Tag: Poetry

When Dreams Become Reality

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When Dreams Become Reality

 

This evening…

I found my imagination in the back of my mind.

I’m feeling remorse;  I should have listened to my conscience.

My creativity was knocking on my temple.

Tylenol, shut it up…

Now my hearts paying for it.

I closed my eyes, covered my ears, and listened to my soul cry.

 

I traveled my  medulla oblongata.

I flinch. My dreams turned into nightmares.

I see my imagination lay wasted thin like water.

Fuck!

Paralyzed mind.

My conscience has become the new Cesar.

 

I look left and my creativity has overdosed on refer.

I look right at the nightmares beating my dreams.

I look behind me, and my conscience shaking.

I can no longer witness this.

I look ahead and my imagination is dead.

 

Insanity has sunk in.

 

This is absent Schizophrenia.

I don’t know who I am.

Because of this is Bipolarity;

I can’t choose a feeling!

 

Living poison.

My words are tainted.

My tongue is numb.

My heart is ignorant.

Have I gone blind?

 

Am I jeopardizing my own purity?!

 

Pen to my head.

Placing notebook paper down to surround myself.

I’m making my bed.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder; I’m terrified by making a mess.

 

Leighrick is whispering in my ear,” Chaotic just go through with it“.

 

How did she know that about me?

Who told her my first name?

 

“I can’t do this anymore!”

I don’t know what I’m saying.

 

My history is spilling out my closet.

My conscience turned the lights on.

I look left and right forgetting I’m blind.

I stop and listen..

FUCK!

I hear myself dying!

 

Jumping out the bed; I vomit.

I feel around for my inspiration; turns out that’s what filled the sink!

I vomit again.

Except when I flushed the toilet, along with the rejection went my dreams.

 

I leave the red lit room.

Trying to feel my way back;

The walls disintegrate around me.

 

I collapse on my bed.

Place the pen in my hand.

If I’m already dying inside, who’ll appreciate  what’s left?

Beauty is within, but so is deception.

 

Chaotic is talking to me, “Don’t do it Leighrick“.

Leighrick is yelling at me, “Wait, I thought I was Candace?!”

Candace is screaming to both of them, “I’m going through with this. I don’t know who I am!!”

 

Leighrick says, “You’re Chaotic”

Chaotic says, “You’re Candace”

Candace says, “Shut the fuck up! Fuck! I’m losing it!!”

 

I lay upon my bed of paper.

With a red pillow behind my head.

I want to disguise the blood; for whomever may find me.

They won’t be freaked out when realizing I’m dead.

 

I put the pen to my head.

“Pop…”

Goes the trigger.

 

Ink consumes my body.

My soul is released.

 

The next morning there’s knockin’ on my door.

The knocks go unanswered…their whispers fade,

“shhh, we should just let her sleep.”

 

The poet lays at peace.

 

Just in case you didn’t notice, I committed homicide with the piece.

 

Next time you’ll know not to judge, but

Instead to stop to let the poet speak.

 

Sincerely,

That Chaotic, Leighrickal, Young Lady C.

 

When dreams become reality
When dreams become reality

Open Door Policy

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You left the door open.

I’m not sure if you know;

I’m peeping through windows,

Seeing if your alone.

I’m one foot in and one foot out

The closer you approach,

My heart starts beating faster.

Do I have time to run away?

Should I stay and tough it out?

I can’t forget what it’s like to be in the same room as you…

We don’t have to speak,

Because we make conversation through our eyes.

Let me know, who knows how to Love you like I do?

Who’s one touch can change your mood?

What kind of bullshit have you gotten use to?

If this was 21 questions, would you be truthful?

No matter if it hurt my feelings,

If I step foot in the house…

Should I be prepared to lose you?

A house is not a home,

When I left,

Where you did you find shelter?

Is it in some other womans lap – I mean shack.

I sneak down to the basement;

It’s flooding.

I can see the emotional wreckage.

The foundation’s penetrated deep with inquisitions and incisions.

Concrete cannot be plastered over

This needs to be rebuilt.

The living room is empty,

is there some irony in that?

Long halls decorated with picture perfect memories.

It’s dark back here.

Spider webs and memories collecting dust.

Do you ever roam these feelings, just to reminisce?

I guess you just stay in the front…

I see a names and numbers, but

I wont bothering hurting myself and look.

Composition books spread across the floor,

Balled up papers adorn the table.

In the refrigerator, no more selfish left to make meals?

Cups half empty, very few half full.

Dishes and dirty laundry piled up like secrets.

I saw your notebook,

Willingly with restraint to look in it.

Wondering what lays next to it.

What I mistook for empty syringes, were just empty pens,

With my picture underneath.

It’s time to leave,

Rekindling feelings of vulnerable.

In this crib,

Where once my baby and I slept.

And overslept,

And sexed,

And cried,

And laughed,

And ate,

And wrestled,

And argued,

And I packed,

And it. . . .rained.

Crying silently, I creep out.

Trying my best not to leave traces

Showing that I revisited this house…

Just as my body is half way out the door,

My hand is snatched

…and it’s yours.

You ask me to stay a while,

I can’t even look you in your face.

Instead I look down, because my eyes give me away.

Identical with my heart, my voice cracks.

You found me, but I am at a loss for words.

Uncertainty about  how I should feel.

Should I smile or should I slap you?

We both felt the pain, that our mistakes could never amount to.

But forgiveness is a drug,

I can’t help to self prescribe.

Nevertheless I leave..

My hand slipping out of yours slowly,

I try to look back but I refuse,

Is this Deja Vu?

Everything’s moving so fast,

In an instance I’m nowhere near you, but with time —

With time I’m your next door neighbor.

I’m sitting in my living room, half past dead

Watching other people live their realities in shallow misery, just to have intuition left to comfort me

And you call me..

We talk

And then you talk for hours.

I got the flowers you’d leave on my doorstep.

You offer me dinner,

I’m not sure if my heart can afford yet..

A sacrifice, I am not sure I’m willing to take

Instead – I say, “maybe“.

Eventually,

I ask you over my place for lunch.

You agree…

This isn’t a happy ending,

I am hardly satisfied.

I would like to know,

Who loves you like I do?

Or should’ve

Or would’ve

Or could’ve

Or doesn’t?

Honestly…Did I even know how to?

–Leighrick

The Last Time

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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.

-Leighrick

For My Brothers, For My Family

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Hollow tips enter full bodies, and empty them.

As the bullet rips the flesh, it’s also stripping the body from the soul.

The victim has passed; not only in presence, but through papers as another statistic.

The consequences of a coward,

we have to live with, walk these very same streets.

His mind has been brainwashed. They’ve purposely left out all the coloreds.

Holding the steal he feels like Iron-man, but without it he is weak.

Pulling that trigger is as easy as taking candy from a baby, but

does this coward know he just took this baby away from his mom.

My ego is fierce with poise full of culture.

I am tired of living through the peephole fighting not to be another victim of hatred.

I am tired of stray bullets finding a home within our own children.

Bullets may not have names on them, but they take innocence of the ones they enter.

I am tired of looking over my shoulder, because I have a permanent crook in my neck to go along with the knifes in my back.

Eyes follow me down the street.

Am I a crook because Im wearing my hood on my head? –Its cold

Am I a crook because I’m carrying candy? — I have a little sibling at home.

am I a crook because I’m holding a drink? — I am thirsty?

OR

Am I a crook because of the color of my skin?

The difference is they wear hoods that  cover their heads.

You can still see their color, but  that they may hide their faces in consciousness of shame.

Lacking Color…

A Color?

A “Color” everyone can see past except for them, because they still got that damn sheet over their heads.

I had a dream last night.

I marched to the most immense Bell with my hoodie on, and Granted justice for all Kings, Queens, & Martins.

I was tackled to the ground and handcuffed.

I would be easier to handle.

I didnt just get married, I am not a child (though someones), nor do I have one.

Everyone took a shot, but we’re taking the bullets for their

“Self Defense”.

Tell me — Do they call it self defense because we are strong, and will not helplessly tolerate oppression?

Before you pull the trigger; do you even second guess it?

Is there  really so much hate that you become absent-minded?

Because of their loathing lack of souls,

Everyday I am reminded of the death of My Brothers.

Hughes, Dunbar, Walker, Angelou, Giovanni, Baldwin, Brooks, El-Shabazz, Shakur

They came to me and requested I speak for the people.

They sat me down, I listened, and though they only spoke to me in poetry I gained an inner-standing of each and every stanza they’ve written.

Having me stand tall with my head up.

They woke me up in my dream, God woke me up this morning, but I came alive in this poem.

Oscar Grant, I stand strong for my brother.

Sean Bell, I stand strong for my brother.

Trayvon Martin, I stand strong for my brother.

 I Stand Strong for My Family.

I hope they hear my prayers while comforting each other, realizing they are not alone.

How long will it take for their families to heal?…

Until they’re all called home?

Murder is theft, and if these killer aren’t convicted of one, how about the other?

 —

Instead of pouring this libation on the floor out of respect,

I’ll drink it because they didnt have the chance to.

Better, I will share the candy with our family; who didn’t have a chance to see them come home.

Unable tell them once last time they loved them.

I AM GRANT.

I AM BELL.

I AM MARTIN.

Beaten though Kings & Queens, and still

I AM JUSTICE,

I AM LOVE,

 – I AM Vigilant Leighrick, Poetic Renegade

Misty Eyes

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Lust will set a trap

Don’t fall for it

or else you’ll fall

in the dusts of love

trying to catch it.

While the memories slowly

collect dust.

You cleanse your body

of the mud that the tears created.

You washed the clothes you wore that day

so much they faded.

They see you and

act like they don’t know you.

As if you didn’t share a past

when you’re in each others presence.

I guess that love scheme was just a blessing,

in disguise of genius.

Who knew

not to mix emotions in with their lovemaking.

I would ask about values,

But how much Self-worth

is Self-pity?

You dotted your i’s and crossed your t’s,

still the P’s and Q’s leave you questioning.

Ain’t that peculiar?

You use to be gay with eyes filled with glee,

Singing the songs of others

that once experienced the same love.

Unfortunately,

The rainbow that came into sight

when it rained

on your parade

is now

a new shade of grey.

–Leighrick

Beauty Doesn’t Sleep

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With this silver bladed tongue

I am cutting through diamonds and tarnishing gold.

Watch my tongue unfold, I am spitting hollow tips.

With grip that pierces flesh and grabs onto your spirit.

I wont let go;

As long as I have hold of your soul, you’re going to hear it —

My voice that is.

Try to silence me and my eyes shoot beams like Cyclops

I’m focusing.

I can hear a feather drop,

When I’m not listening to my self breathe.

 

This dish is best served cold on a silver platter

Grab your silver spoon and eat this truth until your belly aches;

Your shitting the bricks that built your home

Real estate.

 

A great debater, but I am no competition for Washington.

I’m spending my training days writing not riding.

There’s no insured survival, but I’m not shy about taking risks.

 

Fist in the air pumping up the power and the volume.

The 808s break my heart and my eardrums too.

Kaboom!

Smoke clouds fill the room.

This dramatic entrance has a certain aroma,

appearing before me I’m unsure if its the Virgin,

Or Jane playing tricks on me.

No no this Grimm

You fear death; on the other hand

I wrap the belt around my neck like a tie.

 

Contusions deep enough to leave my body paralyzed.

The only thing I fill, are the lines on the paper.

 

She got game tho, seemingly Jesus when the clock winds down.

 

I approach the mic with un-calming nervousness,

as if I am standing at the pulpit asking to be reborn again.

 

Sleeping like an infant by the hours,

I wake up.

There are ghetto birds outside my window.

 

I spit on the mirrors of narcissist, now they see a bit clearer.

 

 -Leighrick

Black Thought

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Heavy hearts are burdens
Broken hearts are cherished.

For love we perish
In love we age.

With black clouded fantasies,
to make believe is valued.

The proof is in the pudding,
Instant truth digesting questions.

More questions than answers
curiosity spreads like cancer.

The sickness of inaccuracy corrodes faith.

Maybe all the rights are wrong
Maybe all the downs are up

May be the reason we think the sky houses souls
When it rains is that them crying, listening to the lies being told?
Watching the future unfold.

A wrinkle in time is a smile perceived as beauty.
Strength mirrors will.

To become or to exist?

Trying is harder than living, but death is defying?

Answering questions with questions, seems to be the only answer.

–Leighrick