I am not a doormat for your emotions, nor am I a wall for your projection! I am a human being! Dammit
The spine is a trunk.
The nerves are vines, draping insides of beings like sound-walls.
Meditation is the freeway to higher learning, of self.
This truth is no pyramid scheme;
Judge taste – not people.
Leaves fall resembling coin filled wishes, to the bottom of a pond.
Whose depths are more than seen on surface.
We are all flowers.
The branches of energy are
fruitful, delicate, and sometimes blemished.
Mother’s of the sun birth daughters of stars, with crescent eyes.
Upheld by Orion.
Their voices mocking Little Walter;
Singing blues to the blacks, browns, and all bands of color.
Harmoniously their cries spawn tides, expunging identities.
There is peace lodged in the throats of mutes.
Yoga is poetry in the form sign language.
Exchanging idioms between flexibility and endurance.
This Being –
Firm like a mountain, pose
Still like a tree, yet
a Warrior soul.
I think its about that time.
Its safe to grab the pistol.
Im tired of growing, everyday its more stressful.
I hate money.
I hate school.
I think this day can be stamped official.
Im tired of feeling bitter and
Im tired of being stressed.
Im just tired of breathing, it takes all my energy.
Especially when im breathing for dozens of people, and most of them kin to me.
This poem is about me.
For once I just want to lay in the dark.
Stare at the ceiling music blasting till I’ve gone deaf.
I don’t want to hear the bullshit anymore.
All I hear is death.
I’ll reach under my bed.
Favorite teddy bear pressed against my chest.
And finally put these hands to use.
I’ll write my name in the liquid.
Shit I dont know how, but I’ll attempt to swim in it.
This is the day to embrace the first time I felt Free
Then everybody had to go an ruin it.
So I’ll leave it up to you to decided if the pistol is just a metaphor for my pen.
I don’t touch that bottle
my father’s finger prints are permanent,
Sometimes he’d mistake my neck for a bottle.
They say the Skyy is the limit,
but he didn’t think that was enough.
Blood brothers with Jack,
Intoxicated visions of him being Daniel
In a lions den, I remember vividly
as he got up from his throne, and slammed the door
Lying telling me he’d be right back.
Every attempt my mother took to turn her back
He’d whip it.
Repeatedly, Repeatedly, Repeatedly
Cries like a broken record,
he’d leave with a satisfied appetite of affection.
We had covered all mirrors in the house,
and a transparent reflection.
We were only dependents
with no sense of declaration.
Longing to be rescued,
but cowardly courage was always a distraction.
No ends to support our means.
No knowledge of definitions,
Love was pain
and Love was what we longed for,
so our only option was to remain.
He was raping our personalities.
We were no longer people,
but soon to be fatalities.
And we were.
On the anniversary of my birth,
he turned the station wagon into a hearse,
and while he was driving,
he was trying to decipher his reality from his wishes
and as the vehicle was swerving,
I threw up regret, and —
I woke up.
At last, the truth was revealed
the world was finally upside down,
like I had always thought it’d been.
I remember rounds of hollow tips
were fired into the vacancy of my chest,
but in my dream I had mistaken the sound of my mothers screams for bullets.
On the anniversary of my birth…
My father killed my Mother,
My mother gave birth to my baby Brother,
and God taught him how to fly,
before my father stripped him of his wings.
So when I woke up,
My father presented me with an upside down cake,
and with out saying any words,
he looked me deep past my eyelids,
wiped my eyes,
and said ‘Happy Birthday’.
There is no limit to Skyy,
No better friends than E&J,
No Better Amo than Yeager-bombs,
No better Freedom than Death.
Flowing water open portals.
whether closed or open, they become free.
Free of feeling, thinking, oblivious to knowledge.
Why am I crying?
Drops of glee, grief, enmity, even when drowsy.
Bottled water preserving them over years.
The pit fall, the pitiful — cork high and bottle deep.
There is so much in the rush, but slow to accumulate.
I am not weak, I am strong !
There has been weeks in years, I’ve held on
When I listen to this song, when I see that face, when I smell the fear, when I taste the salt —I stand tall.
Bursting out into tears like a fire-hydrant.
I’m my own river, cliche, denial.
For crying out loud, don’t be so quiet!!
Say something, at least the most you can say is ‘nothing’..
Flowing water opens portals.
whether closed or open, you become free.
Life Is Beautiful.
Find Freedom in Living.
Last time I saw you, I saw me. Lately I’ve been looking in the mirror, and this caged bird is now free. Freedom slips my mind; sometimes I sing a little off key. Overcoming stage fright–hit the lights please. I want them to see my message by reason darkness.
What they thinking are nightmares, just a city girls dreams. This empathy has this piece I’m writing mirroring me. A victim of split personality. Trying to divide the thoughts and subtract the feelings.
Bring upon Confusion…
When I see you again, finally I feel empty like the glass you left me with, that I threw against the wall. Except when it hit the ground it didn’t break, but out spilled every memory.
Can you feel what I feel, when I feel what I’m feeling? You shouldn’t because I’m numb. Selfishly selfless; although I never cared for any other than myself. What should i have done? I was helpless!
The next time I saw you, I saw me swimming in my tears, a shellfish. Beyond this course exterior, I am a jewel waiting to be made a necklace.
Then I remembered that I forgot. Recuperating flesh wounds with internal bleeding; often I find myself hiding in my feelings. I forgot that I remember.
So the next time I saw him– posture immaculate, a smile moonlit in a dim mind, eyes seductive, with his arms wide. He thrust his hands upon my hips, and squeezed me until his spirit made my soul cry.
Now I can’t even fathom what you look like.