"revise" poems
I look at myself and all I see is grey
I try so hard to pray it away
I know it's cliche
But I can't stand my own face
It's sad eyes
They see through my lies
My oversized thighs
My failure to revise
I despite this disguise
I look at myself and all I see is disappointment
Try harder I mumbled in exhaustion
What a collision
My own derision
One day, soon, I will look at myself and all I will see is joy
My reflection, I will enjoy not want to destroy
I will not be coy
As the sun dawns
All will be gone I vowed
I look at myself today and all I see is hope
For I am proud
I want to scream it loud in crowd
I am proud of me and you
And with that statement I feel so new.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
it is my birthday.
but the world has long disowned me.
honestly--I ask--why do I bother?
as there must be something there for me--out in the viscera.
for I, am still here.
it is my birthday.
but the public has long shunned me.
faces thick as bedrock and eyes as dull as mint wrappers.
and they use sound to blind them.
it is my birthday.
and no one seems to help.
for it is not always happy to know,
you're one day closer into the arms of the cease-r.
it is my birthday.
and words rule no meaning.
for no one listens to me.
and no one hears what I'm hearing.
it is my birthday.
and my marrow weakens as I breath.
but bones sleep with welded lips 'neath the coat of earth.
and--with shame--I shall, too, be nothing but empty research.
it is my birthday.
and I force myself to nature.
O sand, is it true they pick you up and throw you in the wind?
O sea, is it true you get stuck in the mouths and stomachs of the young?
O hair, is it true you scream when the air beats you?
but I don't hear--and I know many.
it is my birthday.
and I breath false air.
is it true the ones that speak ill are on their death bed?
is it wrong I wish for them to speed up time?
is it wrong I point the reaper in their direction?
so I needn't worry of their illness spreading to mine.
it is my birthday.
and we are all gathered for tea.
the masochists sit by the sadists; that's the rule,
so the sadist may draw that ball-point pen deep along their slate skin--and whisper the names of forgotten authors,
so they may both moan with delicious harmony together--for two presents in one.
it is my birthday.
and the masochists ask me to join.
they write each other's eulogies
and revise--revise--'til there are none.
it is my birthday.
for now you know not,
of what I wish, but what I need,
a master.
for I am not one.
it is my birthday.
and not all wishes deem true,
for it seems no one cares of my words--my work--my blood--my tears--
a hymn to whomever it may concern--have you no mercy?
it is my birthday.
and I have not found them.
I have not found the right.
for only airless voices with no mouths, eyes that wish for many more, and souls that have lost time have found me.
and I am one of them.
and 'neath my heart,
I always will be.
for it is my birthday,
and wishes don't come true.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
The world is a fast changing place
Everything changes and keeps on changing till the end is reached upon when something is achieved.
Seldom when the end is reached upon there still remains more to be achieved.
Along with time comes experience and maturity.
Often it happens that when something is achieved, yet a larger part of the picture still remains to be completed.
At this juncture starts the beginning of something new,
definitely keeping in mind the prior experience.
Changes taking place in the outside world are part of everyone’s life.
It’s destiny, something written in destiny, part of destiny.
It’s fate.
Once everything is discussed, decided, reviewed, revised and a conclusion is reached upon, time now to take the necessary line of action.
Think about it and think again
Everything going on in the mind has got some reasoning and accordingly respond towards change.
Think about it and think again.
Review the past, revise, rewind and recognize the past.
Always keep in mind, never remain forever in the past.
It’s obvious to think about present in the present moment of time when something is going on in the mind with regards to the future.
It’s serves like an alarm, a wakeup call
Certainly there will always be something to look out for with regards to the future.
Always it’s important to keep in mind the right moment in time so as to ascertain the future.
Hope and anxiety go hand in hand
When there is a hope for something positive to happen in life, then at that moment in time the mind becomes anxious.
As of now what else needs to be done in the present with regards to the future, definitely there will be something else to look out for with regards to the future.
Nothing changes on it’s own, absolutely nothing
When a change happens it comes along with time
Efforts have always been made in the past when a change takes place in the present.
Different is the present, different from past.
Different will be the future, different from the past and present.
When changes are taking place in the present always keep in mind a desired line of action needs to be ascertained and then taken.
The right step when taken at the right moment in time makes all the difference in the present and also along in the future.
So even if one step is taken at a time always make sure it is taken with a positive frame of time
Irrespective of the changes taking place, an efforts always need to be made to achieve the aim, which has been ascertained by the mind prior.
Positivity attracts positivity and then the desired change happens
So always accept a change with a positive mindset, then move ahead towards what has been ascertained by the mind prior.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
Chant that you are brave,
Even as your body begins to quake;
Exclaim that you need not be saved,
Endeavor to alter your own fate.
Affirmations deserve more credit;
Say anything enough and you'll believe.
It's wholly possible to edit,
A new response to fear needs to be conceived.
Therapy is not at my beck and call,
But willpower will help me revise,
Prevent me from facing a dastardly fall,
A pivoting, terminating demise.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
So that's the Kudu-Horn used on your Prize:
The Kind which no Mundial will ever blow
To pity their Ears; And Focus revise
But Senior Petrol in Love filled her Glow:
In turn flashed her Grin as a Cool Relief,
Humbled her Lady and recalled you Friend
Indeed, the Word so long etched in Belief
Was the Same Sharp Sound which caused Fans to spend
And did this Spike ever taught you to Boast
Though Genious the Temple Beggar reminds:
That Good Deeds Un-Posted are Noble Toast
But Kisses under the Fender are Fine.
I guess what's left to do this Summer's End
Is Toot that Horn; And Flames burn Flames again.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
Being sick, isn't it lovely,
Sore, scratchy, throat,
Body feels like I'm stuck in a moat.
Boy I feel great more chicken soup please,
No... I want popsicle's, why am I hurting in my knees?
Please take care of me I say with doe eyes,
Who was the Knuckle Head who gave me this dripping surprise?
You? Husband? Oh...by me you will meet your demise.
But before that rub my back and get a new revise.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Having read both cell biology & molecular biology in Bachelor's,
This subject seems a lot different when studying it in the Master's.
But I just can't abdicate & concede this point in my master's degree at all,
I'll study creating poems about every major topic to let poetry happen.
That way it'll be easier to revise,
Both poetically and theoretically.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
The night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.
Under a dead blue sky on a distant beach,
I was dragged by my braids just beyond your reach.
Your hands were tied, your mouth was bound,
You couldn't even call out my name.
You were helpless and so was I,
But unfortunately throughout history
You've worn a badge of shame.
I say, the night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark
And the walls have been steep.
But today, voices of old spirit sound
Speak to us in words profound,
Across the years, across the centuries,
Across the oceans, and across the seas.
They say, draw near to one another,
Save your race.
You have been paid for in a distant place,
The old ones remind us that slavery's chains
Have paid for our freedom again and again.
The night has been long,
The pit has been deep,
The night has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.
The hells we have lived through and live through still,
Have sharpened our senses and toughened our will.
The night has been long.
This morning I look through your anguish
Right down to your soul.
I know that with each other we can make ourselves whole.
I look through the posture and past your disguise,
And see your love for family in your big brown eyes.
I say, clap hands and let's come together in this meeting ground,
I say, clap hands and let's deal with each other with love,
I say, clap hands and let us get from the low road of indifference,
Clap hands, let us come together and reveal our hearts,
Let us come together and revise our spirits,
Let us come together and cleanse our souls,
Clap hands, let's leave the preening
And stop impostering our own history.
Clap hands, call the spirits back from the ledge,
Clap hands, let us invite joy into our conversation,
Courtesy into our bedrooms,
Gentleness into our kitchen,
Care into our nursery.
The ancestors remind us, despite the history of pain
We are a going-on people who will rise again.
And still we rise.
4.3k
lacking stability
rocking, winding, slipping
distracting inability
missing the step beneath your foot
crawling now, just a bit further
before you reach the edge of the bed
only to realize you aren't even home
retract, revise, retrace
attempt to find that peaceful place
forget to remember
remembering to forget
once you awake
realize that you were never asleep
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 2:11 AM UTC
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Fi-
Or...
Was...
It
four?
Better
start
again,
being
safe..
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Start
Again.
Counting.
Every.
Single.
Thing.
Here.
Cracks.
Wait?
How
long
was
that
there?
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Scratching.
Poking.
Prodding.
Anxiety
makes
me
tick.
Breathe.
One.
Out.
Two.
Breathe.
Three.
Out.
Four.
Breathe.
Five.
Out.
Six.
Breathe.
Seven.
Haiku.
Seven.
Five.
Sev-
Five.
Seven.
Five.
Seven
Doesn't
Have
Seven
Freaking
Numbers
Crap.
That
was
six.
Need
to
revise.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Ignore
it.
But
I
Can't.
You
can.
But
I
simply
don't
have
the
strength.
I
just
can't
stop
ticking
right
now.
Help
me.
Gonna
drown
and
die.
Save
me.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Now
it's
too
late
to
save
me.
The
numbers
have
already
won
this
one.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism.
there’s a theory where poetry came from,
one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings
calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss...
another read: she báthory?
she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood?
she can burn in hell.
i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern?
no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism...
or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism...
poets fear punctuation...
give them a semi-colon
and
they
treat
it
like a sidelined line of verse.
this is poetry in mathematical equations:
i had a pear(,)
it was a spare(.)
i had a care for traffic(-)
so i missed( )
the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth
into chop suey...
poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph
and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.)
that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)...
come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :),
poets says... i need breathing space
without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration
and envy!
no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu
alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ...
so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down
(this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?!
i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles
and a thing that's on it's thought started to become
orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated -
that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric
and we became narcissists instead of solipsists
in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism
with adequate excuses.)
it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology
and instead writing "sparingly,"
to write, e.g.:
i
hate
this
love
affair
claimed
to
be
the
world...
i
rather
chisel
chequers
into
geometry
of
x4
90º.
makes sense poets begot fear of
punctuation and not grammar, they
serviced to explore nothing else,
leaving grammar open long enough to *****
mathematics in... remember...
poets are firstly concerned with punctuation...
secondly with grammar...
philosophy for poets is grammar;
**** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
You don't have to remind me to listen to three AM school-night words that come out in the soft whispers you've been waiting to share with me in an attempt to shield it from the rest of the world
I'll remember the things you didn't say like engraved textbook lessons
when my skin starts to dampen and stick to my body like a raincoat
my head hits the wood desk so loud everyone stops pretending to pay attention
and i have to write
"he doesn't love me anymore" one hundred times on the chalkboard
and bang the parts of my past i wake up forgetting together
watching the chalk dust from the day my mother told me; they almost lost you fall to the floor
Every negative hallway interaction bubbles over in an abandonment issue chemical reaction
and I had to drop chemistry because I found none of the connections and formulas could fix the imbalance I carry around with me like i shouldn't be failing Psychology 101.
Maybe I'm clueless because I can't tell you why weather changes or square roots of negatives
But I can recite the lisence plate of the car my dad has never visited me in
and my sisters contact information for the 4 minute and 57 second call i can pay $6.43 to make to sit on the floor and learn about juvenile detention while history notes offer me cold faux-sympathy
Maybe I'm clueless because id rather memorize the way your hand moves down my back than the quadratic formula
and give up on poetry mid sentence
and change "moves" to "moved" because it's all in past-tense and the difference between present and present perfect and banging erasers and not sleeping and
forgetting how to function off of autopilot mode
and
there are lessons I will remember that won't come from staring at a projector screen
when to stop talking
how to look like you weren't just sobbing in the bathroom
the unwritten "give a stranger a ****** if they ask" rule
I'll remember every word you tell me like the test is next period and I'll study every syllable and drown in iambic pentameter
and I'll still fail
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
Brains constantly devoured,
Forged as the unknown.
Intellect decieving creative diction
Pardon errors and revise.
The hours you spent
Absorbing anything but sleep,
Piles up to the layers
Of stars and air.
Stop being the person
You thought you were.
Brush off values you knew,
Learn to teach something old.
Tear ducts flood out
Sodium enhanced contracts,
That binded you to affliction
Yesterday, and all hours that remain.
It doesn't have to stop,
And it doesn't have to start.
Sit through the releasing
Of depressing minds.
Cope with the contract
That you desperately signed.
Let them hear you weep
And see your pathetic eyes.
Stars shine with hope,
You shine with sadness.
Thirsting for more oppertunities
That allow you to feel something.
Now that there is nothing left
To feel, and nothing left
To hate, forgetting them
Is chronologically ensuing.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 9:43 AM UTC
Your thoughts are far from the ground,
Like cumulonimbus clouds thundering by
And pouring rain.
Life seems to pass by, scattered and wispy
with the sound of the wind like a whistling train playing
as you stare at the elusive silver lining.
The pit patter of Peter Pan being lost
dwells heavy in your heart,
As you revise the sequence of the cumulus memories.
Life paces
As you ignore the malice and bantering of the crowds
Sticking your head above up into the clouds
half-deaf to reality in the room.
You have a foot in a fairy tale,
And one in the abyss.
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 9:00 AM UTC
Step one,
choose your topic.
Likely yourself.
Because what greater
subject could there be?
None
surely.
Step two,
choose an image.
Find something
that can serve
as a metaphor
for you.
Find the rain forest
for instance.
Or perhaps a pond
frozen over in winter.
Yes,
these should serve nicely.
Step three,
place yourself
somewhere in the midst of these things.
Let you be
the trunks of the trees
supporting the lush, green canopy.
You, poor, tired,
supporting the thick boughs
that are the real life
meters
and
meters
and
meters
above you.
Or is your face
the ice of the pond.
All that people ever notice
is how much you can take
before you break.
But there is so much more
just beneath the surface.
So much
teeming with life.
No one knows
how deep you go.
No one will know
until the ice thaws
(which is unlikely to happen anytime soon.
but the metaphor was never meant to extend that far.)
Step four,
write yourself in
to the piece
in such a way that no one else
will be able to identify you.
(Unless they're **** cunning.)
Perhaps disguise your identity
within the purpose of the piece
or the flowing imagery
seeping through the spacious cracks
in your technique.
Riddle the work
with subtle ins and outs
and minute complexities
that vex the reader
away from your intentions.
Nicely done.
Step five,
ruminate.
contemplate
your reflection
as it appears
in your monitor.
Not the image of your face
bouncing off the glass
but the snapshot
of your thoughts
so opaquely back-lit.
Remind yourself
that this is for you
and no one else.
Proofread.
This is just for you
and no one else.
Revise.
This is just for you
and no one else.
Justify
this is just for you.
Step six,
post to a public forum.
Check back in an hour.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
We pass on our memories to generations to come
Will we pass on all of our failures, along with triumphs?
Or will we be the omniscient evaluators to filter out pain?
People's victories and defeats spon individuality
The only "sameness" in our lives is that we are all humans
Colorful and beautiful in our smiles and well earned scars
We are "The Givers" of our lives to future generations
Don't hold back! Don't revise. Don't disguise wounds.
Be "The Giver" of the Truth. Be "The Giver" of your life.
Celebrate you.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
tossing turning tumbling
these voices in my
head-heart-soul
rip me
tear me
burn me
wound me
scar me
rush me secretly
to some parallel confusion
invasion
conclusion
illusion
a heart in either hand
which to fulfill
which to destroy
take me
wake me
break me
heal me
feel my fear
my love
my hatred
know me
touch me
teach me
reach me
save me
streaming screaming seduction
these voices in my
head-heart-soul
deplore me
restore me
advise me
revise me
take me elusively
to some underground unreality
lucidity
misery
a heart in either hand
which to follow
which to mislead
hate me
love me
leave me
reap me
**** me
take from me
these voices in my
head-heart-soul
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 1:22 PM UTC
I have gotten older.
At this point in time, I am where my mother was. I am caught between wanting to love someone and wanting to disappear from the face of the earth, between buying groceries or a few grams of creative fuel. Music is a necessity and sleep is no more than a luxury. There are nights where I wake up just to stare into the clocks eyes and although I tell myself to slip back into my dreams I cannot stop my right arm from reaching for a pen. By the end of the week, my recycling bin overflows with half-written letters and they all start the same but different
Dear mom, I hate you and
Dear mom, I miss you. I am just
Dear mom, I hope your next boyfriend has 16 ****** kids so that you are forced to remember the four biggest blessing you left behind
but there is one letter that I keep on my desk, inside an envelope with your address on it, sealed so that even if my fingers itch to revise and edit all the confusion I somehow found the strength to heave out onto paper; I won't.
it reads,
Dear mom,
I want to tell you I love you. I don't. I know I don't. But I do. I always will, that's just how life is. Life always will be. It's different for everyone. However, for us, life will always be arduous. At the end of the day, you and I don't make it any easier. I fight to feed, bathe, and protect the three younger miracles you brought into this world when you, you don't even bother to send a card on their birthdays. Your life always meant more to you. The motivation I have, the childhood I didn't keep me up at night. You've both robbed and driven me. I don't know whether to say **** you or thank you.
- your Firstborn
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 10:17 PM UTC
.
***Tasted the betrayal once by chance
The blistered memories still haunt,
But managed to change the way
Now no pain flows through spillway...
Do revisit but for a while,
Recall the good time, smile...
Come back with the lesson right,
Review...revise...and...just write!
Betrayal is hard to forget
But learning the lesson is just apt,
Some cracks beyond repair, it's true
But the light passes through!***
.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 5:34 AM UTC
I have a crush on death
And it's growing every day
I grab the bottle
Maybe its time to slip away
Into the darkness
Let the pain swallow me up
I take off the top
My thoughts would slow and
Soften to a hum
I reach for the rope
My eyes would close for the last time
I never have to see myself again
I tie the noose
How wonderful it would be
To never have another thought
To never hear my voice again
To finally make it stop
I revise my note
. .
. .
. .
But
This is just a reckless fantasy
A way to elude reality
I put the bottle away
I untie the rope
I place the note with the others
Take a deep breath and
Keep these moments to myself
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 7:59 PM UTC
in my child's eye...
it is possible,
for a frog, to choose to fly.
a dog to dance and
cats to swim.
it is possible,
to build a castle,
up into the sky.
to converse with stars.
for elephants to drive,
tiny cars.
it is possible,
that the world,
is without sin
and washed clean,
each morning,
which is to be met
with an insouciant grin.
it is possible,
to befriend the child
you just met....
no matter what creed
or colour.
it is possible,
to forgive
and live,
without regret
and to sleep
at night
without any stress.
it is possible,
at that age,
to know ....
a dollar found upon
the sidewalk,
is a treasure
of great proportions,
if made into,
lollies and shared,
with friends.
it is possible...
that fish can write stories
and possums delight
it is possible to count
a monkey as a friend.
it is possible to ride
kangaroos and
adventure to Timbuctoo
it is possible,
to love spaggetti
as much as your mother.
to make the new kitten,
your brother.
it is possible,
to love your dad
even when he is silly
or mad...
all this is possible...
....and much more
when you are just,
one year, past four...
...and you have a
sunny, lovable disposition
and the world has yet to
find the time, to revise
the freedoms of your amazingly beautiful mind...
it is possible....
and in many ways
so very probable...
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
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Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
She came to me at Calvados,
A single night, without repeat.
The woman of my soul’s love longing,
to consummate with kisses sweet.
She entered in my midnight room
a simple pastel shift she wore
Smiling as she bared her shoulders,
the garment dropping to the floor.
So beautiful, this child of Gonne,
to this poet’s bleary eyes.
How often I had praised, in print,
her auburn hair and hazel eyes.
I was silent, she as well,
neither keen to break the spell.
She kissed me deeply on the lips
just as the stroke of midnight fell.
Her fingers deeply in my hair
she brought me to her freckled chest.
I licked and nibbled at one ******
like a baby at her breast.
She mounted me, her Rocinante,
and slowly, we began our quest.
My Willie in warm velvet wetness
wrapped as I returned her thrusts.
In spirit, we belonged together.
In truth,she’d wed another man.
A brute who’d tried to **** her sister.
She, too, had suffered at his hand.
As we played, she bent to kiss me
sweet Celtic sweat was in her hair
In another life she’d been my sister.
In this life’s love war all was fair.
She gave out with a little cry
as she took my Willie deep.
we came in unison so sweetly
but quietly, her child was asleep.
I remember, one time, Maud had asked
what type of bird I’d like to be?
Back upon the hills at Howth
when we were young and both still free.
“I think”, I said,” I’d be a gull,
playing at the shore for free.
Soaring high above the water
taking my living from the sea.”
Now we lay here in Calvados
near the town Colleville sur Mer
Her villa was named “Les Mouettes”
For one night only, we coupled there.
It is rumored that, in the Summer of 1907, William Butler Yeats and Maud Gonne shared physical intimacy for the one and only time in their lives. He the famous Poet and Playwright, she the famous Irish nationalist.
At the time she was separated from John MacBride, but they had not divorced, being Catholic. Yeats had a belief in reincarnation and both had, at times, dabbled in the occult. See also my poem
" Making Iseult"
The child asleep in the adjoining room would be Sean MacBride, later in life a Nobel peace prize winner.
Les Mouettes is French for "the (Sea)gulls."
I have read that Yeats wrote a love poem about this night, but that it has been lost. This is my attempt to replicate that lost love poem.
I thank Patrick McFarland for helping me revise the original version of the poem. His suggestions improved the flow of the piece.
.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC
when I was five, my parents gave me a book about a rainbow fish instead of the princess one I wanted. waterworks began.
when I was six, I checked out a book from the school library about the tooth fairy. I read it over and over again because I was too nervous to return it.
when I was seven, I started taking dance lessons. my teacher had bright blonde hair that she always kept in a ponytail. I wanted to be exactly like her.
when I was eight, I learned how to write in cursive. I made a point of showing my teacher how the lowercase 's' looked like a Hershey's Kiss.
when I was nine, I wrote an essay for school about a cat. my teacher told me I didn't have to revise like the other kids because I had already written it so well. I was ecstatic.
when I was ten, my best friend moved away and I cut my hair short. it was the first time I had to learn how to start over.
when I was eleven, I argued myself to tears on the playground, thus discovering passion.
when I was twelve, I almost tripped down the stairs after school every day because I refused to put my book down.
when I was thirteen, I made my way into a group of friends that had hearts of gold and eyes of steel. we felt invincible.
when I was fourteen, I watched as by best friend silently collapsed into a heap of tiny, broken pieces. I learned that the nicest people can be incredibly hard headed.
now I'm fifteen. I don't know everything, but I do understand that life never goes as planned. I understand that we are wonderfully accustomed to adapting to unprecedented circumstances. I understand that picking yourself up off the bathroom floor time and time again takes strength and resilience. I understand that you're good at being you, and that is always a compliment.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
Mine eyes have seen the statues being torn down from their plinths
erasing our shared history at the Citizens expense
those who rewrite the past commit a grave offense
when Truth is trampled on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.
Soon they’ll revise the history books and omit the civil war.
Our Youth won’t have to learn about the “lost cause” anymore
To tell the truth about the past will be against the law
then truth is trampled on.
There was once a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel,
"Six hundred thousand had to die before our land could heal;"
When a Hero, born of woman, crushed Rebellion with his heel
When God was marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
The Truth is trampled on.
I have heard the trumpets echo die; its absence makes me weep
I see Marse Robert join the rest upon the ******* heap
He who was skilled in victory and gracious in defeat-
This history must live on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
This history must live on.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC