"stationed" poems
Idly stationed in the bucolic hills,
sits a stone well; unknown when abandoned.
Though her people foregone, water yet fills
as much as you can want for. In tandem,
are high trees less old than she; occluding
the view from pathless and naive strangers.
As their wish in well is to keep obtuse,
those that siren would otherwise capture.
Her drink, one thinks they'll constantly receive.
In reality, they'll only be taken.
Youth will fade as the heart minutely bleeds.
Their hollow, dried corpse will be forsaken.
And though her hole but a tall dark crevice,
I see my reflection on the surface.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 4:16 PM UTC
My balance is often complicated by the complex complications of construed situations.
The uncensored limitations, the spiteful aggravation; they think these are indications that I should melt with temptation through my frustration.
But if you felt my vibration, it would send you to the sky, where I am stationed.
I could never be what you want me to be in your dreams,
it seems that the seams to my soul are more than what you see them to be.
You don't see me. I became transparent,
hold me to the light for my transparency
to be clear to read.
Clarity will arrive here when your conscience calls and you appear.
My heart blends in the healing water that has a hallow father.
He is the fire that breeds these things that allow me to bleed and be these words that you see.
My balance is often complicated
but I have never once waited to be rejuvenated.
The light of the moon
illuminated my sight through my doom.
I dance with the stars and i hope we all meet soon,
so that we can bloom
as these words fill up the space
in this 4 cornered room.
-L.G
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
1126
Shall I take thee, the Poet said
To the propounded word?
Be stationed with the Candidates
Till I have finer tried—
The Poet searched Philology
And when about to ring
For the suspended Candidate
There came unsummoned in—
That portion of the Vision
The Word applied to fill
Not unto nomination
The Cherubim reveal—
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I can't even remember how it started...
Drifting from who I was,
My normal just slowly departed from me.
Foggy glimpses of the boy I used to be.
Ripping through the last shreds of my humanity,
Right on the edge of insanity,
I'm not but a shadow of what, and who I was,
Can you guess what was the cause?
As time goes on,
I am more and more losing myself,
Turning absolutely insane, there is now no sense of self.
I'm starting to be really bloodthirsty.
As time goes on,
I more and more want to hurt somebody,
Physically.
I want to feel something, anything!
I'm slowly losing my sanity,
It's getting real hard to keep myself from breaking the limits,
Of this society we live in!
But can you blame me?
I just want to feel excited,
Happy,
Have a geniune smile on my **** face.
Do you comprehend
An existence like mine,
Where you feel nothing?
While people around you find happiness,
And joy,
In things that mean nothing to you?
I've been resisting my urges for a while,
But I'm slowly getting out of control,
Nothing can make me whole.
Things are gonna get real ugly,
Real soon.
Therapy won't help this insane existence of mine.
Trust me, they tried, and tried.
Phsychologists, psychiatrists,
5 types of antidepressants,
A bunch of relaxants,
And diagnosis of many, many mental disorders.
Nothing could get me back in order,
I guess they were too late, I already crossed all sane borders.
Yup... For years, to no avail.
Go on, mock me, say I'm insane;
But it's your kind that did this to me.
But please, watch your tongue,
Words are hurtful.
Hush now, won't you stay a while?
Join me with a painted smile.
Tragic faces,
Stationed at my bedside,
Warm embraces,
While I'm hollow on the inside.
Their eyes betray them,
This is only a painted smile.
After my attempts,
People just wouldn't buy my painted smiles,
So they tried, and tried,
Everything they could think of.
Religion, mental hospitals, therapy, and medication...
If only they knew what a monster I try to keep inside every day,
Will their opinions change that day,
Will they regret it when I unleash the beast inside?
So 'till the day I tear myself from the inside,
Won't you join me with a painted smile?
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 3:10 PM UTC
A desolate shore,
The sinister seduction of the Moon,
The menace of the irreclaimable Sea.
Flaunting, ****** and grim,
From cloud to cloud along her beat,
Leering her battered and inveterate leer,
She signals where he prowls in the dark alone,
Her horrible old man,
Mumbling old oaths and warming
His villainous old bones with villainous talk--
The secrets of their grisly housekeeping
Since they went out upon the pad
In the first twilight of self-conscious Time:
Growling, hideous and hoarse,
Tales of unnumbered Ships,
Goodly and strong, Companions of the Advance,
In some vile alley of the night
Waylaid and bludgeoned--
Dead.
Deep cellared in primeval ooze,
Ruined, dishonoured, spoiled,
They lie where the lean water-worm
Crawls free of their secrets, and their broken sides
Bulge with the slime of life. Thus they abide,
Thus fouled and desecrate,
The summons of the Trumpet, and the while
These Twain, their murderers,
Unravined, imperturbable, unsubdued,
Hang at the heels of their children--She aloft
As in the shining streets,
He as in ambush at some accomplice door.
The stalwart Ships,
The beautiful and bold adventurers!
Stationed out yonder in the isle,
The tall Policeman,
Flashing his bull's-eye, as he peers
About him in the ancient vacancy,
Tells them this way is safety--this way home.
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They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come.
It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
You swell some strain on me,
You, middle kingdom!
Eradicating small detachments,
Of both sailors and marines.
They were ranked on islets and reefs,
With an integer of nine –
There in the island next to me,
I’m sure, you know who Spratly is.
Always wanting such detachment
To be eradicated by your own;
Now stationed
On a World War II era landing ship.
Your toy-ships came near me,
With 9-kilometer of the LST.
“It’s there illegally,”
How adamant that be!
I’ve tipped you off already,
Surely will I stand firm!
Then, you’ve countered me on! –
Opting for the ******** of more skyscrapers;
Those that are on stilts;
Now nearby two Reefs & a Bank? –
Nearby my darling Palawan Island!
“There is no room at all,”
For the negotiation on some point,
You’ve declared.
Oh, here’s my friend, U.S.
Left us with course of action to try;
Everyone calm down,
Be less provocative.
For often, he flies over;
Probing some stuffs.
You are the biggest offender, my friend;
In this dispute, you show no sign of slowing;
Or backing, down.
But hey, I won’t give up!
(9/9/13)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
Skin as White as Winter Snow
Legs as Boundless as the Sea,
Stationed in Venice or Bordeaux
From Blue-collar to Bourgeois.
Hair is Chic, Yet not Pristine
Soft and Cropped and Fine,
Cheekbones High a Distinct Ravine
Embellished by a High Neckline.
Undefined Peaks and Troughs
Cumbersome and Lank,
Garnished in the Finest Cloth
Awash with Unassuming Swank.
Miss Androgynous hear my call
For I've Become a Virile Gent,
I Yearn for your Unwieldy Frame
That God in Heaven Sent
February 2011
Apr 3, 2011
Apr 3, 2011 at 3:11 PM UTC
Hearing footsteps but are they mine
In my dreams, I'm wasting time
Now waking up to reality
Are the same words guiding me
The words that were never said
The ones that filled up every inch of my head
The question is... am I living or am I dead
Not in a psychotic way
But in a way that... does my life have a presence
Presence being a live and forgotten being death...
So what route can I take to stay existing
And not a dwindling thought
These are the things that fill my head..
While I'm stationed in the dark
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
Bees were swarming around the eastern
shallow end, a warning that the cherries
are deepened and smattering
the pond's bank with nature's jam,
the small tree a joy to the family, but
nobody around much now to keep them
picked and eaten.
The snapping turtles have had their fill
of the cherries and basked lazily in the
center of the deep end, at least two of them
and as I'm a frequent friend, they stationed
amiably as I walked, picked up and threw
grasshoppers to the fish in the water.
The spiders will appear in proportion soon
to the apples growing on three trees
at the edge of the woods, about 40 feet
south of the pond, with a jut of the creek
in between them.
Every year I get my sweet fill of those apples,
planted 50 years ago or so by my great-grandfather,
don't know what they are, maybe Braeburn,
judging by their mottled colors of red and yellow.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
a white picket fence
bordered the backyard
of my childhood home,
a neatly trimmed hedge
my father planted himself
framed the front,
there used to be a pine tree,
it was replaced with an artificial
fish pond a decade ago,
the house was yellow,
not musty or vibrant,
but like a sunflower
with a dark green door
atop seven steps
leading to the front porch
that used to leak rainwater
into our pots and pans
whenever a storm came.
i used to have a telescope
stationed in my bedroom window
to observe the bank across the street,
there were two lenses,
one magnified the zoom
while the other inverted the image,
i remember watching people
work at their desks attached to the ceiling,
but it just made my head hurt.
when the bank would close at dusk
i would tilt the telescope
to glance at the night sky.
i always searched for Mars,
i sometimes claimed to have found it
but it was probably just space-junk.
that same telescope now rests
collecting dust in my basement,
searching for stars amidst forgotten treasures.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
-arriving at eglington west station-
there's the fragrance drifting off
of her shoulders
as she checks her reflection
on smartphone mirror app,
floral pattern matching the
bright of her nails,
the sun shining onto sequined flats
that show no wear.
-glencairn, glencairn station-
there's her youth indicated by
backpack, baseball cap,
and conversation subject matter
discussing video game system merit,
there's the hand me down excitement
of muddy knees and torn jeans,
-arriving at lawrence west station-
each millimetre contributing to grimace,
beard whisker, wrinkle stationed
to the sides of each of his eyes,
weary traveller, seemingly ignoring
everyone with grocery bag
occupying chair like child,
-Yorkdale, Yorkdale station-
we used to weave through these crowds
and people watch together,
and the people would watch us,
young love, so simple,
oblivious to stage,
fingers interlocked, blocking
crowds from passing by,
there was the taste of strawberry
banana smoothie, freshly squeezed,
on your lips, we'd race up
escalators, only to circle
back down, we'd find the nook
of book store, to steal a moment,
you'd ignite, ignoring the clatter
of barrista, starbucks adjacent,
and there would walk by or sit
dolled up princess,
adolescent tomboy,
aging cantankerous senior,
these faces haven't changed
as much as ours have.
-please stand clear of the doors-
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
I made a mistake last year
letting you go.
I let you say goodbye
and I keep trying to
convince you that you
still like me.
But no matter how hard I try you
don't like me.
You want me to stop being so
pathetic and for me to get a
life.
If I'm so pathetic why be my friend?
Your friends all dislike me
is that why you keep telling me no?
Maybe it's because I made the
mistake when I was 11 and
broke up with you after
your family had an incident?
It doesn't matter since I've
told you why I like you
and why you should like me
but you like another.
She lives in Japan since her father
got stationed there.
You said you might love her
but she told you she could never
like you like you like her.
So I don't get how you call me
pathetic and I'm not allowed
to do the same to you.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
486
I was the slightest in the House—
I took the smallest Room—
At night, my little Lamp, and Book—
And one Geranium—
So stationed I could catch the Mint
That never ceased to fall—
And just my Basket—
Let me think—I’m sure—
That this was all—
I never spoke—unless addressed—
And then, ’twas brief and low—
I could not bear to live—aloud—
The Racket shamed me so—
And if it had not been so far—
And any one I knew
Were going—I had often thought
How noteless—I could die—
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_________________________________________________________________________
*
While the dawn storm blows,
Baghdad is calling
Soldiers stationed at the boundaries
The houses are on blaze!
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the white ghost’s laughs,
Baghdad is crying
Bombs and shells blustered in the cities
The huts are in flames!
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the dusk light fades,
Baghdad is burning
Sounds of boots repeat at the villages
The Mosque is crowded!
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the dark night falls.
The debris of war is floating
Date palms line alone the shore in grief
The women are being *****
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the dawn wind blows,
Mother’s breast bleeds
Troupes watch in silence from top
Blood is remixed with soil !
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind !
While the dusk light fades.
Pregnant Mother’s are lamenting,
Armored men near the entry ports.
Father lost, Mother ***** !
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind !
*
__________________________________________________________________________
By
Williamsji Maveli
email
[email protected]
www.williamsgeorge.com
www.moonmakers.com
__________________________________________________________________________
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
When I was stationed at Enoggera, as a young platoon sergeant with 9 RAR, a Merino ram was offered, and accepted, as the Battalion mascot. The diggers called him Stan. The brigade RSM of the time was outraged because he viewed our adoption of Stan as a direct and improper play on his surname, which was Lamb. And, of course, he being as bald as a coot the diggers called him Curly. As I recall, Stan was a lively, ill disciplined beast with little respect for the niceties of service life, hence:
When Stan-the-Ram met Curly Lamb a fracas did ensue.
For Curly stood beside the road just outside B.H.Q.;
His Sam Brown belt so shiny, his pace-stick 'neath one arm,
The RSM of our brigade was used to war's alarm.
But Stan, although a raw recruit and barely chewing grass,
Unimpressed by Curly, charged and knocked him on his ****
"It's contact rear" cried Curly, as he struggled to his feet,
Turned about with arms akimbo his assailant for to meet.
Meanwhile Stan's poor handler looked ready to desert
'cos Stan-the-Ram whilst in his care had Curly eating dirt.
I guess he felt embarrassed, which was natural, wouldn't you?
If involved in such a fracas outside of BHQ.
Your questions are but natural and in answer I can swear,
As these events unfolded I was marching off the square.
Having Just dismissed defaulters I was feeling rather mean
But my despondency was lifted by that ****** glorious scene.
And in the mess that evening rang out laughter clear and loud,
For I'd told them all my story and of Stan we felt quite proud.
There was Sutherland and Massingham, and Peter Cowan too
And Tim Daly called **** Gordon from his room, well, wouldn't you?
And when **** heard my story he poured port into a glass,
And we drank a toast to Stanly putting Curly on his ****
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 1:45 AM UTC
The village pump is where she was stationed
Her purpose in life, to glean information
Every morsel of 'news' she'd greedily savour
Though reluctant to empty her head, to fill up her neighbour's
That mucky young hussy's expecting you'll find
I'm certain I know who did it this time
He bought a bike, the crafty young fella
And no good came on it Doris I tell ya
He put one in Fram in the family way
And thas a good fifteen mile away
And if you ask me, he's too fond of his sister
If there's a young'un who's willing round here he'd not miss her
So lock up your daughter do she'll be the next
He'll be snouting round here before long I expect
And look at poor Bob, they say he's frustrated
They reckon his hip bone is half discolated
Same as old **** see him hick with his stick
All wore up and not sixty as yit
You don't look wholey clever yourself
Doris you really should keep an eye on your health
And Grandma Green has took to her bed
I'll drop by there today, 'cos same as I say
You're a long time dead
Well I should be going, I've said too much already
Cheerio now, and do you goo steady
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
How are things going? I desperately want to ask
But now I remember how I called you that night crying and desperate
“Sorry dear, I have bigger priorities,” you mumbled nonchalantly in a tone that cut
I guess what was important to you was your short silver dress which you had to keep tugging at
And your layers of mascara which smeared in the heat and the sweat
Maybe you didn't feel like being responsible or putting up a fight
Didn't feel like talking in the pulsating strobe lights
Where you drank and danced and smoked,
Your hands around the masculine men with whom you hooked
I wonder if you still would have hung up if you knew I was crying for you.
And one year later you still haven’t changed
You’re out of school and awfully deranged
Lying at the side of the road in a drunken stupor,
Stinking of smoke and giggling hoarse
Your dress riding up mid-thigh and your heels strewn across the street
Ordering McDonald’s, planting fries in your friend’s garden throwing fits
Sitting in trolleys in supermarkets at 3 am in the morning screaming at the top of your lungs and I
Miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you.
If I ever saw you again I’d bury my face in your long raven hair and whisper how much you meant to me, once.
I’d stroke your whiter than white skin, touched and kissed by fifty other men
Bruised by the very people you call your friends
And I’d cry in your chest and tell you to come back
If all you’d do is swig down a bottle of beer
And not look my way, but cackle cruelly wailing dear
I would die more than a little inside
You stopped caring about anything that was supposed to matter,
Like being better than everyone and writing beautiful badass essays about saving the sharks
(And understanding everything I never understood about myself and laughing at the things I used to say and pinning my name with stars on your charts)
You forgot your dreams of wanting to travel and petting kangaroos, carving out something of yourself so they’d remember you for your passion
and loneliness is the only place at which you’re stationed.
Now all you’re doing is living monotonously, “the *** life” you call it, your dreams all burnt up in the intoxication of the hookah you pretend to love and dissolved in the alcohol you swallow now pulsing through your veins.
Come back.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
The Sixteen Sacred Palm-Nuts of Yoruba
all enclosed in my fists,
ready to spread holiness in Uganda and Baja California.
I slept last night at the beach
after a long hike down the Sierra Madres.
(The Blackhawks were facing the kings of the western region tribe of Tongva,
and if I were to be a spectator
the privileged white male would win:
so I didn't want to sin).
No more.
I went to Rent-A-Whore,
that sunny afternoon.
To my surprise
it was stationed at the shore.
Those were my goon days when I followed the guru
Long hair, beaded necklaces, and silk indigenous shirts from Nayarit.
Just to **** Hunab Ku
For you.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
200 miles away
connected by VNV Nation
we speak of stars
we speak of space
& I just want to be weightless
with you.
We wrap our words in time machine
blankets to worlds we’ve never been.
Man, they don’t even exist in this scene
but we’ve begun to vacation there to see
the stars in space stationed there where
we can just be weightless there
be weightless there
be weightless there
I want to take you by the hand,
& float on into our sonic plans
to meet next week
& fly inside
each other’s stripes
while the entire world just wonders why
or how these psychedelic titans imbibe
so much inspiration from their color blind mind’s eye…
the echoes
echoes
of each other’s smile
reminds me of the stars
once in a while
because I just want to be weightless
weightless
weightless with you.
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 3:03 PM UTC
You are so much more than a uniform.
You are battered books,
creases filled with sand.
The kind so fine
you can't shake it out.
You are midnight Skype sessions
where we rant about
exes and poetry
and you show me
on google maps
where you were stationed in Afghanistan
and where there used to be a village
which was home to a little girl
whose body was never found.
You are a whiskey fueled conversation
about jumping from airplanes
and how much you love writing
on the the night I first met you.
You remember..
when we shared the bed
with your best friend
who passed out around 2 a.m.
because he drinks so much bourbon
trying to forget the things he has seen.
He's only twenty years old.
Soldier,
you are more than a college drop out
waiting for his next deployment.
You are a pair of brown eyes
that squint when you get too drunk
and a closet filled with 87 button-up shirts,
which I think is ridiculous,
but you like because it makes you look classy.
You are a mind filled with
articles from scientific journals
pictures from 9gag
and a mental list of the girls you've charmed
(wait, you hate that word..)
into your bed
because you're making up for
experiences you fear you'll never have
if you come back next year in a body bag.
You are more than government property,
a tag on a uniform
or a rank, soldier.
If only you could see yourself
the way
I see you.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
Fighter jets in formation
Above Ekeberg Hill
Remind me of years
Spent on airbases
During my time in the
Royal Norwegian Air Force.
I was stationed at NATO's
Northernmost base during 9/11.
Minutes after plane #2,
I was upgraded to
NATO Top Secret
Clearance.
Given live ammo for my P80.
Witnessing the colonel's
Marlboro Light shake in his
Usually steady hand as I
Approached; MSO briefcase
Handcuffed to my wrist.
There were papers inside
I was expected to
Die for.
I was 22.
Not even the police carry
Firearms in this country.
Not even the police are expected
To give up ghost over information.
For a nation of such ******
History, we maintain a mellow
Attitude.
We choose peace over "piece".
Gun-sense over violent nonsense.
Naïve? Maybe.
There are nearly no shootings here.
We've had one lethal act of
Terrorism since WWII.
We can live with that.
Literally.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
pacify my mouth with a white-knuckled fist
and kiss my scars with a tongue void of emotion
squeeze my knees together with hands too bruised to hold
with my shaking fingers
will the knots around my neck
squeeze me like you do
and leave bruises like you do
the ends of your hairs tickle me
along the sides of my neck
and tell me to scream
tell me to scream
scream when you leave me alone after dark
scream when the burn of alcohol no longer stings my lips
scream when the bags under your eyes turn into luggage
stationed next to the front door
your hands around my neck tightens like the knots never could
and the luggage looks like heaven
and somehow i find myself in the inside of your suitcase
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
A swingset sits in the yard, starkly vacant, silent.
A chair is stationed only feet away—the watchpost of an anxious pepere.
Only days ago I sat there, watching the child of my old age
Swinging, hanging upside down, proving to me and herself that nothing could scare her.
“Watch me,” she commands, daring the gods to do their worst.
All she needs from me is the occasional tribute to her skill.
All I need from her is to bless me with her being.
She is gone now, and there is no help for it.
An empty swing, a useless chair, and the ache of loss.
The swing haunts me with her voice and I listen to it in my mind.
Dante got it wrong.
It isn’t the dead who abandon hope—
Hell is for the living.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC
When you catch the different sides,
You might not realize the immediate difference.
Open up your eyes and ears or else you’ll probably miss it.
It’s inside of me, and you could try and see
The 5 degrees that separate the Jekyll and Hyde who speak.
One man he’s poet, the world loves it and are quick to show it.
The other man, he’s a rapper who barely gets any notice.
The focus is the content and the structure of the logic
Both men in their own way are trying to muster up some knowledge
College for the people in a way that can reach you.
Feed news , education and awareness of life and its evils.
Steal imagination, create a congregation, to face those who the world has misshapen.
Stationed in a single mind, find your audience and awaken
Take the ideas and preach to the attention that’s been raked in.
For both states, there’s a difference approach,
But the goals is to get you all on the same boat.
Without the water, it’ll refuse to float.
Jekyll and Hyde, well they’ve written their own notes
Slow and steady, they’ll come when ready, focused.
The Poet he’s very soft spoken and loving,
The Rapper we’ll hes chosen to start shoving,
Making his place because the road was never paved for him.
Engraved his name along the way, hated but he stays going.
Both men, they might meet in the long run, some would beg to differ
Will it be violence or will the heads combine quicker?
A wicker basket of ideas, fears,goals and cheers.
Where will the audiences meet and emerge the tears?
Hear this out, and to yourself I want you to decide.
Through this writing, talking to you is which side?
Has it been the poet, or is it that rapper?
Are you destined for success or has he lead you too disaster?
I guess, your future will depend on your answer.
How you align your mind, after considering the factors.
You strive to find yourself and the decision to capture.
Rapture awaits, or is it green pastures.
Jekyll...., Hyde,
Speaking now Poet or Rapper?
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC