In Love,
so true,
so bliss,
so blind,
It claims my breath,
It tears my mind,
Love,
be you a sweet sensation,
heal the wounds of this war-torn nation,
Love,
not lust,
never a tease,
cause the pangs of death to ease
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I often wish to live 9 lives
I'd be born on every continent-
even Antartica
I'd have 9 completely different careers.
9 different sets of friends.
I'd make different choices.
I'd be 9 different people.
I said I often wish to live 9 lives
to fall in love with you nine times.
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A letter never written,
prose still plays my mind
A poem never given,
still read it from time to time
Feelings I'll never share,
love never found for she is rare,
Sinking,
I'm sinking into thoughts
I wish not to be thinking,
I tell my self she likes me,
and returns the crush
I tell myself, don't tell her yet-
I mean, whats the rush.
The time is now!
I must be brave!
But if she says no,
my heart will cave.
COWARD!
I'm a punk.
Never good enough,
my poem stunk.
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Yesterday's sun has set
and yet another risen,
but memories still remain
some left unforgiven
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Sanity is inhibited,
controlled by fears
and driven by goals
instead of passions.
Insanity is without inhibitions,
psychotic,
without fear or consequence,
pure, natural
Sanity breeds frustration
Insanity calms desire
The Sane oppress all others,
the minority,
those who do not live,
but rather,
exist
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A wise man once told me:
The only way to learn not to know anger and sorrow,
is to forget joy and happiness,
to forget love without picking up hate,
to feel indifference and know no bonds.
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(my personal fave)
Is it I that is blind, and not you?
You smile and say that it'll be okay,
Can you hear more than I?
For you hum with the tunes of the "Sidewalk" blues,
Am I so apathetic, so unfeeling, so cold?
That I cannot share in the bliss of children
Or is it you?
You smile at meager pleasures,
ignoring the suffering of so many.
Or is it you?
Do you not hear his pain,
His torture,
lamenting
Is your apathy not worse than mine?
I see the smiles of children,
ignorantly being shoved into a world,
of death, famine, genocide,
You!
It is I.
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My father never taught me to shuck and jive
the only thing a young negro needs to know to stay alive
He told me I descended from kings and queens
but all I see around me is drug dealers and fiends
I close my eyes, open my heart,and strengthen my mind,
but it seems even a blind man can see the color line
Some might say, "if only my color was different,"
its foolish to pray, "if only skin color didn't make a difference"
it would seem racism is now a part of our collective soul
a diamond is perfected when poetically connected to coal,
My Father never taught me to open my hand,
closed fist,
stiff wrist,
on my soapbox, I stand
To be closer to heaven?
to be further from man?
I'm not sure if I'm done yet b'cus, I've had major writer's block for at least a month and this just doesn't seem done
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though i closed my eyes
though the clouds darkened the skies
i knew, the sun shined
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the cooling calm breeze
rattles the reeds and the brush
spreading seeds of lust
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the fire burns harsh
raging within the machine
i, alone fight it
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His song was without tone
as he sang to that raging metronome
I did not know the man or of which he spoke
corn and rain, banks and smoke
a farmer who sung a song so sweet
as I heard and stared while tapping my feet
I stood to rise
I met his eyes
A fire dancing from the words he muttered
I fell to my place as the train had stuttered
His song was plain I thought it mere speech
But I listened on for no song is unsweet
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