"unprivileged" poems
It is not the bumblebee, that goes
unloved or unprivileged.
It is the sad circumstances of of his flower brethren
That congests his mind with remnants of
Regret and despair,
Brought on by a chain reaction of
Sympathy and compassion.
Do the flowers comprehend
The plight of the humble bumblebee?
He who flies in his aura of sincere concern,
For those who he calls friends.
Certainly not,
For they question the pain his eyes have seen,
But certainly not
From which it originates.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
They told me I was humble
Showing a modest or low estimate of my own importance
Having a tendency to decrease my dignity under others
They were telling the truth
My stature of one not as a boulder but a pebble
I am smaller to others, crushed underneath
They tell me it is a good thing
To place others above myself so I do not conquer them
Pushing them up even if I am falling
Unprivileged behind those who need love more than I do
It is selfish to not be humble
They tell me that I am
I wonder if that means I am weak
Or if that means I am strong
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
I tried to pluck some strings
Listened as hard as I could
Stared at the song written before me
Yet the lyrics don't mean a thing as I stood
Cowering behind these bars I built
These melodies I've worked so hard to fake
So that I, myself, can lose in it, believe in it
A vibrato my soul needs to make
I grieve for the lost times, for a wrong pitch
Into many delusions, I sink, I sink, I sink
It's hard to make something out from pieces
We sang all of the chaos it made in chorus
"Seem" fuels a very powerful belief
It's real, spoken in hushed tones
Yet when I try to form some harmony out of it
It's very evident, the tunes don't exist at all
Time ticks and it still keeps me guessing
Even the world couldn't comprehend a thing
And so all the notes died unprivileged from the truth
We'll never learn what's real. Will we?
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 7:33 AM UTC
"mirror, mirror on the wall
who's the fairest of them all"
i see my reflection
is it broken
i'm not pretty
my eyes are too narrow
my legs are too long
my stomach is too big from dinner
how could i possibly be fair
"mirror, mirror on the wall
who's the fairest of them all"
i repeat it
over and over
but the image remains
angry
i swing my fists
and along with the shattered pieces
my reflection falls to the floor
i slump to the ground
"why won't you work"
i cry
then i look at the mirrored fragments
my reflection no longer there
on a slim piece near my hand
there's a reflection of a young girl
she's moving but her eyes are closed
she travels using only four senses
she has lost the fifth
the young girl stumbles
and flails her arms
she cannot see
for she is blind
she would be grateful for a set of working eyes no matter how narrow
on a long piece near my knee
there's a reflection of a young man
he's in a moving wheelchair
when it stops
the young man lifts himself out
using only his hands
the young man has no legs
for he had just come home from war
he would be grateful for two legs no matter how long
on a wide piece near my hip
there's a child
a child whose skin is tight around his bones
no meat to keep him warm
for he hasn't eaten in days
weeks
maybe months
that boy would **** to have his stomach big from dinner
unprivileged persons litter on the shattered pieces
blindness
starvation
deafness
illness
disorders
it's there
it's real
i piece back the mirror and seal the cracks with glue
'mirror, mirror on the wall
who's the fairest of the all"
i ask again
when i see myself
i nod
for i am privileged
i am grateful
i am fair
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 9:04 AM UTC