Where are my words?
Painting you a hue
Under Aurora’s Umbrella
of chameleon rain.
Crushed velvet,
crushed dreams
create movement among
the lifeless sympathies
sold by soulless
companies.
Take a second to see what I see,
suffering,
or celebration,
even anticipation.
Step inside the mind
of the soulful kind,
the human experience
of artful deliverance.
You Can’t Understand me,
my words, my culture, my faith,
my existence in this world
that refuses to accept me
as a light of positivity.
You’d rather I sit in the dark
as a lonely sad spark
that burns this city down in
dismay and destruction.
How do I please you?
How can I please you?
I am out with the old, in with the new.
Demolition, not reconstruction,
new construction.
I am practice,
I am in practice.
A falling tower of kind words
pushing through,
“How do you do?”
A belief so strong that I do not belong,
but I keep leaving behind
strands of a shattered self.
A shred of self endearment said to me,
“This is not your crowd,
this is not your place,
this is not your fight,
so please turn away with grace.”
Chaos is a point in time
when patience sees leaves
on green trees flee
and hairs on heads turn gray
in the state of disarray
defined as life.
So pride smiles and looks aside
as chaos battles human wit.
WE CAN OVERCOME-
(OR) WE CAN BE OVERCOME.
That little thing called life goes on
with the ambition of a first-time mechanic
who repairs their car
with Paper Clips, And Wishes.
Hard times do not discriminate,
everyone is subject to a chaotic fate.
Define yourself
by one bad moment,
and suddenly the world
starts to crumble.
You fumble
over words,
like sidewalk trips
send you to the pavement
with scraped knees,
begging please
not again!
The Culture To Condemn
imperfection arrives when
our society unplugs
from reality
and remembers you
only
by one bad moment.
I fade in and out of inner peace
with every step of dragging feet.
The skin so tender has time to heal
and callus over tremendous pain.
Swollen backs,
swollen muscles,
do we ever get a break,
you and I?
You and I have our place
in the world’s deepest fall from grace.
A second chance,
a second time,
A Final Call for freedom’s line.
There stood the man
of violent devices,
chaining you to your room
with words of deceit.
A lock on the door to life
sticks you with the weight
of endless obligation and still,
you are not entitled to an explanation.
London’s fog
has its hold on me.
I can’t see
the sun.
A wish,
a reality,
I can’t see
the beauty
of the world.
The lonely windowsill
sits to my right
but I Cannot Fight
my plight
of interrupted thinking
which has me sinking
into the fabric
of my mindset.
Petulance has no place
in healing grace.
Sorrow,
in her state,
sees death take a bow to Wit,
well lived.
She leaves me asking how can I give,
when abuse steals charity
from my hard working hands?
Petulance is scheming in his head
as Sorrow Learns To Cope, alone,
with unfamiliar emptiness.
Unfamiliar- here am I, in between
nonsense and a daydream
of what used to be.
A life I can no longer see.
So death bids a bitter hello again,
gifting me a second breath
while I watch the exhales
of another wave goodbye.
In the static I see
The Ruby Eyed Rat
of second thought
and dreary regret.
Simplicity is the command
of confidence,
conviction to bind.
Unwind only to find
her life run out.
Sitting on my shoulder
is her sweet memory,
the ghost of melancholy.
Creations of the mind
imagine up the worst.
While kingdoms are built around me,
all I can see is the dust and debris
of what used to be.
Sorrow, left to her slumber,
rests on her final farewell.
Anxiety, unrest,
coasting on the edges
of a self-possessed
sinking ship,
self-esteem mentality.
Speak up-
you are a significant
voice of arbitrary
means of understanding.
A different angle,
an anchor on your well-being,
and while still,
sailing by, is Despair
in her mask
of charming lies.
“Everything’s Okay”
or so she says.
I cannot look back
to the past of misery
deceit and mistakes laid out
one after another.
Anger- dropped
pouring to the floor
is a shred of self-respect.
Stop being angry for
the advantage of others.
Stuff It Down.
Stuff it down.
The grudge of grand proportions.
I cannot cope
in a constructive style.
Smiles and grinding teeth to the gums.
I will not open my mouth
to spew my personal truth.
It is not effective.
It is not endearing.
How I feel is kneeling,
hands holding shoulders down.
I can’t get up from a state
of self induced hate
without fighting the hands
that keep me kneeling
to indignation.
I don’t have the energy
to deal with disappointment.