"unidentified" poems
Grace.
Let it fall like an ocean
Let it rip through the skies
Let it fill up my heart and pour out my eyes
Let it gravitate my soul
Let it make me feel whole
Let it remind me of why I live
Let it remind me of all that you give!
Grace
Let my heart be made still and let mine eyes be opened!
Let me remember that my ears
were made to listen
And my lips exist for a lot more than just kissin'
Let me remember that these hands simply cannot do it all
Cuz see I wasn't made for that
I wasn't made for that at all
Grace
I was made to live and when I say live I think I mean give
But then I quickly realize I can only give so much!
And there's only so many lives I can touch!
Well how can I love if I can't constantly give
And how can I live if I can't constantly love but
Where's the hope in the God above if I'm the one doin' all the work?
And that's when I remember I accomplish the most when I just let go
And let You grab hold
Grace
Well what were these hands made for if not feeding the poor?
And what are these heart-wrenching feelings of constantly wanting more?
Why do my bones ache and my soul quake at the thought
Of living for myself?
Why do I worry so much about putting the marginalized on the shelf?
Why do I worry
about a life that loves hell?
Well maybe all this
is an unidentified desire to glorify God personified in Jesus Christ crucified
Grace
And maybe my soul's been singin' songs to my saviour since the day I was born
And maybe my saviour's been singin' sweet lullabies to quench the fear in my eyes
Maybe not all is lost
Maybe hope and salvation really come without cost
WELL TRY AND TELL THAT TO THE MAN LIVIN' ON THE STREET WITH NOTHIN' TO EAT
an'
TELL THAT TO THE CHILD WHOSE FATHER GIVES HIM A DAILY BEATING
TELL THE MURDERER'S AND RAPISTS THAT THEY CAN GO FREE
TELL THEIR VICTIMS...
Tell them what?
Grace
Maybe it's time I remembered I don't have all the answers
Maybe it's time I remembered I am a speck of dust in a rolling beach of existence
Maybe it's time I look at what's right in front of me
And not strain my neck as far as the eye can see
Maybe it's time to focus on living and not just surviving
Maybe thriving looks more like trusting than trying
Maybe all the answers to my questions aren't really answers at all
Maybe it's alright that my walk sometimes feels like a crawl
Maybe 100% of the wrongs I do are all my fault
Grace
Maybe God's lookin' at me like a child set free
Maybe God's not lookin' at who I used to be
Maybe God's lookin' right past all the bitterness and apathy
Maybe God really does look at the heart
And maybe He's been holding mine from the very start
Maybe this is all going according to plan and if it's not well then maybe God's still using it to help me become a better man
Maybe it's time I stopped trying to figure all this out!
Grace
Let it be felt
Tangibly
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
the river is
drinking it
sequins
blankets
the river runs past
hobos
unidentified
water fowl
two trolls
taking shelter under
the bridge
there’s conversation
in another language
fiendish brains connecting
fiendish yet
beautiful
thunder
tampons
a turtle
a naked boy
on the patio
rain
definitely
rain
unmatched
and the steam
coming from the
bridge
*once there was a troll
on my face
and I swatted it
with a broom
but it came back
it came back
with you*
laughter pounds
with the rain
laughter that wears
emotion like
skin
soft
elastic
still pink
bouncing
on the river’s surface
breaking
absorbed
sustenance for
the trolls
like fiends with faces
like minds with names
these two connect
with spark
and the rain
falls
the stillness under
nature’s
machinery
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. A good day to die, the Apaches say.
Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing about the effects of your anger
unless you want to be an angry man forever.
Becoming knowledgeable is the best defense
against your insignificance. OK about being alone.
Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.
Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
In last night’s movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan.
But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love,
because of love, the love that brooks no serendipity.
In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the ******
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt
provides us with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness,
that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
Surveying
northern autumn afternoon
Pitcherelli, ex-marine, body-builder,
Lussier, long-haired father of three dark-skinned children
and myself, sharp-edged loner, ex-lover of a fair share of
women
are belly-laughing in the dying sun. Clouds.
The crew, in timber.
Laughing
over recent visits to marvelous cities where
we could not keep ourselves from touching the terminal buds
of numerous exotic trees
and attracting ridicule of stylish girls and tame boyfriends.
Pitcherelli before the Albany bus station
shaking hands with a red pine planted thirty years ago.
Lussier, one hand in a child's hand and the other
feeling scabrous bark of urban woody plants.
Myself among partially shaved heads and leathery aromatic
jackets
getting close to the hairy bud of an unidentified poplar or
sycamore.
People
laughed, but we laughed best
back on our mountain
under the blackening weather.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
i used to check my windows
each night for UFOs,
convinced that aliens were
going to take me away.
i rejoiced for rainy nights,
because i knew that i
would be safe.
in the summer i longed
for the winter months
ahead, knowing snow would
keep them away.
would lie there sweating,
in the hot, humid night air,
my window locked tightly
to keep out the cool,
refreshing air-
and the monsters
i knew were
coming to get me.
i heard my mother's voice
below me,
and cautiously crept
down the staircase,
peeked out silently,
wanting to make sure
it was really her,
there,
not an alien
luring me to
the pits of an
Unidentified
Flying
Object
with her voice.
didn't go
outside alone,
wouldn't step away from
the safety of my home,
all because of a
'UFO sightings' book i read,
(a witness to the things
that fear does to your head).
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
I wish I was an unidentified
Flying object
I would fly under the radar
I would fly under the radar
I would fly under
The radar
You would be walking in your sleep
Stepping out into the street
I’d shoot my tractor beam
I would **** you in
I would ****
You in
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC
Take note examine close
As I pour out drop by drop
This unidentified substance
Become the detective
Be a Sherlock Holmes
Pick through with a fine tip comb
Use your imagination
Your one step away from solving this mystery
Maybe someday this will become history
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
Elephants are the only animal species, known as a fact, to die of a broken heart. Their tough, leather skin can only guard so much; breaking blows from predators and using their sturdy bodies for protection. But surviving instincts and dealing with sadness are on the opposite sides of the spectrum. Social constructs maintained by female elephants, emotional seeds developed from birth; no wonder females are powerful, at least in elephant herds. The social constructs of human species, inferiority is an expectation. Motherhood and career balance, sexualization, acid punishments for justice, “Voice for Choice” since women shouldn’t take their bodies in their own hands, rapes unidentified, and youth more beautiful than souls. Sometimes, I wish I was an elephant.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
i am the frostbite
spreading through the frozen fingers of your new lover's
hands, transferred body heat
burning the skin.
i am 3 am drinks in the
pouring rain, swerving onto
oncoming traffic.
i am the ship lost at sea of our love.
i am a broken bathroom mirror.
i am an unidentified purple bruise
on the neck of your ex-lover.
i am the fork in the toaster.
i am an untuned guitar in
a filthy venue.
calloused hands against soft skin.
slam the whiskey shot down on your neck. wash the blood off in the kitchen sink.
broken blinds forcing unwanted sunlight into your nightmares.
i am the definition of breakup *** i am the
aftermath of self-hatred and one more go around.
**** just for the fun of it, just to ****
pretend you are making love. pretend this matters.
i am late night emergency room
visits for rope-burned necks.
i am the car alarm blocking out your
one night stand's profound moans.
organize your bookshelf to spell out my name in the titles.
every song on the radio
will sound like goodbye.
i am the perfect time for a first kiss. swollen lips. swollen throats. inevitably calling your name on my deathbed.
i am under-the-bed-shoeboxes filled
with ripped photos that
still smell of his cologne.
i am one more dose of ambien
to get you through the night.
overdose on love, starve your lover.
stop.
rewind.
i am the first glance in a coffee shop.
play.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
You're like an alien to me,
Distant but in the same galaxy.
You come and go as you please,
Leaving markings on my ground.
You pull me into your UFO -
Torture me as an experiment.
But I am still so completely
Drawn to the idea of you.
I want to discover you
And see inside of you
For the first time.
I want to know what
You have to offer
On a planet far away.
I wonder -
Could your world be
A perfect match to mine?
Or are we too distant and different
To be side by side
Without judgement or confusion,
Without hatred or being pushed away.
Or would we be a perfectly imperfect,
******* up and unaccepted
Match in this galaxy?
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
A Cimmerian hue overlaps
The thoughts encroaching my psyche
They seem to harvest labyrinthine symmetries
Of which I covet
It matters not the appositeness
The unidentified may bear
For by passages of valor I transcend
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
Beautiful. Pretty. Gorgeous.
The only words society ***** inward.
These people on the road to success,
Yes, they are beautiful.
Beautiful, thin, flawless.
This is how women will soon be,
Never considered anything but a doll.
Some a rag doll, other porcelain.
Pretty will always only be a describing word,
A word to describe your outer appearance.
But women today strive for that little six-letter-word.
Pretty.
Pretty is only a word with no meaning,
What is pretty?
Make up covering my face, and the “In” clothes today,
Will I then be pretty?
Beautiful, so abstract, so unidentified.
Society will tell you how to be beautiful.
Wear this, walk like this, and only say this.
Then you will be beautiful.
Merely a six letter word is pretty,
Pretty, Pretty, Pretty.
And as my syllables begin to add up,
I will soon be considered beautiful.
Walking in the shadow of other girls’ beauty.
Someday people will see beauty,
Someday people will know pure beauty.
Society must know that they were wrong.
Someday society will see that they are the ugly ones.
Pretty is no longer a word.
This word means absolutely nothing.
And I will yell until you listen.
Beautiful. Pretty. Gorgeous.
Society, YOU were wrong about beauty.
It’s not how you appear on the outside,
But you will never know pretty.
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
This isn't what you wished
Upon that small baby
This isn't what you wished
This isn't the head you kissed
The head of that baby
This isn't what you kissed
This isn't what you held
The weight of that baby
This isn't what you held
This isn't what you smelled
The scent of that baby
This isn't what you smelled
This isn't what you felt
Felt for that baby
This isn't what you felt.
This isn't how it was supposed to be
This isn't what you imagined
This isn't what you meant me to see
The isn't what you'd bargained
This isn't the life you choose to live
This isn't the trust you chose to give
This isn't the love you once entrusted
This isn't the marriage to which you'd come in
This isn't the daughter you once knew
This isn't the love you walked into
This isn't the hope you'd had before
This isn't the love in fairytale's lore
This isn't at all what you expected
This isn't at all what you should have collected
This isn't the right end for an angel
This isn't, as it seems, quite so fatal
But this is me
Imperfect glory
Oh, this is me
With a sad, sad story
This is me
Timeless and dying
This is me
The blood I'm crying
This is me
The failure's jive
This is me
The end of a life
This is me
On sanity's cliff
This is me
Ready to drift
This is me
Desperate and wanting
This is me
Pretending and flaunting
Yes, this is me
Your youngest daughter
And it's not at all what you wanted
My dearest mother
This is me
The smoke, the pain
This is me
For loss, for gain
This is me
This is that baby
This is me
Now a young lady
This is me
Looking for love
This is me
Small and starstruck
This is me
On the wrong path
This is me
Treading on broken glass
This is me
Begging for help
This is me
****** to hell
This is me
Waiting to be saved
This is me
Turning away
This is me
Nearing Death's door
This is me
Saying I can take no more
This is me
With smoke in my lungs
This is me
Absorbing the sun
This is me
With knife in hand
This is me
Enjoying the land
This is me
Pleasing those men
This is me
Washing my hands
And this isn't what you wanted
And this is why you cry
And this isn't what I expected
And this is why I wish to die
Oh, this is why my mind is unclean
This is why you weep
This is why we couldn't foresee
And this is why I can't sleep
This is why the night is frightening
This is the absence of hope
Yet this is why we live
And this is why we cope
And this isn't life
This is unidentified
And this isn't strife
This is why we live and die
Maybe this is a maybe
Maybe this is uncertainty
Maybe this is a per say
Maybe this is you, is me
Yes, maybe this is human
Though this is inhumane
Maybe this is *******
And cannot be contained
Maybe maybe is uncertainty
Maybe maybe is insanity
Maybe maybe is a waste of hope
Maybe maybe is the knife at our throats
This is me
With a ring on my finger
This is me
With a kiss on my lips
This is me
With a love that lingers
This is me
With a sway to my hips
This is my reflection
So pretty, so ugly
This is my reflection
So imperfect, so me
This is life
Tiring and refreshing
This is time
A burden unrelenting
These are my friends
My children, my life
These are my friends
So perfect, so right
And this is pain
And this is gain
And this is love
And this is hate
And this is trust
And this is my place
But first
Foremost
This is me.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
billboard's calligraph --
past the haze of Manila infested
by car sprawls and belching machines.
magnanimous treatise of tarpaulins,
people chin-up asking God
with askance
something like this
"o god make this bearable
like a mound of fresh fruits
from ****** labour."
maniacal sensurround:
earth-shattering frequency
of footsteps trampling the mouth
of monolith shadows - the peak
of this quake is our complete silence.
rain's catharsis in effect
sousing us in the blood of unreal light.
this diastolic shrinkage
jamming the beat of constricting vessels.
the adrenaline surges
within the dermis of this pretension.
a collective of tired beings heeding
the recherché of voice metamorphosing
into form, a dagger-butterfly
paring us skin to bone, cranial
to visceral, soul to nothing -
catapult of a trajectory spit
plummeting in eased-up pace
from Taft Avenue flyover
to a subjugated wagon of scraps
and empty wine bottles.
today's paper reads:
"Palace hits hiring
of **** dancers"
fancying to fall right in the
spanked curved of this
insatiate melodrama - something
prayer could not save from
this land's mutinous ignominy.
we resume to fulfill our madness,
hundreds of tack-headed people
rolling down the streets of Makati,
drenched with rain's trilling aftermath.
squinting to look at
no sun, only the grieving of skyscrape,
thumbing down unidentified objects
in the depth of loose pockets,
desperate for home.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
I am neither lyrical JOHN KEATS
nor the great WB YEATS
I have never reached great heights
I am in my preliminary plights
I talk about fundamental rights
or the beauty of Diwali lights
most of my poetry is immature
but my friends praise it very pure
I know for sure
they don't want to hurt my heart
and never critisize my art
because it is the most sensitive part
But I know my own limits
I have got fewer merits
than unidentified demerits
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
You can get used to anything--merciless debt, infidelity, death--anything, the photojournalist thinks as he stares out his open hotel window to the beach where two boys lay covered with white sheets.
The bombs fell an hour earlier. Upon impact they didn't so much make a sound as absorb it, syphoning off laughter over mimosas in the first floor cafe, blurring the start-stop of traffic into a shapeless background hiss. He was out there when it happened, on the beach, walking his morning walk.
From one hundred yards he took in the flash, the upheaval of sand, reaching for heaven and then, all at once, subject to gravity's retreat. He knew there would be a second bomb, like when you're cutting a tomato, and you look at your finger then to the knife, and think, I'm going to cut myself, and a couple slices later fulfill the prophecy.
He didn't rush to the boys. He got his camera out of the bag, grabbed the lens, adjusted for distance, for the wane morning light. Boys screamed and ran. He wasn't sure how many, four, five. The second bomb hit. One boy, smaller than the others, rode the sand upwards and back down. The photojournalist thought he tried to get up, but he wasn't sure.
He knew better than to rush over. An unidentified person pointing a vague object at the children on a satellite feed would garner backlash. So he waited, surveying the slight waves break, the gulls continuing flight.
Parents, people he assumed to be parents, moaned in an unfamiliar language. Their sounds though, both guttural and sharp, said all. He approached. A man picked up the smallest boy, his lifeless limbs, doll-like and pierced with shrapnel, hung off to the side.
He took twenty-five shots from behind the lifeguard's post, using the telephoto zoom. He lowered the camera and made eye contact with the father.
Now, in his hotel room, there's an urgent knock at the door. A voice shouts. The email sends. He drops his laptop in the bag with the rest of the gear. A taxi pulls into the roundabout outside.
When he lands he's not sure if he's fractured his ankle or just sprained it. He limps to the door, climbs in, says, "Airport."
"Maa?" the driver says.
The photojournalist punches the seat. The father of the boy, along with three other men, approach.
"Maa?"
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Calling nearest janitor
response to minor spill
unidentified indefinitely
a k-11 spill
It bruised burned
extinguished extraneous existence
left minor mess
ignore and maintain
absence of mentality
Shuffle left
avoid sticky shoes
unattended children should abstain
from carmine fingerpainting
Chocolate rations rose
red rose
again this week
enjoy the rapture
thank you come again
A leaf falls
unnoticed
A **** at americana
not from it
belittled no napoleon
Big boy voices only
at the counter
naked pockets mean
no thing
nothing missing
no thing messing
me sing
last mess
cleanup, aisle twelve
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Sometimes love comes too little, or it comes too late but does that make it any less true? You search for something your whole life, only to lose it once you finally had a grasp of it- it slipped right out of your fingertips. Why? Because you were wrong to “search” for it. You should have stayed there and let it locate you, or rather, stumble upon you. Like serendipity. Let destiny play its part.
But you know, the craziest thing is, I did. I stayed still and lived my life exactly the way I had been living because I knew that something like love can’t be forced- it will arrive at your doorstep when you are not even expecting it. I did not go about looking for love- no, because he appeared out of the blue and blurred every dimension, corner, crook and cranny of my 20/20 vision. He did not sweep me off my feet, the way I thought it would be when you fall in love, no- because when I was with him, I forgot that I had feet at all- I was not running, and it was not a walk in the park either. Being with him was more of a swim.
Why?
Because, sometimes I am swimming with sharks, and I feel as if they would sink their teeth in me anytime they choose to, the way my insecurities come and go- leaving me vulnerable and stripped, and alert. Like a flock of birds pecking their heads as they feed, insecurities would attack me the same way- a frenzy that I have no control over. At times I swam with mermaids- seemingly beautiful and ethereal- but once you get closer, they will try to drown you in as they unmask themselves and all you are left with is a question, “Will I survive?” and this is a lot like pretending to be fine, to tell yourself over and over that you will not drown, yet the pain inside, as everyone is all aware of, is way stronger than the fake smiles I plaster on each day as I vowed to stop being unhappy, but once he comes around, mer-figured, he looks promising and I would swim to him, thinking that his presence meant survival, but I would be wrong, again and again. Other times I swam in the azure Caribbean sea, believing this is paradise- filled with wondrous feelings and unimaginable liberation because the reason for all of this is in the water next to me, never letting go of my hand. The rest of the unidentified moments was like being a passenger in Titanic, believing that I was sailing on something that was “claimed” to be unsinkable, but as I blinked my eyes, I realised that I was cold, covered in ice and clinging onto a shattered piece of iceberg that was slowly melting with time in the middle of the silent but perilous ocean- with a whistle in hand, alone, and there were no signs of rescue teams to wait or look out for. That is what it felt like. Or feels like.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
Under the spread hazel's winter
umbrella hung with pale catkins
pulling at a black bin liner rubble
spilled, a little toad tumbles free
from under in turmoil of warty limbs.
A toad in this garden where is no pond
found a moist pocket of plastic pleats
and a larder of wood lice in the rotted
pile sits on my palm calm as a buddha
thoughtless, yellow-eyed, unidentified.
Later, returning for forgotten secateurs
he drifts down in the water *** I let in
to the ground, trailing a bubble stream,
an olive green indifferent nature god.
The lordly stars sustain his crawlspace.
Jun 4, 2011
Jun 4, 2011 at 2:12 AM UTC
Emptiness
feels like death
nothingness
in your chest
drowning emotion
space explosion
gaps unfilled
yet nothing spilled
*enclosed
alone
no emotion
shown*
just hollow
a shell
living in hell
you follow
*nothing
no interest
no meaning
just destress
unknowing
unidentified
emptiness
nothing inside*
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:36 PM UTC
Looking for an exit in life, perhaps other option that is rarely available. Time travel, utilitarian way to modify the past and the future.
Trapped in a matrix of flesh and bones controlled by my encephalon, it controls every part of my daily life, from breathing and blinking to helping myself memorize.
A feeling of antipathy in life that could never bring me happiness.
The inculpation for the misapprehension in my past relationship and future.
What does a man like me to do? How can one display their philia when they're not certain of that emotion?
My endurance in this life is on a perpetual edge. I perceive with attention toward happiness.
A deprivation I share with others. An absent of happiness.
A happiness of dominance; a switch that is only controlled.
Today he can be happy; switch ON. Next week he can be unhappy; switch OFF.
I walk on egg shells in this relationship and have to be careful that it won't break. I'm sad and lonely, this is what I get and deserve.
God nor I could change this, but I don't see it happening during my remaining life.
Stifles with silence deploying infantile plots. A day at a time I enunciate as my composer easily is un-maintain.
Hidden arcanum among a number of these unidentified entities lashes out at me discreetly.
Posing no threat I conceal the pass deep in the abyss in an unmarked grave sealing off the hippocampus that only the Creator can breach.
Unannounced the gravestone is turned my past is breached which I assumed that only the Beneficent can release.
Once an inhabitation, but no longer my domicile. Set aside and noted as a lost monument.
Ascendency barbarous with words of articulation fatal to ones self esteem, grossly spoken enslaved. An inclination to the predisposition of my life.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
She told me she would take a bullet for me
I was left stunned only recalling my hereditary
The horrendous guilt emerging all at once before me
Until I recognized her inactivity and realized she want listening to me
I dropped down on the floor almost instantly
Kneeling on one knee hoping her approval of me
Pledging allegiance so she knew she has the chance to consult me
Every time she recalled her children that neglected her for another woman they didn't know
Or the times she felt enigmatic to disown you
As she calls out your name begging to return home
Hearing your voice and having that bit of hope that one day
You mention her, get back to her and abide in her
playing with the golden precious sand
that make up the land which your ancestors once lived in.
I stare at the ruins that lay before me
A familiar face I stumble across
As I lift the grains of sand hoping its a person I know
Unidentified
I stand beneath the bridge hoping it will echo my freedom just like it did back home
I want to scream a thunder
but knowing its too late I'm pelted with stones
being told to go home
as I sit in font of the TV screen hoping I see a familiar face before me
My country.
Hergeysa burco barebera ceerigaabo
Our cities names was never meant to be pronounced by you
The syllabols were never meant to pass your diseased lips
And the delicacy not meant to struggle through your rough throat
But they did anyway.
Every night I see the elan in her face
Whilst providing me with the decree of a fast spree from our relationship
The visions we incarcerate together
And the identical marks and scars we endeavor
With out any confession of our pleasure we seek forever
Our heart beat beats twice as fast
Forming a rhythmic percussion
simultaneously taking a breath of Africa
I lay beneath the golden sun as the rays shine through my eyes
Proudly defining the color of my skin
Showing that none other can be akin
As I am the uniqueness of this historical country
Mogadishu, bosaaso, Los anod, barberra
Our cities names were never meant to be pronounced by you
But when we look at our stars one last time
I realized that it has been colonized too
© S Y A
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC