A moment frozen, lapsed and stayed, a monument in memory,
As the television flickered a scene of togetherness,
It brought to mind only the distance no longer shared between you and me,
The air still and quiet brings to mind the revelry that sang in the breeze,
The darkness stark and shaded contrasts the light and how it played,
As fairies do, across your face and made radiance feel teased,
The sight of your smile chiseled in my mind to hold at bay sorrow,
Emotion the cure and also the malady but without,
life would be nothing and i wouldnt hope to see you in some beautiful tomorrow.
Lie to me and show me your truth,
curse at your friends, family, and lastly you,
for your inability to convey what's inside,
hate me and your colors show through
from your insecurities and intolerances created during youth,
weapons forged to keep away from you
anything you don't know, or understand,
and as a man no longer malleable and ready to take a stand
for your truth,
you would fight me rather than accept
that tools built for wars will only harm you,
to live for your wounds is to die by your scars.
One person, one moment, one purpose forever stolen, by ridicule and a sense of inferiority, where no evidence save a slight will ever be, but then was a time of confusion, amidst peers who could come to a conclusion without anything to go on but an illusion of what they don't understand, leaving bruises so deep the only evidence to show will be the reactions of the man in life's trials down the road, but for now only a social division is what will grow, and if nourished by the continued grief from any who would seek a better station for themselves, this boy will have nowhere to go but a bus station to well, any place that isn't a continuation of the same old story of beaten up for someone else's glory, for fear that he may be a better than them you see, if kept from the light no one will see, and if kept in the dark long enough that's where he will want to be, but the thing about the dark, is your eyes will eventually, be able to catch any spark of light and so you will learn to see, that in darkness the most beautiful thing is watching the birth of a star from that first glimmer until it rises up to be seen, by everyone in the light, where they accept it as a new thing, but they are only half right cause what they see, is only a finished product, not the real entity, so this boy helped by a family, of darkness who showed him how to be like the rest, chose to take the bus back to the light to show the rest of the world that in the darkness may be where your evils are, and although battered beaten bruised and scarred, the heights they achieved while you weren't looking are the ghosts and shadows of your brightest stars, but you in the light wouldn't know it and that's not to say that you are incapable of doing so, it's just difficult unless you are one curious enough and don't mind going outside too far, to find the beauty of the suffering who are learning to be stars, at the cost of your own social standing, for the bus fare to get there requires more than a penny, and all the money in the world will only get you to the landing, you will change and the people around you won't ever look the same, but that's ok because you don't want them to anyway, some will be brighter and some will be darker, but their light you will see and that makes it harder, not easier as you might think it would be, because you will note things that are terrible in those you once thought as kings, and things in those you were taught were no better than fleas, that bring you to tears and a sense of shame for thinking them unclean, and with this thought i leave you to question, what it really is that you have left and forgotten, in your life long quest to find a place for you to be a mountain, so none can move you, or ever prove you to be a less than them, while you gaze up at the stars who look like the lives that you stepped in.
You see us and say monsters,
but we say the same of you,
for judging without question
and encouraging monsters from your youth,
worse still You plead for answers from those
whos job is to bastard my life so you don't recognize
that you are the same as me,
news journalist and lawyers,
all cutting their teeth on my flesh
and refuse to let me speak so their venom unchecked
causes you to hate me,
but i am human and i refuse to die silent,
i won't let you ignore me,
i wont roll over and be quiet,
you all fight,
you all hate,
you attach yourself to labels
and say your not one to degrade,
but your station belittles others
by stepping on their cultures,
you want more for yours
and do so through imitation of those oppressors,
but the road is slick
and your driving blind,
unaware of where you came from,
only following your pride,
now off course with no turning back
you fly off the wheel
and hope jesus has your back,
as your words begin to bury
all you built on sand
as it quickly swallows itself
until there is nothing except what you damned,
you wish you could go back,
you didn't mean for this to happen,
it's not your fault you just wanted...
but never knew how to earn it,
or what to do
once You had it in hand.
Another nightmare woke up screaming,
After a dream of myself singing to the ringtone on my phone,
Knowing that my terrors are now behind me,
The futures ringing,
My past and all the horrors I've learned to live with,
Are now to me the breeze singing,
Four chambers barreled together, locked in a chest behind a cage forever, in the darkness crying away in a timbre, that few can hear carrying on to remember, while forcing away tears of sad Decembers, its song, Thump-Thump Thump-Thump, reaches out to others and cries "Life has been unfair to all of us!" matching tone and pitch with a choir of stitched up and beaten down trampled on hearts, whos' sorrow covers thick the floor of tomorrow, each beat crashing waves against times past to furrow, the brows of confused listeners and those who follow the beat that resonates within, who then find tomorrow to be a better hue, for the tune reached out and elevated now, those who dared remember their sorrow together, to a place where the heavens now tremor to their beat of Thump-Thump Thump-Thump, so those who know lonesome and sorrow as Christmas gifts down on the street, at least have a song to join in on, so lonesome can sing along while sorrow keeps the beat, as shadows of wishes dance between the lights that play on twisted strings over happy homes on which are reindeer and angel wings, their colors and lights refracted through tears turn each into a star that when wished upon returns only a silence, a reminder of where you are, a soloist who's part in the choir is needed so all the stars can hear it, the cry of a bleeding heart in the dark, to join the lonely others who find comfort and solace in their parts,
Four chambers barreled together, locked in a chest behind a cage forever, in the darkness singing away in a timbre, that resonates the soul so others will remember, those in need of just a glimmer, so their song, Thump-Thump Thump-Thump, won't be their last performance this December.
Go not with heavy heart as you disembark from this journey we had together, and know that you have left your mark on our hearts and souls forever, in these places you'll be with songs played on strings while fond memories play in between, so goodbye and so long, go share with the world your songs, and may you too remember us fondly, for you brought change to a stage that not many would say was worth the effort to fix, whose twinkling stars now shine bright with a glimmer of light called life that you brought to it, so go with grace take the world by the reins and know you have earned all the love we have for you, and if in this vision of grand design we live in, we are meant to meet again, any of us would consider it a blessing.
The first time when our eyes met and the world melted away, or that pause before we first kissed, the moment when first we twined, and after you gasped while on your face you wore bliss. The times spent staring at forever while in the arms of one another, and those times apart unable to look at each other. The moment of unspoken resignation when forgiveness bloomed and staved off our devastation. The hours spent watching peaceful smiles while you were asleep, knowing you did the same when you just couldn't catch a wink. But over time the silence grew old, and where once it brought warmth, now is nothing but cold. So in attempts to find heat tempers flare, arguments start over nothing, and no silence is anywhere, its landscape thrashed by acid and venom, leaving scars where things were to be left buried and forgotten. Now scorched and destroyed, what once was a garden of eden, is decided to be abandoned with no-one left to toil. As the dust settles and silence is restored, an understanding crosses between, knowing there is no going back to before, that our golden age has passed and there is nothing left in store, the hour of devastation passes and not a word about what could have been is spoken anymore.
The moral I bring is simply this, if you don't pay attention, life’s grandest moments you will miss, for all the noise and distractions in our world, it's the silent moments that are gifts, and bring more change than you will ever know
Fresh looseleaf to which is bequeathed any breadth of information for later observation by any designated of whom the cerebric pliation is required. And did I mention that all of this syllabic commotion is solely directed upon that which is the topic of conversation, being what is the possible duration of any information and its proper alleviation, on paper. For what becomes of a new leaf is solely up to the writer, and their linguistic ability to confide in, a single piece of paper, with whatever tool they favor, their hopes and dreams and wishes. Perhaps a note to pull the strings of cardiac cords so music can ring on two hands entwined or, maybe a telling tale of how someone failed but miracles never ceased and found within or from a friend that they now have what they need to succeed, or perhaps it shall be that the paper will see the ages of time dash past, while keeping within what it means to sin and how to be a friend, so when finally found as a treasure i mound, a grateful people will take the greatest of care and ensure that there is nowhere, that such invaluable information isn't heard in every nation, throughout the world, or perhaps it will be made to sit and wait for this poet to make up his mind and decide to write down this poem. Because to a poet and pencil a new piece of paper is unlimited potential and should be treated as such as precious metal, for the value of a sheet of paper, that has weathered times river and avoided the shredder, is priceless when you consider that the information is never going to be less than what it was when written. So in conclusion I leave you with this note - if paper has the potential to change the world by being itself, what's stopping you?