Why do we berate minorities?
It could be us, have you ever
Lived in poverty, gone hungry?
Tried to be autistic for a day?
Been disabled, grown old?
Have you ever broke your hip
And tried to rehabilitate?
Gone to jail and tried to
Reintegrate into society?
Have you ever been black
Or Hispanic in a society
That has predetermined your fate?
Have you gone to college
Only to find yourself
Unemployed and in debt
With student loans and credit cards
That you may never pay off?
It could have been you
Who got cancer while still young
Or suffered from depression
Until your wife left you
Or been that single mother
On welfare and without a friend
Or that immigrant who
Had to work a dead-end job
Just for a chance for their children?
Maybe it was you, who knows. Like this: Like Loading...
Mental Illness, Poli-Activism
advocacy, autistic, black shot by police, blog, bullying, cancer, culture, disabled, exile, felon, human rights, immigrant, minorities, obesity, outcast, poetry, racial minority, racial profiling, society, welfare, writing
The spilled blood will have no fragrance
Dissolve my tears
My drama is too personal
Cut my shadow from me
The torment is without
Fruit, or just reward
Winter is the night copied
When all the stars are blind
Leave some birds
The seeds that were dreams
Have been wasted
Let go of me now
I am no longer a virgin
Or opportunistic or idealistic
Needle in the water
Of my health
Do not think we do not see you?
Melting the sun like a great center
A snake of flesh
The wood-cutter does not know
When, my heart grew pale
With stress, or
How the silence became moist and wise
Beneath the burden
Of the escaping years
Angel, woodcutter, God, youth, dreams, time
Do not imagine just because
I am now old, that I know
What experience is
Perhaps, perhaps I was hiding all along
From living. Like this: Like Loading...
I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry.
~ John Cage
In the penthouse of cool August
the trees have begun to whisper Autumn
the fragrance of anniversaries
an instinct to catapult meaning
into some creative form, some relationship
where the banter of everyday
might be fulfilled in a forfeit of identity
no matter how long the hiatus
these street lamps remember me
but the people I knew are gone
we’ve gone our separate ways
you used to laugh at my love of writing
but I still sweat at the writing desk, love
these clarinet-oxytocin dreams
where I learn to be merciful with myself
my precious psyche deserved better
my rhetoric of sweet-salts left
the flower of my being coming into view
an orchid of failed seductions
a white rose of broken-hearted
love that no longer requires human love
summer was meant for vengeance
and humanity was made for loss
but my timidity is satisfied by
a more divine neurochemical
than sappy serotonin or dull dopamine.
Photography courtesy of:
http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fire-471797211 Like this: Like Loading...
We were Sculptors when we lived
When we were alive, we Perceived
Beauty palpable as air, striving as water
Mutable were our art-forms
We loved as if there were no Tomorrow
Weighty, with visions of wisdom
In our Body, we gave ourselves to Nature
Totally, hands moving like Priests
In flesh, in bronze, in wood, in stone
Embroidering our love for the World
Again and again, as if that was all that mattered
Making music, from points of Eden
Writing pristine alphabets of significant
Hellos and goodbyes, all meeting each other
This hid our extreme fragility following
The new moon’s curves, down to her epiphanies
That all Diminish, or goes insane attempting
To reach Divinity, eyes the color of dreams.
http://www.deviantart.com/art/Untitled-451862555 Like this: Like Loading...
Autobiographical, Confessional, Mental Illness
art, blog, color, culture, dreams, free-verse, poetry, Sylvia Plath, writing
A sentence begins with a lie
The common language already
Filled with duality, an imperfect means
Of understanding, semi-true literacy
Of our unity, the loneliness of
The liar endures, like false-love
A poem can be torn up
Never read again, but
The innovocation has already been set
Words of anger, cannot be taken back
Words, infiltrate our blood
With cortisol and neurochemicals
A sentence begins with a pause
For the heart’s twisting dials
There is no technology of silence
Only rituals of communication
Etiquette of what was not said –
The blurring terms of our inadequacy
At connecting, our inability to hear
Words in the music of our faces
The blueprint lost of our authentic sameness. Like this: Like Loading...
Mental Illness, Meta-Literary, Metaphysical
anthropology of linguistics, art, communication, language, myth, People, poetry, ritual, semantics, writing
I’ve spotted it with tears (I pronounced to all my living verse) Your infant faces are proof of it ! The crumbled years, the kissed cheeks White as snow, red as apples The harmonics of a life enriched By syllables …
Continue reading →
Identification in art, Mental Illness, Meta-Literary, Mourning, Nostalgic, Psycho-Subliminal
art, identity, imagination, lyrical, lyrics, Metaliterature, paragraphs, poems, poems about poetry, poetry, ruin, sad eyes, Stephanie Hayes Barrett, verse, writer, writing
Leaves will rain the end of years
A pageant death-parting
O’ Autumn, it’s my soul
That gives you ear & listening
And hence who once was here
Cannot be forgotten yet –
My held breath in the day’s decline
Leaves will wash away what
Was once the blown night and day
Leaves and rain till the year’s flooding end
Your cheek against mine, the watery-way
With tears and of the blown night
The doom that waves her secret sign
Against my death, was my life in vain?
Adieu, waving last whispering of trees
Leaves will rain my last remaining years
With colors that will breeze to you?
Would ye ever wave an Adieu, for forgetfulness
Is coming so take flight all worries
What do you say to the breeze?
And what in that hush, say the breeze to you?
http://www.deviantart.com/art/Dance-Me-to-the-End-400908151 Like this: Like Loading...
Lyrical, Mental Illness
adieu, Air mass, art, Arts, Autumn poems, biology, blog, Botany, culture, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Dendrology, dying young, farewells, Gardens, goodbyes, mourning, partings, poetry, Rain, Romantic period, romanticism, Shopping
I lived my days apart
And I cared for those that lived apart
For I knew the dreaming of solitude
The songs of God, which quickly
Were delivered by laughing angels
I knew how delusions could crowd
the glory of the heart
We all needed friends
To keep us whole, grounded, unified
Covered with the tyranny of strife
We met those days, with
Illness flashing in our brain
Neurotransmitters outnumbered hours
I lived my days apart
A mystic soldier of my private art
I knew the fury that smites the air
Of music that runs igniting clay
Neuron to spirit, grief in my brain
I wanted to hold the world in my arms.
http://browse.deviantart.com/art/The-power-of-imagination-376439633 Like this: Like Loading...