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"theorize" poems
I have fears – they are very real to me. But contrary to what the some may think, my greatest fears are not rejection and abandonment. My greatest fear is that everyone will continue to turn their heads while victims are screaming. My greatest fear is that survivors will express exactly how they feel, whether verbally, or acting out, and they will continue to be invalidated by being told they need medication and therapy in order to control their behavior, thereby reinforcing what they learned as children. My greatest fear is that victims will continue to be silenced by therapy, or numbed from medication, and the clinicians, the researchers, will continue to ‘theorize’ and develop treatment that, in the long-run, is not helpful because they, themselves were NOT abused and have no idea what really should be done. My greatest fear is that survivors will continue to be lab rats in the development of treatment that is not helpful, they will continue to drop out, time after time, and they will continue to self-harm, ‘repeat the trauma’, and possibly commit suicide because they believe no one cares. My greatest fear is that the statistics will grow and no one will do anything about it because they do not know what to do. These are the facts:              **A report of child abuse is made every ten seconds              More than five children die every day as a result of child abuse.              Approximately 80% of children that die from abuse are under the age of 4.              It is estimated that between 50-60% of child fatalities due to maltreatment are not recorded as              such on death certificates.              More than 90% of juvenile ****** abuse victims know their perpetrator in some way.              Child abuse occurs at every socioeconomic level, across ethnic and cultural lines, within all              religions and at all levels of education.             About 30% of abused and neglected children will later abuse their own children, continuing the horrible cycle of abuse.             About 80% of 21 year olds that were abused as children met criteria for at least one             psychological disorder.** And this reflects only what is reported. Imagine what that percentage would be if all of the unreported cases were included. And of the millions of children that survive the abuse, many grow up to be adults who are able to put it behind them, succeed and present themselves as an acceptable member of society, and many of them do not. But what are we DOING about it? When will people stop turning their heads? When will we finally stop, look and listen to these children being abused and to the adults who were abused as children? When will we, society, decide that child abuse, and **** and ****** assault are important, and affect millions of lives every year, and that it can be just as deadly as cancer. When will we finally stop whispering and turning our heads and actually face it and do something to stop it, and effectively treat those who ‘survived’? I hope it happens in my lifetime, and I hope I can make a difference!
0
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
My Greatest Fear
I have fears – they are very real to me. But contrary to what the some may think, my greatest fears are not rejection and abandonment. My greatest fear is that everyone will continue to turn their heads while victims are screaming. My greatest fear is that survivors will express exactly how they feel, whether verbally, or acting out, and they will continue to be invalidated by being told they need medication and therapy in order to control their behavior, thereby reinforcing what they learned as children. My greatest fear is that victims will continue to be silenced by therapy, or numbed from medication, and the clinicians, the researchers, will continue to ‘theorize’ and develop treatment that, in the long-run, is not helpful because they, themselves were NOT abused and have no idea what really should be done. My greatest fear is that survivors will continue to be lab rats in the development of treatment that is not helpful, they will continue to drop out, time after time, and they will continue to self-harm, ‘repeat the trauma’, and possibly commit suicide because they believe no one cares. My greatest fear is that the statistics will grow and no one will do anything about it because they do not know what to do. These are the facts:              **A report of child abuse is made every ten seconds              More than five children die every day as a result of child abuse.              Approximately 80% of children that die from abuse are under the age of 4.              It is estimated that between 50-60% of child fatalities due to maltreatment are not recorded as              such on death certificates.              More than 90% of juvenile ****** abuse victims know their perpetrator in some way.              Child abuse occurs at every socioeconomic level, across ethnic and cultural lines, within all              religions and at all levels of education.             About 30% of abused and neglected children will later abuse their own children, continuing the horrible cycle of abuse.             About 80% of 21 year olds that were abused as children met criteria for at least one             psychological disorder.** And this reflects only what is reported. Imagine what that percentage would be if all of the unreported cases were included. And of the millions of children that survive the abuse, many grow up to be adults who are able to put it behind them, succeed and present themselves as an acceptable member of society, and many of them do not. But what are we DOING about it? When will people stop turning their heads? When will we finally stop, look and listen to these children being abused and to the adults who were abused as children? When will we, society, decide that child abuse, and **** and ****** assault are important, and affect millions of lives every year, and that it can be just as deadly as cancer. When will we finally stop whispering and turning our heads and actually face it and do something to stop it, and effectively treat those who ‘survived’? I hope it happens in my lifetime, and I hope I can make a difference!
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22
Romantic arson, a thousand lovers burning to the blooming flowers of my accelerant: amoral, senseless rage. Because I do not or will not consider another vice for your confessional. Come shed indifference. Thumb the holy water font. Theorize inconclusive evidence of life apart from love. Crawl into the vacant church which is my heart. Idolize Me.
0
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 3:05 PM UTC
Idol
**** that **** This is poetry now. Can you say it isn’t real? Can you say my lowbrow barbaric mind doesn’t express itself? Can you tell me these words aren’t art? **** that. This outcry is whats comin next. Them burnt cars and bullet scars, ***** boots and tittie bars, forget to bathe, **** the shave, my pillow case is made of pave-ment, twenty years late on that first pay-ment. I asked the question but got delay-ment, on what the **** has this all meant? My colours just distract, them smiles just an act- you think I’m tokin and ******* and happy go-lucking, ***** im drowning in the bills I haven’t even seen yet, throwin off the debts as the horse that rolls the best bet, and don’t forget, every second you lay down to lie them eyes and theorize, youre just getten burglarized, want a burger and fries? Twenty years off your life- oh and the change too. Twenty seven ninety-five, thirteen plus the years I’ll spend, locked up with nothing to tend, no garden, no fruit, no love to loot, no wide eyes to fill and no breeze to shoot, just a chain gain filling my ***** with soot, stabbing by the next poor guy, jabbing by that suit and tie, the key is not to fit it right- so that every turn reminds who you belong to. And this is what I wanna do? Hold up- I pay for that **** Now I understand suicide you nihilistic gits, taking hits while the rest picks up the bits and the red runs the slits but no one sees the slip. Topsy turvy sliding down the grassy knoll, the heads tumble but the dough will never roll. No. Its busy ******* me in, me and my ilk, like me too much an *** to be thankful for robes of silk, mommy’s milk, eleventh hours and the stockpiles of the dowry. Soft as a baby, never ****** on the sour but the sweet, pink feet, earned on thin green sheet and the red as the man is beat, beaten and burned, turned spurned despite his age and whats learned. What is learned? If only I could tell you. We’s on the same track , don’t ask me whats gon spell true.
0
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
Unspoken Rant in a Library
**** that **** This is poetry now. Can you say it isn’t real? Can you say my lowbrow barbaric mind doesn’t express itself? Can you tell me these words aren’t art? **** that. This outcry is whats comin next. Them burnt cars and bullet scars, ***** boots and tittie bars, forget to bathe, **** the shave, my pillow case is made of pave-ment, twenty years late on that first pay-ment. I asked the question but got delay-ment, on what the **** has this all meant? My colours just distract, them smiles just an act- you think I’m tokin and ******* and happy go-lucking, ***** im drowning in the bills I haven’t even seen yet, throwin off the debts as the horse that rolls the best bet, and don’t forget, every second you lay down to lie them eyes and theorize, youre just getten burglarized, want a burger and fries? Twenty years off your life- oh and the change too. Twenty seven ninety-five, thirteen plus the years I’ll spend, locked up with nothing to tend, no garden, no fruit, no love to loot, no wide eyes to fill and no breeze to shoot, just a chain gain filling my ***** with soot, stabbing by the next poor guy, jabbing by that suit and tie, the key is not to fit it right- so that every turn reminds who you belong to. And this is what I wanna do? Hold up- I pay for that **** Now I understand suicide you nihilistic gits, taking hits while the rest picks up the bits and the red runs the slits but no one sees the slip. Topsy turvy sliding down the grassy knoll, the heads tumble but the dough will never roll. No. Its busy ******* me in, me and my ilk, like me too much an *** to be thankful for robes of silk, mommy’s milk, eleventh hours and the stockpiles of the dowry. Soft as a baby, never ****** on the sour but the sweet, pink feet, earned on thin green sheet and the red as the man is beat, beaten and burned, turned spurned despite his age and whats learned. What is learned? If only I could tell you. We’s on the same track , don’t ask me whats gon spell true.
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44
How does it feel When life doesn't seem real And you're floating about on your own Your life seems uncertain So you draw the curtain Pretending there's nobody home Don't theorize Look in your eyes They can't tell lies Though you may disguise what you see The mirror is free Song birds are talking And runners are walking Be yourself Be yourself Be yourself Be yourself We need a tutor So we built a computer And programed ourselves not to see The truth and the lying The dead and the dying A silent majority Don't theorize Look in your eyes Are they telling lies The ones that they learn on T.V. What a way to be free Be yourself Be yourself Then you can free yourself Free yourself See yourself Then you can see yourself Be yourself a.s.
0
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
DPS (dead poet society)
A beautiful understatement to see your hair graze your face, startled but still treading, in the soul red of your lipstick. What life has been, No more than a series of random anomalies. How those trivial pocket-sized pieces, tied in to envisage to fix this inanimous reality. How wayward me lost in this purposeless dream, at random to meet you, augmented closer to declare, the love people just theorize. How life started for me after you.
0
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
A Beautiful Understatement
epitomize and optimize imitate and recalibrate streamline and recombine the evolutionary "line" fireflies and theorize circulate and gyrate guideline and divine the galaxy and the stars moonrise and clockwise death rate and procreate sunshine and lifeline laws of nature are defined maximize and re-size penetrate and migrate bloodline and decline the story of our world allies and despise prostate and dictate enshrine and benign generations throughout time endings and beginnings losing and winnings and everything in between is what we find
0
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 4:44 PM UTC
timeline
In dreams Allowing oneself To be Within Without interruption, Without distraction, Without aberration, Without confusion, Is to dance among with stars of space Void of the fear of the death. In dreams Swimming among the Stellar ethers Of interplanetary mysteries, We see all that Was, All that can be, But not, All that will be. Here we theorize Or potentiality Floating in the first and last Of Spaces. But, Because of fear, We see such places as Death. The deepest oceans Hold monsters beyond imagination. The darkest caves Pits of fall jagged, wet, and sharp. The dankest of houses Holds pasts too painful to see. Because of the fear of Death We hold ourselves back From being free. A light in the dark Is but A comfort. Trust oneself. See through the dimness. Let go. All angels who have been And are and will be Have walked the dark road, Washed in light when they arrive. Are they they? Are we we? Am I you and you me? Can it be That we are the same, Just molds of longitudinal and longitudinal Circumstance? Close your eyes and become What you see. Feel the cool water brush Under your fingertips. Above, the clouds break. A shot of light. Presence of a million souls unite. We have been. We are. Do not let The Fear of Death Tell us We Will Not Be.
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Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
Walking the Dark Path to Light
The day begins when moonlit sky smothers the land in darkness while sun is shy. I light the hundred candles slowly gazing into each one one at a time time, the measure of each flame. Time is that length of stride It is the path upon which all life ambles fighting the mysterious current but unable to avoid the departure we call inevitable. Each candle's light is power it cannot be measured with the mind we ask time of the flame's life but does the flame truly ever die? I see a hundred flames and from where did they come? I imagine them as humans. Does a man, born into darkness, imagine the convenience of sight? Does a man, born alone, imagine the blessing of another? Men dream of an afterlife of a god of an in-born purpose to one's life so, what is so impossible about that? We measure the machine's intelligence by its ability to think for itself, but surely the irony is in what gave us such ability? Or in whether thinking for ourselves "is" life? It is too much for a man to give in to imagining the true power of creating, when to create, a man can only put carved wooden head on carved wooden body and **** the strings in so doing, create life. The atheist will latch onto the popular reason against a father and will tell us that we must not believe in anything ruling over us believe instead that this made us this anarchy luck randomness something I don't know lets theorize let's not answer the question yet let's not fool ourselves let's not trust that book let's make our own let's make ourselves let's change man to woman let's ignore the conscience we're not alone in that laws are meant to be broken when we can't make anything new let's... let's... let's... destroy the world, because that's also an unbroken rule and humanity is already broken. I scratch my head. What do I know anyway. After all, I'm no one important. The herd moves: he who leads the herd, is no less the herd, than he who worships the herd. The first candle goes out. My eye cannot measure its lacking. Candle... after candle... and the next candle snuffed in its own time. It is only when the tenth candle goes that I notice the difference. The room grows darker, like a misguided world. When the last candle fades, I feel the shame of destruction weigh heavy upon my soul, but, then I see it, reaching beneath the door. I ****** open the windows and a wondrous dawn's light floods the room. Yes, I forgot. Where does the flame come from? I will never know, but I know, whenever it seems darkest, something will catch fire and the world will be illuminated once more...
0
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 4:56 AM UTC
The Candle Wilts...
The day begins when moonlit sky smothers the land in darkness while sun is shy. I light the hundred candles slowly gazing into each one one at a time time, the measure of each flame. Time is that length of stride It is the path upon which all life ambles fighting the mysterious current but unable to avoid the departure we call inevitable. Each candle's light is power it cannot be measured with the mind we ask time of the flame's life but does the flame truly ever die? I see a hundred flames and from where did they come? I imagine them as humans. Does a man, born into darkness, imagine the convenience of sight? Does a man, born alone, imagine the blessing of another? Men dream of an afterlife of a god of an in-born purpose to one's life so, what is so impossible about that? We measure the machine's intelligence by its ability to think for itself, but surely the irony is in what gave us such ability? Or in whether thinking for ourselves "is" life? It is too much for a man to give in to imagining the true power of creating, when to create, a man can only put carved wooden head on carved wooden body and **** the strings in so doing, create life. The atheist will latch onto the popular reason against a father and will tell us that we must not believe in anything ruling over us believe instead that this made us this anarchy luck randomness something I don't know lets theorize let's not answer the question yet let's not fool ourselves let's not trust that book let's make our own let's make ourselves let's change man to woman let's ignore the conscience we're not alone in that laws are meant to be broken when we can't make anything new let's... let's... let's... destroy the world, because that's also an unbroken rule and humanity is already broken. I scratch my head. What do I know anyway. After all, I'm no one important. The herd moves: he who leads the herd, is no less the herd, than he who worships the herd. The first candle goes out. My eye cannot measure its lacking. Candle... after candle... and the next candle snuffed in its own time. It is only when the tenth candle goes that I notice the difference. The room grows darker, like a misguided world. When the last candle fades, I feel the shame of destruction weigh heavy upon my soul, but, then I see it, reaching beneath the door. I ****** open the windows and a wondrous dawn's light floods the room. Yes, I forgot. Where does the flame come from? I will never know, but I know, whenever it seems darkest, something will catch fire and the world will be illuminated once more...
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111
A Ballad For A Thin Man. Understood backwards. Lived forward. Life. Haunted by diverging others. Us but not. Wraiths. Ghosts of what if? Who then? What might have been? Leave room. Turn left. Lovely house, wife, retirement. Leave same room. Turn right. Shack, loneliness, poverty. Theorize games. Physik quanta. Slide down strings. Into Wonderland, Oz, Middle-Earth. Narnia. All the places that don’t exist and matter the most. Where doors open up to impossible possibilities. Fight your way through every day. Pit bull of potential. Just do your work and be kind. That is a separate peace. We may be others in other universes, but here we are just us. **** it up. Love your life. Do what you must. Soldier on. Real realities can really hurt. Take it like a Man. Or Woman. Be grateful for your trials. Trials are you. Struggle. Mount the philosopher’s donkey backwards, advance.
0
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 5:16 AM UTC
Kierkegaard Has Your Six
In meadows, rich with clover, I have seen them here before; those industrious little creatures at their pollinating chore. Now the land is strangely silent, was Rachel Carson right? Are we killing all the bumblebees? Have they made their final flight? There are those who point to climate change as the source of all our pain. If the bumble bee is dying, it is heat stress that’s to blame. Others theorize a virus as the cause of their demise; an illness ravaging the hives and emptying our skies. I even heard one scientist make the hypothesis that our overuse of cell phones is the cause of all of this. Could it be that our usage of glyphosate is to blame; As GMO spreads on our fields, our crops are not the same. Monsanto is an Agri-Corp with bought friends in D.C.; A “friendly Legislature insures profitability. The F.D.A. is slow to act; Congress drafts obstructive laws. It seems to me, just possibly, they already know the cause.
0
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
The Plight of the Bumble Bee
i can picture it dusty desert roads old motels when the sky opens up and the holes in the tent leak the empty rooms and bare mattresses of a creaky single wide a patch of wall where a cross once hung for so long the wallpaper holds its faded image payphones and diner booths card games and cold pews *(sunbeams dreamily landing in your eyes)* i can almost taste cola flavored slushies cans of beans and cigarettes and coffee and smell burnt pancakes egg casserole the way grace's mom made it at home secondhand smoke a bonfire made from incense and an abandoned white church i can hear the songs the laughter tears and screams to heaven over rumbling rubber tires i know the way they talk and theorize argue and laugh cry and pray i've felt it before somewhere here and there in twinges of time but nobody ever claimed you could wander the world in one day or that writing a gospel was easy.
0
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
writing a roadside gospel
a bean or a pod having motivation inside recreating life more energetic and clever than any parent then get ate or flushed down ten million toilets infiltrate society with words because it is in sewers sanguine and quixotic indifferent a breath is toxic to me I venture Walter Mitty like fantasies theorize tomorrow when I forgot yesterday, introduce substances to discourse entertainers abstract the emphasis transcendentally blue-sky enterprises authentically created as I turn around and cry.
0
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
would a could a been
No way for her to ascertain the ashen carpets of erasure randomly assigned to the tapestry of garish hope's circumstantial hopscotch squares with a body already incommodiously perched upon legs submissive to the here and now's drunken mercury Alone she has been left to sweep up the gravity that hobbles optimism in the hops of faith around the ambivalence of horizontal authenticity Left alone to weep on twitching roots and theorize a rally bloom in spite of severance in tune with sparks of closure The shadow of her sunken chin emits embroiled tributaries of respawning yesterdays Queen of checkerboard embodiment her rhythmic rule entails zephyrs of endurance in the vacuum of fulfilling prophecies
0
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
TRIBUTE
sometimes you wish things were different that every day wouldn't wake up the same homely person somehow you could be ****** into something less generic less like your life, where each boring second is dripping a canyon in your heart's ice age theorize that maybe you speak a hidden language something ancient, that can unlock dead secrets by virtue of how your eyes drift in a set of hexes if you drew white triangles on the right misty morning you'd wake up anew to a beautiful sun dawning and a garden of different faces to choose from pick one that smells of fresh rain on iron that never distorts into angry clouds spitting caustic words you dream about that perfect jawline and how the hair falls just right but then you remember oh ... this isn't my perfect picture, this is human this is bleeding broken bruised a flurry of imperfections a talented accident an impossibly improbable confluence of the shy words love speaks planted by chance abruptly lucky forcing a hand out of the ground to grasp the air that flees as though you knew this destination was perilous by virtue of murky precognition through your electric embryo as though your mother had muttered all the secrets before she killed you and sent you again through the white door to cold air so now you chant and you pose and you powder your nose forcing yourself behind glass into a frame stood up straight leering into the mirror just to steer yourself queerer fighting natural finesse [in compatible] dresses used to be so perfect under the knife you're worthless wishing in wells and walking on shells someday you just might reverse it
0
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:27 AM UTC
unbirthed
sometimes you wish things were different that every day wouldn't wake up the same homely person somehow you could be ****** into something less generic less like your life, where each boring second is dripping a canyon in your heart's ice age theorize that maybe you speak a hidden language something ancient, that can unlock dead secrets by virtue of how your eyes drift in a set of hexes if you drew white triangles on the right misty morning you'd wake up anew to a beautiful sun dawning and a garden of different faces to choose from pick one that smells of fresh rain on iron that never distorts into angry clouds spitting caustic words you dream about that perfect jawline and how the hair falls just right but then you remember oh ... this isn't my perfect picture, this is human this is bleeding broken bruised a flurry of imperfections a talented accident an impossibly improbable confluence of the shy words love speaks planted by chance abruptly lucky forcing a hand out of the ground to grasp the air that flees as though you knew this destination was perilous by virtue of murky precognition through your electric embryo as though your mother had muttered all the secrets before she killed you and sent you again through the white door to cold air so now you chant and you pose and you powder your nose forcing yourself behind glass into a frame stood up straight leering into the mirror just to steer yourself queerer fighting natural finesse [in compatible] dresses used to be so perfect under the knife you're worthless wishing in wells and walking on shells someday you just might reverse it
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43
when you're there i pine for you like a stupid little intellectual i theorize your face make up stories about your eyelids how they close like a hardcover book sheltering your wisdom from the judge you let it spill out to me your ***** brine tenderizing my leathery exterior into broken down, cured meat you freed me with your trust i was savory, salty with your laughter on my tongue you've been waiting for me but i cannot come if we are to ever be in the same room again, together i would smother you and oppress you with love, tainted by imaginary things like the fable of us like my contentment like your hand in mine                                          clasping surely,                                                                      silently,                                                                                                                     home
0
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
the fable of us
The highest of all with serving rounds never ending desire of expectation bound Hating qualities of whom they despise trying to get approval impious surmise They follow and try to please all in sight watch carefully as they over load on trite Compelling the audience with their drunken imperfections watching them tumble over barrels and start theorize direction
0
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
Expectation
You're living out a death wish And I am too With every cigarette we smoke Every sip of poison that runs us thru And life plays this ruse Where it pretends to be big But it's all bark and no bite when we remember our future in the clouds We're excited to live and even more so to die The road to awe The greatest surprise Wonder we might About what's upon the other side I feel we already know We already see a meager slice i theorize what we'll find Is the rest of the whites in our eyes That ****** mother type white hidden beneath our iris The teacher of our pupil Blue vines intertwined with immaculate prospects Having never kissed oxygen This is not a love story This is death This is the illusion of an end This life is the speck of gold in a deep brown eye Small and obnoxious Beautiful and important I am speaking of the gateway To behold our unbloomed glory
0
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
Untitled
i was born in the middle of a question one of those that people theorize about one of those science tries to explain and religions preach over: 'why do you hate us so much?' see, my black skin was made in my mother's womb and that hate has been passed to me through generations through my father's blood and onto this skin of mine. it resides in my fingertips, my digitals contain ****** scars behind my teeth there are agonized screams and inside my womb are the children i had taken away from me. why is it that even though i can move my arms freely, - i can throw a punch if i lose myself - i can still feel the shackles around my wrists? why is it that my neck feels tight at the sight of every tall tree bench? why is it that you still hate us so much. even after all this time i can still see, trust me, even though you try to hide it i can still see it in your pale eyes and in every thin lipped smile in every unwelcome touch to my head in every single word you say to me, in every bullet you put in my chest in every filthy word that comes out of your mouth in every idea you try to spread in every step you take behind me at the store in every single right that  you deny me i can still feel the hate. and it is the god's honest truth that i will, whatever it takes, try to make sure that the black child that shall bloom from my ***** and that shall not be taken away from me will be able to live with the blessing that is its skin and without the burden that is your existence.
0
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
preta
i was born in the middle of a question one of those that people theorize about one of those science tries to explain and religions preach over: 'why do you hate us so much?' see, my black skin was made in my mother's womb and that hate has been passed to me through generations through my father's blood and onto this skin of mine. it resides in my fingertips, my digitals contain ****** scars behind my teeth there are agonized screams and inside my womb are the children i had taken away from me. why is it that even though i can move my arms freely, - i can throw a punch if i lose myself - i can still feel the shackles around my wrists? why is it that my neck feels tight at the sight of every tall tree bench? why is it that you still hate us so much. even after all this time i can still see, trust me, even though you try to hide it i can still see it in your pale eyes and in every thin lipped smile in every unwelcome touch to my head in every single word you say to me, in every bullet you put in my chest in every filthy word that comes out of your mouth in every idea you try to spread in every step you take behind me at the store in every single right that  you deny me i can still feel the hate. and it is the god's honest truth that i will, whatever it takes, try to make sure that the black child that shall bloom from my ***** and that shall not be taken away from me will be able to live with the blessing that is its skin and without the burden that is your existence.
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36
this lyric licks your face, leaving you-salty-caramel smiling, while listening to Janis, singing ”(You Don’t know What It Is Like) to Love Somebody” no babe, nothing lasts, not you, not love, not me, no matter how hard you rhyme, theorize, forget and memorize, life’s only constant is constantly refreshing all, endlessly remembering and forgetting how to hold on to a heart, to love... sometime a breeze, usually a hurricane, comes along, prying your hands off what you got, or, prying your eyes away onto something new, cause that’s just the way it is with human foolishness, you gotta “to walk, talk, rhyme and theorize, forget and memorize, always refreshing, knowing that nothing lasts” until it maybe does... ——————————————————————————————— “To walk, talk, rhyme and theorize, to forget and memorize, always refreshing, knowing nothing lasts, except things that last forever, last never, poems and decisions needing completion, choices, reordering songs loved best, replete all sorrowed pains, uplifting prayers, hallelujah hymns, last rites....”^ —————————————————————-
0
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 11:36 AM UTC
“To walk, talk, rhyme and theorize, to forget and memorize, always refreshing, knowing nothing lasts”
Dearest,        You wrote me a letter once and the last line said        "I choose you."        The words were musical to me, but they felt more like they were        meant for you. I think that is what made them special, that they        were the words you needed to hear whispered in your ear and so        your heart opened and whispered them into mine, because just        maybe I needed them too.           Well I've written some poems for other people before in days        gone by and I've poured words meant for me into the open hearts        of other people just to find that their jar was already full, or        perhaps it wasn't opened in the first place.        And now I know you're scared because what if their veins hadn't        been full of predetermined sweet nothings given to them        unnecessarily by others in this confusingly backwards way? What        if their jars had been open and accepted my insecurities just to        sing reassurances into my ear?        I'll entertain Fate on my doorstep for long enough to tell her        that I am glad, for if she had allowed this to happen I would        have been unhappy. Fate crafted the individuals before you        with a fatal flaw because she knew that I would have        ultimately been disenchanted, downtrodden, disturbed. And so        with a gleam in her eye she led me to you.        And perhaps you'll theorize that this, then, was no choice. Fate        did it for me, yes? My response is as follows:        I chose you long before Fate threw her hat into the ring. Or        perhaps she had thrown it into the ring and blew the wind just        so on that first summer day when I saw your face, red-cheeked        and blue eyed, brown-haired and loud-laughing. Even if she        had, she still let me choose. For Fate only modifies the        environment, but the heart is a complex, wild thing that is not        to be tampered with. So when a million fireworks rattled my        ribcage the second I saw you, Fate smiled. Her plan had        worked. I did not decide that I would feel a small earthquake        inside of my body every time I laid eyes on you. But my heart        chose you. Unashamedly. Instantly.        Perhaps it once chose the others, too. But upon seeing that they        were not for me, it paused. It took a while, but it moved on.          Then there was you. It was afraid at first, but Fate took it by the        hand and showed me that your jar was not empty. And then        you showed me that it contained everything I needed to hear        within it.  So I did not move on. I chose you. I choose you, still.        Forever. Until your jar is full and Fate tells me that it is time to        close the curtains, draw the shutters, lock the front doors and,        someday, leave the house.        But something tells me that I will begin to send postcards to my        former address. And perhaps I'll stumble upon the threshold,        years later, and find a jar.        And I'll choose you.
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Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
You Are My Choice
Dearest,        You wrote me a letter once and the last line said        "I choose you."        The words were musical to me, but they felt more like they were        meant for you. I think that is what made them special, that they        were the words you needed to hear whispered in your ear and so        your heart opened and whispered them into mine, because just        maybe I needed them too.           Well I've written some poems for other people before in days        gone by and I've poured words meant for me into the open hearts        of other people just to find that their jar was already full, or        perhaps it wasn't opened in the first place.        And now I know you're scared because what if their veins hadn't        been full of predetermined sweet nothings given to them        unnecessarily by others in this confusingly backwards way? What        if their jars had been open and accepted my insecurities just to        sing reassurances into my ear?        I'll entertain Fate on my doorstep for long enough to tell her        that I am glad, for if she had allowed this to happen I would        have been unhappy. Fate crafted the individuals before you        with a fatal flaw because she knew that I would have        ultimately been disenchanted, downtrodden, disturbed. And so        with a gleam in her eye she led me to you.        And perhaps you'll theorize that this, then, was no choice. Fate        did it for me, yes? My response is as follows:        I chose you long before Fate threw her hat into the ring. Or        perhaps she had thrown it into the ring and blew the wind just        so on that first summer day when I saw your face, red-cheeked        and blue eyed, brown-haired and loud-laughing. Even if she        had, she still let me choose. For Fate only modifies the        environment, but the heart is a complex, wild thing that is not        to be tampered with. So when a million fireworks rattled my        ribcage the second I saw you, Fate smiled. Her plan had        worked. I did not decide that I would feel a small earthquake        inside of my body every time I laid eyes on you. But my heart        chose you. Unashamedly. Instantly.        Perhaps it once chose the others, too. But upon seeing that they        were not for me, it paused. It took a while, but it moved on.          Then there was you. It was afraid at first, but Fate took it by the        hand and showed me that your jar was not empty. And then        you showed me that it contained everything I needed to hear        within it.  So I did not move on. I chose you. I choose you, still.        Forever. Until your jar is full and Fate tells me that it is time to        close the curtains, draw the shutters, lock the front doors and,        someday, leave the house.        But something tells me that I will begin to send postcards to my        former address. And perhaps I'll stumble upon the threshold,        years later, and find a jar.        And I'll choose you.
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These subcategories of articles That separate theory from fact Are lines that, really, Are quite unclearly drawn. Categories for theory and qualia That put me under the impression That everything is based on a conjecture And it's all in my head. Qualia is defined as being subject To your sense perceptions Brought on by stimulation of phenomena. Theory is a system of ideas used To explain something. But don't we theorize everything, Based on our qualia? If we perceive that a rose is red, And we theorize that this type of rose Will always be red because we will always see it red, Does that really make it red? Is my red your green, And you only call it red because to you need to call it something? Or is that just our theory that to be comfortable Is to fit in and be accepted by everyone? And that to challenge what is called fact Is to be rejected? Where do we draw the line In these thickly worded and sinking articles? Is it where we can finally say that Everything is based on theory that our qualia subjects us to? If so, am I under the correct theory that I really am alone? That my sense perceptions just play tricks on me So I don't think to hard, or go insane? Is insanity just theory based on qualia? Or maybe I should be under the theory That being a thinker like this Subjects me to the unpleasant qualia of a perceived headache.
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Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
This Poem is a Theory.
Oh why do you complain so ignorantly Oh why do you agonize so self adoringly Oh why do you hide behind your my -s  - cries -ties  -chimes -spies  -guise  -why-s -hives theorize and disguise with big vain eyes and lip bites why don’t you instead analyze recognize tranquilize and surrender just to neutralize so that you can minimize and fly to skies and glorify wise fireflies exquisite butterflies and get their blessings to ionize don’t you know yet all elevated beings use their wings to alter dimension just while  I crystallize and womanize for you so that as we energize our vaporized do carbonize seeds that will stabilize unionize and re-rhapsodize the universe with our glorious lullabies
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Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
Rhyming I-s