Posted in Books, Current Affairs, Film, Literature, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, Relationships, Religion, Social Commentary, Society, tagged authority, awaiting, benediction, birthright, blindside, blood, born, borrow, bow, break, call, class, come, competition, crab, crowd, culture, curse, dare, dark, defy, dirty, down, envy, fanaticism, fate, first, fist, force, forward, freedom, gap, give, God, grab, hands, hard, house, humanity, ideals, imitator, labor, land, language, leap, life, lifetime, little, master, measure, millions, minion, misplacement, money, number, oil, One, other, pale, palm, people, poem, poetry, prime, privilege, pull, put, question, raise, religion, reservation, rule, scent, seat, seethe, self-worth, servants, silence, skin, social commentary, soil, sound, space, speak, specimen, stare, statistics, struggle, subservient, supremacy, swollen, syllable, synonym, tall, teaching, tell, time, tongue, tree, want, wide, world, worship, yardstick on March 21, 2012|
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We lived in a world where
statistics is synonymous
with being number one.
Measuring up in a yardstick,
struggling our lifetimes
competing for spaces
reserved for subservient
imitators of culture and class.
Like crabs crowding and grabbing
and pulling each other down
wanting to rule the world. People
above people. Force against force.
For those who dared raising a fist.
For those who questioned authority.
For those who defy their masters
raised from the land they call-
the first world. Their birthright.
Is it about what you’ve been taught?
Is it about how you’ve been raised?
Have I been misplaced by fate?
My skin’s darker, hands dirtied,
swollen by hard labor. A gap
so wide I couldn’t leap forward
a privilege’s bloody to break.
The one with the skin much paler
has the prime seat in the house.
The one whose ideals are taller than the tree
had their palms oiled by the scent of money.
And their minions bow down in worship.
Supremacy over self-worth. Fanaticism
over humanity. Millions, blindsided
servants to little gods awaiting benediction.
I can’t do but keep silent and curse
the soil in which you were born,
giving you a seething stare in envy.
Shall I borrow then, your language
slipped out of your tongue? For I will
put sounds to the syllables of freedom
to speak and tell you, “our time has come”.
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Narrative of the Wounded
Posted in Books, Current Affairs, Film, Literature, Memoirs, Poetry, Politics, Relationships, Religion, Social Commentary, Society, tagged ache, against, backdrop, bandage, bitter, blood, bullets, captive, char, clouds, color, dark, discontent, edge, emotions, fighting, floating, flow, fray, freedom, grafitti, hand, held, hemorrhage, history, hope, house, innocence, lean, logical, loyalty, man, narrative, paint, passages, peace, poem, poetry, rhetoric, ruins, sanity, scar, seasons, soak, spiritual, stop, streams, sunlight, surface, vivid, war, weather, white, winning, within, wood, wounded, wrap on September 20, 2013| 2 Comments »
Wood scars fray the edges of a sanity-
house paint color gave up its loyalty
to the surface weathered by seasons.
I am a man who leans against the backdrop
of grafittis’ with vivid emotions of discontent.
About an aching hand, bloodied by history
wrapped in white bandages soaked
in spiritual rhetoric. It didn’t stop
the bitter flow. This hemorrhage.
While bullets of sunlight streams within
dark passages to freedom fighting,
floating clouds above charred ruins.
The innocence held captive
in the hopes of winning
a logical war for a bitter peace.
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