situated dully in the middle
A footnote in the statistic
That they tell her she must use
To identify herself
She hates that her belief system
Has to be called by a name
That she has to choose
To be a part of a group
As part of her "identity"
And she is not allowed
To stand by her own integrity
She hates that she is American
The pudgy, loud-mouthed, laterally-speaking nation
The brashly jumps into conflict
Guns blazing
As its political system decays
In the stench of its overwhelming debt and corruption
But in truth
She hates
That they force her
To whittle her essence down
Into Gender, Race, Class, Religion, and Nationality
A vomit-inducing statistic
As if there was nothing more to her
Than the facts surrounding her existence
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
A wind blows like a wilderness of wolves
A vendetta, an apocalyptic vendetta
In its unpredictable, accidental quality
That swerves images of realization into tragedy
Neglecting all with swift intent upon a fallen fortress
In complected interests of caresses
Neither invited nor encouraged yet displayed
Displayed vividly with exclusive claim to that oppression
That howls by casting itself as a consequence of transgression
Upon a conventional expectation that claims a privileged sense
That persuades without an orator grotesquely amputated shapes
Extending extraordinary artifice as its priceless wealth
But who, yes who, has envy of so rich a nothing
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
Every night the underprivileged will be lifted up by the privileged.
Every night the rich will have everything right to eat, but the poor.
Every night the homeless will have nowhere left to sleep, but our old carpeted floor.
Every night scicle cell anemia will have everywhere right to be contained,
including your city heart snooker.
Every night peace will have everywhere to be passive,
including your japanese zen gardens,
Everyone will be right to make peace with us,
but our unkempt sons.
Every night the proletariat will sleep ignoring the foremen descending their picket fences,
Every serious thief will be rejected as a nightmare-
For they are owed nothing, and must reject everything more
than The Othello denial an ounce of starved soul.
They will lament, as we cool our overheated hearts,
on the pristine grounds of our single rooms.
And they will lament, as we lounge on the branches of our stoic oaks,
decomposing birthday songs for the Bad young nights of the wicked little girls…
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
maybe the reason why I dislike Batman
and love the X-Men
is because Batman, gifted with money and power, chose his struggle
the X-Men were forced- they had mutanthood shoved upon them
and had to be crucifed as society pushed them away
hiding in fear and hatred of what they must face
the X-Men learn to adapt, they take what they have
and choose to be the better man, or the worse man,
but they take the fight that was given them
and the freakery that they were born with,
and they adapt.
Batman, however, was born normally,
did not have to run or hide, for he was privileged,
and he walked, walked straight into freakery
he took the burden others were throttled with
and laid it upon his own shoulders, crying 'woe is me'
whilst he went about the noble task of hero-dom
he made himself a fancy suit- he had been given
normalcy and he invented freakery in order to claim sacrifice
he did not need to give himself- he was an ordinary man
that laid down his life.
The reason why that bothers me so much
is that ordinary men do not need to lay down their lives
they are not called to that future
it is not in their cards
he claimed his heroic deeds and choose to throw himself into the
furnace flames- while others suffered unwillingly
he chose it
he took their pain and made it less
'see, I can do it! anyone can do it!'
what makes the X-Men special is that
their mutation isn't 'deal with pain of superheroism'
it's some other power, but they have to learn how to be ostracized
not anyone can do that- they had to
their survival depended on it
Batman walked into the struggle of their lives
and declared himself a hero
though, for some, the declaration
was not in their words or actions, it was written
into their DNA, it was marked in their skin
by the brands of their oppressors, it
was pounded into every heartbeat shocked with electricity
they fought and hid their heroism their whole lives
for they knew- it was not something to love,
it was something to suffer with-
and Batman took that, he took the heroism
and he projected it across the night sky,
declaring, "I am Batman",
and it is something he can escape from,
he can walk away, he can walk away, he can walk away,
and yes, he chooses not to,
but what he does is steal from those who cannot walk away
his heroism takes the nails in the hands of mutants and orphans
and masochistically drives them into his own palms
crying whilst doing it.
rather than being forced to adapt and look normal,
he puts on a suit and prances through the night dramatically
he takes everything sufferable about being a hero
and tosses it out the window-
he takes everything noble about being a hero
and growls it in a dramatic voice, posing, in his fancy suit,
when he could be safe at home. why would you choose this
why would anyone choose this
be thankful for your ability to be safe,
that is the real superpower- the ability
to be normal, to have a home to go back to, to
have a normal purpose and a normal life,
and Batman is completely, utterly, ungrateful-
he wishes there were more,
while those born with 'gifts' would be satisfied with even less.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
On the prom, in chairs of similar design
actors, support artists and crew.
Chatted in between takes as the sun shone
around the The Cafe' television set.
In a seaside town they each came together
that day it was unsettled weather.
The atmosphere was friendly nobody left out
congenial conversation not forced.
That created the mood for a great shoot
as a new comedy series was made.
On the seafront with a train ride there
passers by were everywhere.
Actors were also rehearsing another scene
under a canopy while it rained.
Fascinated I watched and laughed as well
feeling part of that moment.
In this privileged spot to observe first hand
by the sea close to the sand.
The Foureyed Poet.
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 4:17 AM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
I grew up in South Auckland, Takanini
the only Pakeha in the caravan park,
I learnt how to be tall, smart and skinny
how to raise the end of my sentences in an arc.
At school, we were told words held power;
but for teachers words were flowers,
and my friend Cruz had two brothers
Harley and Davidson - they belonged to Black Power,
their fists tattooed with something like “Smother”.
But there was never violence on our street, gang was family;
I usually never felt more at home around Bourbon,
loud Reggae, bags of **** and men so manly
they’d cry over love, and I wouldn’t get a word in.
Though my Father votes National and thinks Michael Laws is right
so moves us to Dunedin where it’s ninety percent white.
I stopped reading Lenin and picked up Rousseau
became a vegetarian, thought it was so cool you know,
even wrote a blog that discussed rise from below.
But I’ll never know below again
until I’m drunk in an old shed at 3am on a school night
singing along to Bob Marley in Maori,
sunk deep into the mattress propped against the Harley,
the one you and I would cruise on until dawn together
as police took to the streets in riot gear -
we’d get lost in the country and learn to smother
our thoughts in starlight then stagger over,
listen in to the darkness,
and just slowly breathe
the crisp, cool air of the kiwi tundra.
They say New Zealand has two flags,
but in the country, when you’re blazed
on the benefit, ****** on the disdain
for positive discrimination, you can pick out
all the small bright koru unfurling in the stars.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
Lacquer metal, finest degree
Eggshell maiden dancing, skirts turned free
Tossed leaf nestle, a glory in a hidden theatre
Dark privileged passions creep in and listen.
The dirt around your feet compacted,
The dress around your friends contrived
But you look so natural in those seams of transplacental
Defied by the native over-leaf
What privileged thought found comfort there
What Rubenesqued dresses blushed in joy
At white marble hugging thought
And privileged smells adorning your excitement
The path beyond your feet leads nowhere
For your sight spins where your eyebrows lead
Round and round in close circles
Amongst those eyes who cracked your paint
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 5:12 AM UTC
Mother must have said it a thousand times,
Look with your eyes, not with your hands
But I was careless, full of youth
I wasn't the most privileged coming up
I respected things though, knew the meaning of money
But I was careless, full of energy
The Squirrels Nest, oddities and antiques
Mom loved that place, pricey as it was
But I was careless, full of curiosity
She used to take me there, that odd corner store
Mom would browse while I explored the wonders within
But I was careless, full of nerves
I remember just how it felt when she slapped me,
Large Minoan vase, my helmet, shattered on the floor
But I was careless, full of destruction
Mother said it a thousand and one times,
Look with your eyes, not with your hands
And finally, I had learned
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 4:16 AM UTC
i can not even write this
because it will be anti
american
unpatriotic
and an
insult to
the land
of freedom
i was born in.
I can not even write this
because I am the first
generation
daughter
child
born in
the land
of freedom.
I can not write this
because my abuela
will tell me that I am
lebanese
cuban
and i was
born in
the land of
freedom.
i can not even write this
because my Tio
who came to
America
at the age of 6
and had “adjustment”
issues will remind me that
I
Am
American.
Tio will tell me that
I
am privileged.
because I was
born in the
land of freedom.
Abuela will remind me
that CUBA is
dead.
Abuie will remind me
to hush about all things
Arabic and Lebanese
because I am
American
born in the
land of freedom.
She reminds to hush
about the black
eyes
that see past
this land to the past
of other places
that whisper
my name.
They remind me
that I am
American and
not a communist
not a terrorist
not a girl who
hears her name
sung in the winds
of other lands
which i have not
wandered.
Abuela reminds me
to not yearn for
white sandy beaches
with waves that break
on a rock laiden wall.
Abuie reminds me
to ignore the need
for hot sand
beneath my feet
and wafting smell
of foreign spices
that are
unknown
to those born
in the land of freedom.
In the land of
freedom?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
Look at us,
The thirst for green is disgusting
We exploit the lands which aren't ours
We bury the children with so much potential in their eyes
So that we can make a buck or buy a cheaper HDTV
Why should a capitalist care
If a Brazilian child is dying in their mother's fragile arms,
It's one less mouth for the world to feed
And less food for them means more to feed our obese bellies
They say we have evolved so much in the past millennium
When in reality we are exactly the same but with new inventions
And more toys yet we still complain
It's always been about power
Yet the world is in a worse condition because equality is a non existent term
Just like freedom of speech
And the good guy of war
Don't you see what is going on?
Yet we prefer not to see because it is too depressing
Or doesn't affect our daily lives
Look at the inequalities of our own country
There are men women and children starving on the street
Our privileged leaders send those away who only wanted a chance
to fight for something that nobody should believe in.
Keep turning a blind eye and see where that leads you in your life
Because remember you aren't taking anything with you
Except your memories on the day in which you die
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 12:09 AM UTC
*Thank You--based on a spoken word poem
by the magnificent Sarah Kay
I get lost all the time.
I always feel I should be somewhere else.
It is the curse of being a poet
And the grace of being one.
When I am inside writing
I feel I should be outside living.
When I am outside living.
I feel I should be inside writing
about all the beautiful things I see.
When I write my emotional love poems.
I feel I should be outside
loving someone for real.
When I am out loving someone
I feel I should be inside
writing a love poem about it.
I always feel I am lost in between.
But I found some peace
and some tranquility
I learned to whisper the words
Thank You.
On the first breath of morning.
And of the last waking moment of night.
So I know for sure that when
It is my last moment on earth.
I would say to my maker
how grateful
and privileged I have been.
To have been given the grace
of a poet's eyes
And the emotional oceans
of a poet's heart.*
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
"The thought of the future we will never have was pollinating foul fuzzy particles in the air, slowly following the wake of all those tasseled dreams I had held onto for all those years but had to let go."
The most intimate revelations can often expose plagiaristic suppressions that we've most likely tried to already forget. Suggesting to anyone on the outside looking in, that there is a rancid cowardice secreting from the pores of all those who would deny the most basic of fundamental decencies to their fellow man.
All the while, boasting a loud tolerance that would be found on the very last Autumn-the very last colorful arrangements of watering oranges and smothered reds our world was ever going to be privileged to witness again.
The thundering drumming of my own beating heart gave my freshly dead and bland reaction a neon personality, with a few extra ********* lingering, successful gestures that reflected a sparkly prism of tracers.
Tracers that were birthed from the most brilliant of lasers, as I was radiating something that was blindingly gorgeous, something that was heightened with more sensitivity as it shadowed over the complexity of every kiss that I had ever been given in my life..
Spinning a silk and gold web around me that was almost as intricate as an alarm sounding earth quake.
This flaccidly tight response came at a price, leaving nothing but whispers and the wrong kind of impressions at the sight of it's unwanted face..
The time of dignity and grace felt decades away as your tiny little temperaments began to attempt to soothe me into a very still silence.
"Wooing" me and "seducing" me with such a strong touch of romantic readiness, I knew it would never be matched or found again causing me to feel a stroke of sadness at the single sentiment.
This dramatic departure killed any interest that might have supported the abortive sorrows and short winded elation’s of men, but instead the idea of a possibly new tasseled dream, sparked me into a shimmering prism bouncing glittering, glimmering, glowing rays off my skin, as I put the shine in the sun.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
Caramel skin that got painted on by the needle.
You are inked from head to toe.
Art done to you by different hands, they must have felt privileged to touch such a tender canvas.
Like the butterfly on your stomach, you have transformed, tattoo metamorphosis.
Pain, the sting of the honeybee.
Bearing the ****** even though you bleed.
Written on the flesh, drawn upon the flesh, a story of who you are eternally expressed.
I want to read your body and understand each chapter.
Tattoos and piercings modify your outer appearance, exactly how you want it to be.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
at the point of entry (explicit)
it does not strike me strange
at the point of entry
when the heightened senses and the dark subconscious merge
when the lust and the sweat intersect
with ego desire and self is everlasting everything
that the ***** words secretion is sticky on my tongue
when I pant poems born in rawness and tears
on this the last day of the year
and eyes closed see visions extraordinaire
and the Maker whispers in both ears see!
it is the see of what is me,
it is the point of entry and departure,
one and the same,
conception an immaculate mess,
the emptying and the fulfilling, when unkempt promises
are born free flowing and semi-truths transform into
actualities unforeseen and my child cells of new poems
are injected, stored, awaiting the birthright
and the death of publication,
my moment of privileged perfection passes
and frowns and smiles are
one and the same, silken thread wove open and shut
the precision precious circumcising of flesh and soul departing
the utter collapse from within, the drowning in the amniotic,
rebirthing rebutting my denying that I have no more to give
I believe I belong to you for it is what the desire firing cylinders
say repeatedly in the union of the up and the down cycle:
come, come inside me,
I am the pleasure
you are the treasure
in one cup measured
conjoined container
when the point of entry is the point of departure
and with eyes closed from satisfaction and prayer
I see everything all at the same time, uttering:
I am undone utterly and the difference between
the end and the beginning can be seen only
at the millisecond long seven decade coming
point of entry
12/31/17 5:38am dawn dying and new day mourning
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 5:59 AM UTC
I write in public,
to be seen,
I need these preppy girls,
and closeted high schoolers,
and trophy wives,
to see me,
at my laptop,
clicking away.
Because I'm "artistic",
and "deep".
I am sensitive and must
be very beautiful
on the inside,
just like the outside.
That's why I do it.
It's all about the glory.
If only the knew the truth,
the real writing,
the words that smack the
inside of your skull
at 3 AM
when you have to be at
your minimum wage job
at 7.
The lit you need to get out
before the pressure builds up
and your head explodes
in a rainbow of creativity
on the four walls of your
too small
efficiency apartment.
The dark nights that
make you doubt the sun
will appear again
O muse, you cannot be
stifled. I hear your voice
even in my
starched white shirt
and necktie noose,
making lattés
and serving time
until The End.
The End. Times wing'ed
seraphim, the bell
tolling, tolling,
constantly,
Am I doing the right
thing with my life?
Every soul ******* interaction
with the over-privileged,
self-righteous soccer moms,
screams injustice.
My place, here,
is not to work to write,
but write to work.
My place, here,
is to live authentically,
to my own self be true,
and true, to those voices,
who came before,
who had the courage
of their convictions,
and the pounding of
text on the interior
of their cranium,
to write.
Writing is raw,
and obscene, and
beautiful.
Standing naked,
exposed, raw,
ugly
in front of your peers.
wolves.
A vow of poverty
a release of material claims
and a gain of authenticity
Living truly and truly living,
This is why I write.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 7:56 PM UTC