"taugh" poems
I am tired of being told what I should and what I shan't.
And I know this platform isn't for ranting and yet here I'll rant.
I am sick of being empty, aimless, vague and out of place.
I am sick of wasting all your air, of taking all your space.
And my claws, I use to tear my skin, so that I could be set free,
And my screams I let out muffled and hushed to spare you my agony.
And my body feels imprisoning, my breath is getting faint
And my eyes are melting, face is welting, dying from the paint
And the bathroom doors complaining from the numb and from the tear
And my psyche getting tired of all the sorrow and the fear.
And the voice inside my head, always saying I'm not enough
And the lies I tell myself like "you can make it, you are tough."
And the people I looked up, lived with, shared with my days
And the lies they taugh me, unconditional love, they said, stays.
And the God whom I once worshiped and for whom I often cried
And the deaf, the blind, the disabled, to whom he's closely tied.
And the fact that I am beyond your repair, beyond all that can be done
And the way I feel at the start of each day and with every falling sun.
And the creature biting on my heart at every given chance
And the demons sitting in my head, not letting me advance.
And the love I always had, different faces every while
And the feelings that I gave away and never even got a smile.
This is not a ranting place, and yet here I wrote.
Is this a good place though to write one's suicide note?
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
Morning....
Word that i always wait to hears
Just like sunrise shows in years
Never too late never to slow
Hope of fate that me to know
These are what i knows and what i vows
Those are what i seeks and what i meeks
Are these what i hears and what i fears?
Are those what i says and what i pays?
Last night....
Bed wasn't that warmed anymore
Blanket wasn't nice as ever before
Stories of us making those taugh floors
Stumbling paths matching the true chores
Us right now...
Passing many years gone by with scars
Maturing our seeds to grow like thee stars
Here we are curing with quarrels
Nuturing the love in wine barrels
Let's see....
No body can see the journey up ahead of us
No one can expect the comfy bed for us
What you grove is what you'll grown
For us there's no groove for a clown
Years of love
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:48 AM UTC
black harlem hid me when i was
afraid to be free
buried in the lovely ladies
till my eyes were opened
when all i wanted was
death or poverty
or to see a child
completely
black harlem had only
reality for me
taught me it was okay
to be with "whitey"
black harlem taugh me
just to see
each and every person
as longing to be free
taught me it was okay
to be a "honkie"
cause everybody just wants
to be free
cause everybody just wants
to be free
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 2:16 PM UTC