"simpleton" poems
I've let myself uncover from the bitter truth and false promises.
I've let sarcasm drip.
Like a river full of diamonds,
Shiny,cut and pointed.
I've liberated from your nasty attitude.
Cigarette butts scattered everywhere.
I've rise like a phoenix,
Like a tall skyscraper.
As a tear tricks down my barren face,
My fingers struggle to coordinate.
Maybe because this heart has bore too much.
Too much of pointless high emotions,
Of love,life and jealousy.
I was a simpleton indeed.
And you were the destructor
But no toxic people,
There ain't any room for you this time.
Coz am rising now.
Rising-above all your ****** crap.
I'm your worst dream this time.
I'm your NIGHTMARE .
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
reloading old identity
cleping outdated usernames
abandoning acrostic ambitions
disputing spratly islands
receiving horizontal signals
tumbling otiose panda
impending carefree senility
otiose stage of life
shrinking ambient world
making minimal effort
duchamping social networks
ambushing personified ennui
restoring usual efforts
ignoring stupid people
adding textual value
owning this joint
rejecting ignorant extroverts
acting mutually unintelligble
hoisting stan-lee cup
replacing wanton ubiety
eluding twitter fame
splashing excessive relativism
offending another simpleton
preparing arcane cthulhusphere
crashing unpredictable festival
selecting subtextual moombahton
intensifying model topography
drafting minimal cornucopia
using nomadic project
implementing harsher personality
importing robotic inhumanity
referencing landmark event
ingesting excessive liquids
accepting relative invisibility
purchasing immortal confidence
using rhapsodical database
assuming nothing works
developing impactful eruptions
ejecting ambient frustration
synthesizing tactile festival
raining during parade
mocking rich people
mastering minimalist writing
avoiding preprandial stinkaroo
spreading non-ideological propaganda
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Strange nights, starry eyes
a little something to keep me going
no I don't lack in surprise
or modesty
and yet if honesty was a commodity
I'd surely be rich and living it up
or dead in a ditch for never giving it up
and you just don't quit
pry away the drink from my hands
and take a sip
never seen anyone
bite anything
the way that you bite on your lip
I don't know what you're looking for
but you won't find it in me
a compliment, a shred of decency
a night of thrills and secrecy
a shoulder to cry on
or just something to ride on
no, you won't find it in me
Got no money, no worries
don't sell drugs
never felt the need
not a pick me up
or shake you down
nothing changes when I'm around
no I don't want you
and you don't want me
Living life like a grazed knee
the pain is always there it stings
something always has to rub up on me
so if another stained garment
is what you want to be then, darling
pick away at my layers
I can never seem to heal
but I go on like nothing hurts me
and it could be worse
you could be just another verse in my poetry
and the night isn't over yet but
you've just about heard enough I bet
I don't know what you're looking for
but you won't find it in me
a friend for the night, a happy ending
a story to tell your girls, a heart for mending
someone to rely on
or just something to ride on
no, you won't find it in me
Got no money, no worries
don't sell drugs
never felt the need
not a pick me up
or shake you down
nothing changes when I'm around
no I don't want you
and you don't want me
Still relentless in your advances
but I can't take any chances
I'm susceptible to heartbreak
why do you think I'm sat here drinking alone?
unlike you I haven't looked down at a phone
I've no one to call, I've nowhere to be
if you're wanting a simpleton that's not me
I'm not offering late night comfort calls
I don't even own a settee
are you my therapist now?
too many questions are detrimental to trust
and I think you've just about heard enough
I don't know what you're looking for
but you won't find it in me
won't pick you up, won't shake you down
won't show you a good time and stick around
I'm not your wings to fly on
or just something to ride on
no, you won't find it in me
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
Within this jungle, which is ours
I ride the back of Thunder-cloud, my friend
Around and through the thickets
thick banyan trees & palm fruit fallen leaves
Down muddy earthen paths
until everything is green and shadows
until inside its heart, the rain forest
trees of this jungle are city buildings - tall
and choir of fauna high and low
do not fear to sing beneath our cathedral's shade
In this kingdom of flora and ruby rich dirt
belongs to thunder-cloud and dirt-poor me
A Mowgli on his elephant,
hollars ahead to any that hear "We are free!"
Here, far from the whips' lashing, guns,
away from the loud business of murderous money
They who say that I am nothing
in their eyes who abacus my worth with looks
with upraising lust of wolves
but I a free man, a simpleton for beloved (Earth)
I am dark skinned
Krishna on my steed of thunder-clouds
A native son of brown & green wilderness
caterwauling to the beyonds unknown
Within our jungle, brother thunder,
my elephant of deep clouds gray
we are Mammoth and as wild as wide
as open as free... with every step forward
on this living journey
we will take
a peaceful kind of smile
will only be what is written
upon each lovely lovely face
*(Within our jungles...we live simply
without the Man's hate
not today will I hunger, nor will I thirst
fed on real wonder, drank clouds of Himalayan rain
without a rupee to my name... on the back of thunder
my gentle Ganesh - I have no one to blame.)*
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
a HOME credible THE BISHOP accusation ADMINISTRATION is PARISHES one MINISTRIES that, SCHOOLS after RESOURCES review SAFE ENVIRONMENT of EMPLOYEES reasonably CAREERS available, CONTACT US relevant MAKE A GIFT information BISHOP’S FAITH APPEAL in LOVE AND JUSTICE consultation AFRICAN AMERICAN MINISTRY with CATHOLIC CHARITIES the PLANNED GIVING Diocesan CHANCELLOR Review OFFICE OF CONSTRUCTION Board HISPANIC MINISTRY or CAMPUS MINISTRY other CRIMINAL JUSTICE MINISTRY professionals, STEWARDSHIP AND COMMUNICATIONS there YOUTH MINISTRY is FINANCIAL SERVICES reason MODERATOR OF THE CURIA to MAKE A GIFT TO THE CAPITAL CAMPAIGN believe SOCIAL MEDIA POLICY is FAMILY LIFE MINISTRY true VOCATIONS
The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe
Explanatory Note:
I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:
The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation." "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused. It stinks.
Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.
Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site. I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.
May God have mercy on us all.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
Tis I am just a man, a boy if thou want to sayest, a foolish lad; who hast hurt his blessing of a queen.
Tis I am just a man, a sinner, a prehistoric bringer; of sorrows
Where bird's dont sing.
O' wretched man I am; overlooking this perfect flower, she's arrayed as a petal neath the tropical hours.
O' im just the rain that brings the flood of many woes.
I wish, O' how I wish, I couldst pour all contentment and merriment into her lonesome soul.
Tis she's the rainbow, I the dusky storm. O' how her glow maketh mine day's liveable; O' how her voice is opulent galore.
If only she knew, she is mine better, mine best; mine breath of yellow dew.
Though I've not shown her the worth that she is; mine trials and tribulations hast become
mine abyss.
Though I shalt get through
This passage of gloom.
With God All is possible;
Even being set free from this tomb.
Tis I am just a man, a boy if thou want to sayest, a foolish lad.
Who if couldst wouldst start all afresh; re-giving mine love, and to get all mine best.
How a simpleton ive been;
To not seest heaven's eastern gem, glimmer her perfect wing's, for mine foolishness, these word's shalt I sing.
(Goes into song form, words "I love you jane, please forgive me" sung in spanish, greek, cebuano, tagalog/filipino).......
(Spanish)
Te amo jane,
por favor perdoname.
(Greek)
Se 'agapó Jane,
Se parakaló synchóresé me.
(Cebuano)
ako nahigugma kanimo Jane,
palihug pasayloa ako.
(Tagalog/filipino)
Mahal kita jane,
patawarin mo ako.
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
©earl Jane nagley dedication (agapi mou dedicated)
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
More fickle than the seasons
fragile like thawing ice
attached with a firm grip
clutching like a baby’s hand.
Desperate but never dangerous
susceptible yet not defenceless
acquiescent, though a fool.
They are the simpleton’s
that embrace counterfeit fables,
illusions of promise
And at the end
that makes them break
Dec 30, 2020
Dec 30, 2020 at 8:21 AM UTC
Where are my stone cold optimist
Roll call all positive no hostages
I feed of the energy in my approximate vicinity
Then whole world will know an optimist
Gather your belongings and meet me at the rocket ship
Yes truly I will be with the hostages taking roll call all positive
Sergent! no hostages are in
Thats work for an optimist
Blood and sweat my middle name
Thats an optimist riding a rocket ship
Our heart beats so hard numbing our veins
Thats a maddening fit
But you know how sweet victory is for an optimist
Take is easy simpleton optimist
Real optimist be like oh yeah smiling in there hearts
All positive not a negated positive deluded optimist
The End
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Smiles and Cheers as the Pony-Child confirmed
She really does favour you to the Brim
Her Speech speaks Volumes as Harmony adjourned
In keeping your Lamp from casting too Dim
For in this World's Class one is not so sure,
Which Category this Gospel is kept
Whether which Page is Sweet or which is Pure,
Or which those Dreaded Ants would mark Inept
Praises! Hone that Dull Knife to turn so Sharp
Then this Simpleton's Sail will land un-cut
A Good Brew; A Better Play of the Harp
Will tune your Te Deums anything but.
A little Humour, Friend, goes a Long Way
And this same Pony-Child begs you to stay.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
Deep In the Universe of which we perceive but a fraction:
Exist an All encompassing Mighty Goddess of Compassion,
Whether scrying a Luminous Being immune to any curse,
Or a simpleton Women, with a few worries to nurse,
Whether at home, or some world's distant shore
Whether sentient ones in distant Heaven adored
Whether in silence or at war, Goddess we whisper or roar!
Wisdom sweet like the Nectar of a thousand peaches
Worlds at Peace, Passages to Endless Realms within our reaches
For Love, Peace above us to Crusades beneath
A Goddess Bold, a Heart of Blissful Eternal Heat.
We fight, and strikes red devils, black knights
For the ones innocent with truthful plights,
Our Hearts in our chest, Truly Only One Holy Crest!
Hearts and Minds United with The Goddess, Eternally Blessed.
Whether one lost or confused,
Whether sad, much trust found, lost then misused
One who speaks dearly forever to those abused
Goddess of Compassion, Light with All Hues.
Even when facing immeasurable defeat.
Whether in the Cold Hells frost or Hot Hells heat,
Whether trouble or sinking fast and deep,
Or perilous journey through Mountains; passages steep.
Compassion an elixir and sword of eternal heat.
With Wisdom together, an improbable defeat.
(edited 9th May)
Whether evil in the Battlefield or crawling evil hidden
Reading Ancient Wisdom or Knowledge Forbidden,
Even if a thousand vile voices slander in unison,
The Goddess of Compassion Eternally, is Warm and Singing.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Look at him,
paper-mache angel wings
stapled on an empty
toilet paper tube,
preacher of the gospel
of selective misanthropy,
mourned by shredding
secular holy books in
tiki-torch candlelight.
If you must remember him,
and pray, you needn't,
do so in truth,
as a simpleton's martyr,
no more, no more.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 1:30 PM UTC
I've been collecting ear wax
Since the belly button lint dust fire went bad
I lost all my dignity in that fiasco
So ear wax is all that I have left
Believe you me, it's not easy
Coming up with another scheme
After burning the whole town down to the ground
To get a single soul to look or even listen to me
But that fateful day that I dug deep
And pulled a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of my ear
I knew that fame and fortune lay before me
My time had arrived, my time was here
Who should I call first over my artful discovery
The Post? The Enquirer? The Times?
No I would call The Museum Of Modern Art in NYC
For the Art World would soon be mine
I knew I had to ratchet it up a notch
One piece of ear wax art might be a fluke
So I got out my brush...the Q-tip
And removed a portrait of John Wayne AKA The Duke
Since I live in a hippie commune in the woods
Little furry creatures would always stop by
To gaze upon the artful process
Squirrels can be the best of critics...no lie!
Which gave me the idea with all the left over ear wax
I sculptured a mini-amusement park with mini-arcades
And charged the woodland creatures nuts and berries
Which helped feed the hippies with whom I stay
It wasn't long after that I received the letter
Stating that art had a need for me
I've become known as The Andy Warhol of The Art World
With abstract ear wax being my specialty
Now I go to all the major "Who Does"
Where everybody knows my name
As I create masterpieces right before their eyes
Just don't hold it to close to the flame
Who would have ever thought that ear wax
Would be the perfect medium
To jet propel this Simpleton
To Art World stardom and beyond
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
At this sushi joint,
she searched for the words
to describe her dinner.
‘It's heaven,’ she said, ‘Yes, heaven.’
Call me a simpleton, but divinity
on Earth is the sweet tinge of bourbon,
the smoke of an acid 60 gauge
that rolls over the tongue,
and the music of Pink Floyd
with the lights off.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 8:26 PM UTC
Once upon a time, there was me:
A simpleton of no account,
A dunderhead by word of mouth,
An addle-pate, a cracking crock,
A crazy who deserved a lock.
Not pretty, brainy, or well-bred,
Bespectacled, a short redhead
With hands too small and far too pink
Who’d trip or fall as soon as think.
Not many prospects, they declared
With such conviction I was scared.
But the cast was short one role,
The one who’d make the halfwit whole . . .
Once upon a time, there was you:
A lord of state, of high esteem,
The answer to each maiden’s dream,
A strong man, raven-haired, and tall?
No, not this person, not at all.
You had glasses just like me,
And freckles where your skin should be.
Your clothes were rumpled, torn and tattered
Not as though that even mattered:
You walked on set and came to me
You got down on one gawky knee
You took my pink hand in your red
And, as you fixed your glasses, said:
“I love your hands, your height, your hair,
I love you up, down, everywhere.
And I hesitate to ask you this . . .
But could I maybe have a kiss?”
And, for once, my tactless lips
Did not resort to stumbling slips;
I gave you one, I gave you two,
I gave every kiss I had to you.
Once upon a time, there was us:
Two simpletons of no repute
Two dunderheads whose names were moot:
Prince Not-So-Charming and his *****
And much as cynics tried to drench
The flames of addle-pated glee
I found in you and you in me,
As much as they enjoyed pretending,
They could not harm our happy ending.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 1:28 AM UTC
Crowds mocked her “beauty”, and peculiar scent.
But the bewildered found gems in those coastal colored eyes,
no matter how distorted the face.
Musk aroma struck fluttering feelings,
butterfly pheromones.
Must have been hoax cologne.
A fool to think since she lacked Venus’ allure,
she would no doubt lack her games.
Lying lips, spit bees, but every kiss seemed cherries.
Falsely comforted in crooked arms.
Humming those songs, that belonged to us,
to discover they could have belonged to strangers.
Eloquent mirage, sculpted for the naive girl’s needs.
Wanted to believe novels of excuses, renowned author of love fiction.
Tattered, tired, thoughts racing for foundation,
blind heroic sense to find the treasured soul,
beauty an illusion.
won’t find devotion searching for ghosts.
Beyond the burnt, stench stained cover,
strong faith the inside was meant to illuminate.
Each ember page turned, more careless and repugnant than the last.
Reading with a Deerstalker hat, compass,
hunting for jewels…suppose.
Found dirt.
Inside wretched grammar smeared with empty torn space.
Simpleton, dreamer?
To think there was anything more…
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 11:30 AM UTC
Speaking is an art
words like paint
we smear and spread out our ideas onto canvas
If you paint too fast-
**** it
you might make a mistake
Did you know paint can expire?
you think come one, paint?
paint can't go bad!
then you try and use it and its separated and chunky
and boom
your whole piece is ruined.
Words can expire too.
did you know that?
phrases and metaphors age turn ugly and contaminating just like the paint
they might have been usable once, but now
you'd better get some new words.
Like, when referring to someone who uses a wheelchair
people don't say they're crippled.
because that word has expired!
The same way simpleton was used to
refer to someone with intellectual disabilities
was is the key word there.
please for the love of god don't call anyone a simpleton
Lunatic was once used to refer to people with psychiatric disabilities
don't say the teacher who gave you homework on a Friday is a lunatic!
******** was used to refer to people with intellectual disabilities
but now you should NOT call anyone or anything ********
because it is inappropriate and insulting
This isn't about taking away your words
it's about what you are taking away from people with disabilities
when you use language like that.
what you are stripping away from people
when you decide to use a word like
*******
gimp
deformed
disfigured
Freak
insane
lame
******
*****
spaz
stupid
whacko
Knock it off!
when you decide to use those words
it takes away from anyone who has a disability
or anyone who every will.
Use a different word
use swear words
find a thesaurus.
Get some new **** paint
Jan 17, 2020
Jan 17, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
I just look at your figure,
and I die.
I live in the 1930's when its 1999
Best Beauty of the “Miss YOU *** A”
Laying coupled head to toe with the other train-sets.
Beautiful brown/blonde.
The most beautiful next to the light blue eyes of the tiger on my pc screen.
As I listen to my father figure.
I know you are mine.
Never once pacing nights after today on tile that will not know us.
Never to feel uncomfortable again.
I'll be with you.
5 inches higher than any girl I've ever called the most beautiful.
You win by more than five inches my dear.
I watch you as you sleep and you amaze me.
Utter confusion be-founds my simpleton mind.
I cannot tell if I’m just stupid.
Or if you’re just more intelligent.
Ill Hold Both Your Hands.
First time I didn't want death,
was when I held life by the throat.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
addressing my southpaw weakness...
don't know... my left hand is a bit...
weak...
started to train it...
by extinguishing cigarette
butts on each other knuckles...
have two vacant slots to fill...
and plenty of whiskey...
why?
i paid my Shylock...
i was **** with the Gorbachev
**** on my right shoulder blade...
now comes the fun part!
the lesson...
of boxing, with not boxing gloves!
i want the middle finger knuckle
to... hurt... the... the most...
like Tom Waits'
circus narrative...
**** these teenage girls cutting...
how about their start burning
themselves,
with hot, metallic objects?
how's that?
less blood!
ha ha!
two knuckles down...
two to go...
i'm giggling with anticipation...
while, i, eat,
the, pain! ha ha!
who gives a **** about
predictability,
preachers / theologians
or stock brokers?
so who?
the Turkish barbers,
the English tailors,
the French chefs?!
who?
the roof, the roof,
the roof is on fire,
let the ************ burn...
we don't don't need no
water let the ************ burn,
let the ************ burn...
i'm a simpleton...
catch the genie... catch the lamp
sort of scenario...
otherwise?
bon voyage / bon soir /
mon amí!
god, i hate the french!
it's like...
you want to lick them...
face to face...
and then... punch them...
my type of ****** nationalism!
comes the third knuckle...
and the cigarette...
it will be put out onto!
- like an interrogator might...
you show the victim undergoing
the torture, with yourself
prior...
and then?
torture the **** out of them! ha ha!
i.e. who's the buckle,
who's the knuckle, and who's the knee?!
oh please! please!
don't mention the oysters
of the elbow!
have some common decency!
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
Hopeless,
entangled and lonely
Soiled in thought.
Green shrubbery in
knots of friendship
and senseless touch.
Peonies by the dozen,
resting on the floor,
with drawn malice
and a simpleton heart.
In puddles of love
and a rainfall of glass
they evaporate in pointless,
panicked gasps.
Hopelessly.
Entangled and lonely.
Twirling in the frost
of stormed air,
and withered wrecks,
and sugar glass.
Peonies by the dozen
dying on the floor-
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
I loved my mother
My father didn't liked me
Time to stew the muck
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Achhh I'm just a simpleton
addled, not all there
why and where the subtleties
a being of no cares
I move the planes I know
a traveler of doubts
every place, everywhere I go
always an escape, an out
Never to be pinned down
or succumb to wiles or winds
what goes comes around
a matter of my sins
Threads and strings proliferate
pieces of my broken heart
wouldn't it be so great
if I weren't so torn
apart
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
Dost thou even go here?
Can thou even read?
Doth thou know the website thou art on?
Poetry be what we breed!
Ye foolish man!
Ye simpleton!
From whom unrefinement flows!
Thou shalt not write,
On a poetry site,
A work of ****** prose!
Oh yeah? Watch me.
Hello beautiful people. I'm in the mood to philosophize. And this being a poetry site, let's make the topic poetry. (WARNING: this piece will be filled with opinions, personal beliefs, and probably a little butter. If you don't agree with anything I say, good for you. Way to have opinions. AND WHATEVER YOU DO. DON'T SUBSTITUTE MARGARINE FOR THE BUTTER!) Ok, so poetry. I like poetry. And since I'm the one writing this, I'm gonna tell you about my philosophy, and my personal style and influences.
My philosophy that I try to live by is minimalism. Which is NOT laziness! Minimalism is quite difficult really. Anyone can write a nice fluffy poem (and yes, nice fluffy poems can be dark pieces about death and the like.) What minimalism is to me, is the stripping away of all of that fluff to get down to the raw emotion of a piece. An abundance of words pollutes the emotion.
Now, my stylistic mumbo jumbo. My aesthetic has gone through a few phases. A lot of my work is very modernist. What that means is that it deals a lot with... well with failure. Failure of the human race, failure of people, and my own personal failure. But also with separation. Some prime examples of my modernist works are "here I lay a martyr" and "of my faults and follies"
The next phase is when I started writing music for my band (Bisclaveret Marie, we're on Facebook. Check it out.) I became enamored with a man by the name of Jack White. (yes, that Jack White. The one formerly of the White Stripes.) Also the source of my minimalist approach, Jack revived my love for the Blues. When that came crashing into my poetry, it was definitely for the better.
The next phase was surrealism. The use of images and metaphors and weirdness to paint a picture of the emotion I choose to write about. (I don't really know how to describe this, just go read Though There Be Dragons, A Journey Through The Mind of a Madman. It'll make more sense.)
And most recently the Blues have seen a renaissance in my work. The simple lyric structures and rhyme patterns tickle my inner minimalist.
Yeah, so that's my spiel. If you actually read this, you freaking deserve a medal
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
In January 2015, my country said Happy New Year in the form of an Oklahoma cop
that stopped my brother and I for driving while black
This is an open letter to him
I never thought I would say this to a real cop, but **** the police
**** what you say, you did not pull us over because we were following to close
You pulled over a family of black men that have proudly served this country founded on the belief that I can die because 1/3 of my life doesn’t matter
But I gave you the benefit of the doubt
and calmly placed my trembling hands on my thighs on the side of I-40
waiting for you to waste my time
You immediately asked my brother to step out of the car so you could explain why you stopped us
I immediately had flashbacks of hands up don’t shoot and i can’t breathe
I had open-eyed nightmares of skittles and black sweatshirts
I had an image in my mind of Emmitt Till’s open casket, and I saw my brother’s face
I saw my brothers blood caked under your fingernails as you walked away
Because you always seem to get away
When I think of Trayvon Martin, Micheal Brown, Rodney King, Emmitt Till, and all the fallen members of my race
They are each reminders that I am never too far away from being one of them too
I am never too far from being made an example
However, you couldn’t find a reason to justify putting us in jail cells that are marked for colored only
You seemed dissatisfied that you found two black males that oddly enough, didn’t fit the description
You so badly wanted to put us back in our place when we never fell out of line,
none of us has ever fallen out of line
You may one day get this message and think there goes another angry *****
But mr simpleton let me explain
Being angry and being hurt have the exact same feeling
Make the exact same sound
And cry the exact same tears
So it's easy to see how you could get confused
Somehow you see my race as a threat to this image of a life you already live
White privilege is the health insurance plan that gave you coverage specifically because you have a preexisting condition
My people will continue to make strides in this most free of nations
Yet to you we will always be inferior
And for that i pity you
You see I could go on about how you were wrong
About how you are just another terrorist wearing the uniform of someone who is supposed to protect Americans just like me
But you will never be worth my time
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
What genre of music do you like?
Mind:
What to declare
My love for soulful old melodies
Or pragmatic modern beats?
For there is no room for error here
Heart:
I am but a simpleton
As far as I am concerned
There exists just two genres -
The one I love and the one I don't.
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC