Poem | |
Trust not in the words: "In God We Trust", printed on currency,
for God and Money should be kept separate,
unless one desires to tempt fate with the Money-God,
tempt fate by not over-turning the money-lenders' tables,
although many might argue how this isn't good for business.
Why not know the value of life,
instead of focusing too hard on the prices of Idols.
People are bleating at the prospect of "God" being removed
from money, arguing that if God is removed from money,
the grazing grounds will become Godless.
With or without the words,
a Money-God is a God nonetheless.
There is at least one true God,
whether man-made or not;
an authority of control,
a God of profit margins.
Violence is a profit margin.
Hatred is a profit margin.
Bullets, Amendments, and Death, are all profit margins.
The war being waged upon children, is a profit margin.
If I had been given the chance,
I would have tried my best to take him out,
morphed the vapours of my remaining hatred into bullets,
or torn him apart with my hands.
To stop innocents from losing their innocence.
There are lines drawn in minds,
that if crossed over, stretch beyond the bristle-board of rehabilitation.
Even Clockwork Orange bleeds into crimson spatters.
When a child survives a massacre,
runs across his school field to find safety from a stranger,
proclaiming to the stranger, "I can't go back to my school, it isn't safe there.
My teacher was killed, I don't have a teacher anymore.
All of my friends are dead."....
....then innocence has been lost, and the Money-God is empowered even more.
Lost innocence spreads like a disease through the minds of global villagers.
Fear breeds fear, breeds control and disintegration of the Stream-Mind.
If I had been given the chance,
I would have fought fire with fire,
fed the beast within,
taken him apart with a breath of hatred.
Breathed it out, pushed it out, purged it out.
Satan is a scapegoat used by people who are unwilling
to take accountability for their actions and sacred responsibilities.
The Beast is humanity -
not marked by a fairy-tale Devil,
but instead marked by the Money-God created in the image of man;
recreating the image of man through fear.
Some people might be intrigued by how many definitions of God there are.
Even if money is a necessity,
within our core there should reside a different Kingdom -
without and within, within and without.
If I had been given the chance -- past tense....
....if I am given the chance,
I will try my best to take him out,
smudge him out
with the remaining hatred in my heart.
Breathe it out, push it out, purge it out,
until all that's left is to love,
until all that's left is to love.
December 14th, 2012 - S.H.E.S: 28 - 2 = 26
January 7th, 2013
Poem | |
I'm not either victor or defeated
I'm neither old nor young
War... What is it good for?
To protect the livelihood
To inflict punishment
To guard the national pride
To prevent the loss of resources
To eliminate a possible menace
To preserve the order of the world
To bring an outlet for aggression
To create mourning, why not?
To justify our morality, Your Honor
To give freedom, Honorable Representative
To protect our interest, Mr. Senator
To make them believe it, Mr. President
Recruit spics, niggers and white trash
Our country do not discriminate
To defend our boundaries
To pay for a higher education
To disregard human life
To use our animal behavior
For international disputes
For secret treaties
For balance of powers
For the economic view of war
Who orders the war? Who undertakes the war?
The benefits must be greater than the cost
"Heroes are for Free."
"Order 300 Medals of Honor ...to be awarded posthumously."
Peace is the lapses we deserved to prepare the next war
Military tactics, strategy, logistics...operational art
We need those angry young men to kill other angry young males
Between the ages of 18 and 30...we can manipulate them
To collect reparations and concessions from the defeated nations.
To reduce unemployment…To bring our country out of the Depression
Humanity's highest activities are courage, honor, and heroism
Anxiety, flashbacks and nightmares?
Difficulty falling or staying asleep?
Anger and hyper vigilance?
S. S. Administration
For their extraordinary heroism
For assaulting an enemy position and aiding a fallen soldier
For covering an enemy grenade with their bodies to protect fellow soldiers
For the greater horror their parents can, could, may, might, would ever experience
War... What is it good for?
Poem | |
Resounding echoes awaken the child
demons in the attic beckon unto him
stark fear grips his Vick's laden chest
shivers vibrate rusty springs of down
footsteps creak closer upon loose floorboards
while steamed filled pipes play taps
a somber teddybear snarls
causing the world to be still
foolish nuns, God doesn't want to "get me"
the sting of a ruler splinters a left hand
blood spurts upon faces of laughter
evil little boy too wicked for a mother
affliction runs in the family
Florence became flop because she always fell
polio never whipped her ass
just abused her now and then
she healed with a smile
Even humility has its price
Jimmy Dean wore sunglasses
maybe his eyes were bloodshot
or maybe he was a child of an alcoholic
and they became part of his attire
degenerate eye disease, masturbation
spattering or battering
does it really matter when you can't see
or understand the difference between ADD and ADHD
Psych 101: Crack can be Prozac
Iron gates surround a new residence
protecting the innocent who peer from outside
rehabilitation means refining bad habits
like those on the outside who have mastered them
twelve years of bars and games people play
provide an education unto itself
seclusion can be the deciding factor
between murder or suicide
self righteous judges choose life
recidivism is a revolving door
of vicious cycles with no engines
only propellers called co-dependants
or co-defendants, take your pick
life repeats itself over and over
only the circumstances change
yet the merry-go-round stops
when the flowers are arranged
Why are most tombstones gray
scared, afraid to die
are you saved?
from what, ourselves
you can't hurt me
Bob Shank-Nov. 30th, 2006
Poem | |
( On backdrop of current JAPAN tragedy.
Dedicated to all who lost lives and property in worst devastation ever.
Our sincere prayers for their salvation, succour to surviving victims, early rehabilitation)
Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Fukushima
Nuclear destination, bombing and self-explosion
Human rant, God is just name for chant
Reign human invention, HE just mythological sovereign
God disliked apathy, shelved sympathy
thought to teach lesson, venue selected Japan
Quake, Tsunami, Fire, Radioactive leak, wreck plenty
65 seconds flat, venue littered with death float
Humans abuse Nature, expect HIM to spare, care
HIS justice, a show reality sans court, hearing or attorney
HE delivers salvation to devastation, superpower to roadside pauper
Avoid HIS wrath, stick to HIS rules, HE not Human actually rules
For Members Contest – The Rhyme Inside by Debbie Guzzi
Poem | |
Induce an altered state
A psychedelic paradise
A burst of colors
Impaired reality of dreams
A fix of blissful forgetfulness
Married to ecstasy
What need have I of these?
When I have you
My drug of choice
I will not touch any of the others
But you, I long to touch…
To feel you under my fingertips
To caress before I ingest
And let you posses...
Every way I can have you is good…
Take you in orally
Taste you laced with everything
Under my tongue...
I start getting high….
Climbing and climbing
My roller coaster rocketing high
On your words
On the scent of your emotions
On the presence of you in my mind
Who could ever find
A more wholesome or better stimulant...
Yes, you stimulate every part of me
You excite me
Make me delirious
Bring fire to my veins
Drive me insane
Make me oblivious to the pain
Leave me wanting more than the time before
Wanting a larger dose of you
Unaware of my surroundings
I climax on this induced trip
You….my drug of choice
The drug from which
There is not even an iota
Of hope for rehabilitation….EVER...
Every cell to my very core is under your control
I want you coursing in my blood
Flooding my brain
FIX AFTER FIX AFTER FIX
More often…more intense…longer…stronger…
What drug can compare to you?
My ever present addiction…
Opiate of my obsession
Drug of my choice….
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Was struck by a bolt of inspiration on this one! :)
Belt it out with Amy Winehouse…..”They wanted to take me to rehab, but I said ‘NO, NO, NO’.” ;) When I teach my students a rule or so in grammar, I say, for example, "Can you use a comma to join two independent clauses? Is it enough punctuation?" Then, in answer, I belt out with Amy..."NO, NO, NO!" They laugh!
Poem | |
I down poison and sleep for days
trying to take the heart ache away
I swallow rasorblades to take the headaches away
but nothing matters its always the same
what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger
liar liar pants on fire!!!!
Overdosed and dieing
survived it and now paying with liver damage and internal bleeding
The car crash of the drunk driver
nail biting aftermath
and another reason to go out and party
for the celebration
of the alcoholic
who just took the life of his best friend
I'm the victom
I'm the victom
I'm the victom he says
but low and behold the survivors in the other vehicle
stronger than ever
all crippled and in wheel chairs
they should really thank the drunk driver and condemn
all the hippocrits who know nothing of survival
so here i am
wishing to be more strong
why bother to exercise
they surely have it all wrong
why pay attention to science any way
all those cliches can tell you about apples and sunshine
but we know what doesn't kill you makes you stronger
so i think I'll cut off my leg
go play in traffic
or fight the wars by doing too much drugs
the place inside the fire can tell you
what doesn't kill you will only make you strong
A second lease on life
a new found reason to get up and go
and find god and praise life
and all the things i should have done
and all the newfound glorious reasons to cry
why oh why oh why oh why
thank you lord thank you Jesus
thank you wars thank you liars thank you lies
thank you doctors thank you poets
thank you psychologists
thank you preachers for truly understanding an age old cliche
I'll peel off this apple to keep the doctor away throw out the core
if it doesn't kill me
I'm probably just weak
and after all the rehabilitation and speach therapy i still don't feel like me
Poem | |
R and R
Fan those palm fronds a little faster, boys
As I recline here in dignified poise
I’m Cleopatra, your Egyptian queen
I require the most sumptuous cuisine
Not queen for a day, but for a whole week
Surrounded by tall men with great physiques
Quit your bellyaching, why can’t you grasp
I’m not fated to succumb to an asp
Just provide me with every luxury
Or I’ll send your wives to a nunnery
For seven days I’ll be waited upon
It’s my vacation so I can dream on
Classes I miss and work piles on my desk
As I relax, remaining statuesque
Rest and rehabilitation is grand
On day eight, I’ll respond to your demands
For Carol Brown's "A week to do as I please" contest
Poem | |
Lean into me Luv,
abandon the logic of romance,
be naked in the nature of my need,
pant openly as weightlessness prickles your pink parts,
Tonight I do not want your love,
I don't deserve it anyway, a villian in exhuberance,
I just want the secrets of your sex, without plead,
to suck the salt of your secretion, feed on the spray of your darts,
Slaking my savagery with the skin of your submission,
unlocking the vault with nimble pick, to teach with a spanking stick,
having that naughty nook spilling a confession of capitulation, dizzy dilation,
an Angel of excess, I place your safety on a shelf of disarray, caution on delay,
I want to ravage the basement of your beauty, finding hot boxes of remission,
rummaging the attic of your aggressions with the precision of a magic trick,
I don't need you to be my nurse, a Nightengale of negligent rehabilitation,
I don't want the chill of charity, just the alarm of your domination in dismay,
Melt upon the mercy of my meat,
let me take the wet wisdom of your woman's weapon
smear it along the dagger of my undiagnosed demolition,
under a Blood Moon your body will flex without rest, hesitation does retreat,
I gently grip your throat, as I feel your moan in the soft palm of my hand's vindication -
Poem | |
A Survivor's Prayer
for my daughter Yelena
and all burn survivors
Fire... Burn... Shock... Pain...
I want to live! I don't want to die!
O, who can help me?
I suffered from pain, distress and serious injuries,
went through a lot of tears and too many surgeries.
O, my God, I am happy that I found You.
My surgeon who grafted the skin,
saved my life with his skills.
O, my God, I know that You sent him.
I had rehabilitation for years;
my body was red with scars.
O, my God, You help me fight for my life.
I changed, I'm different, I'm brave, I'm powerful.
You treated not just my body, You treated my soul.
O, my God, You gave me a second chance at life.
I am a not victim, I am a Survivor;
now I can help people with Your power.
O, my God, Thank You. I feel Your love and care.
I am blessed. I love You and I will live for You.
Poem | |
We may have won the battle, but they never fought the war.
we are living in a rose tinted nation,
Trying to live up to our own declarations.
Avoiding participation in our own rehabilitation.
Yet we still choose depression as our safety station.
We surround ourselve with distorted imagery.
Illusions and delusions of how we ought to be.
Fighting for democracy and unrealistic dreams of equality.
yet racism still a well known philosophy.
We place our goals just within our reach.
We use empty books to educate and teach.
We memorise our perfect speech, tick the box 'donate to aid relief'.
Yet obesity is our number one retreat.
We follow the rules on how to behave .
Make notes of what and to whom we gave.
Pray to god and you will be saved, for all our sins he did forgave.
yet a mortgage pays for the tombstone on our grave.
Our eyes have closed in this rose tinted nation.
As the economy rose we sacrificed our identification.
Lost our salvation in the walls of our self built concentration.
And we pity them with their lack of complication.
Poem | |
A couple of years later, at age 19, this farm girl married and, true to her Catholic
upbringing, began having children. She had four live births and four miscarriages over the course of less than seven years, long before the idea of “post-partum” depression was even a gleam of understanding in anyone’s mind. After the birth of her fourth child, a girl who would grow up to study environmental sciences and eventually draw the correlation between that first atomic explosion and her mother’s first episode of mental, emotional and physical distress, that infant had to be taken by her aunt and uncle to care for lest she perish from failure to thrive because by this time, mom was so deeply depressed, she was unable to care for her newborn.
In those days there was no such thing as mental health care, no understanding at all of how to nourish the brain or detox the body from the effects of poisons and radiation…for indeed these advances are only recently gaining traction and still only in the realm of “alternative health care”. With no understanding of her condition, or of what would even constitute appropriate care, her state of mind and body continued to deteriorate. After more than one suicidal episode and losing her children to foster care while she entered a treatment and rehabilitation facility, she was eventually diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic and manic-depressive, giving her husband sufficient justification to divorce her and blame her parents for not telling him that she was mentally deficient before he married her. Even the Catholic Church agreed and granted an annulment of the marriage that produced his four live children and four miscarriages while he served in the Air Force and left her to care for his children while he was away for years at a time overseas on unaccompanied assignments. But nevertheless, the marriage was officially annulled so that he could marry again sanctioned by the Church and his Catholic bride could continue to take unholy communion in mass.
Poem | |
Heavily Damaged: 10,000 feared dead,
cadavers of ripped children litter on the streets,
Totally Devastated: People are desperate,
the streets are infested with terrible hunger,
looting is everywhere,
The whole city: State with anarchy,
Most of the communities on the coastal areas around the Visayas region: Literally wiped out,
defaced from the map in a blink of an eye,
washed away into the ocean by tsunamis of 15 feet higher,
After the apocalyptic deluge of super typhoon Yolanda,
sufferings plagued with painful sadness reign,
dead mothers hugged by crying children still wet with gushing blood,
a confused father carrying the cadaver of his young daughter,
whole families uprooted,
died in a split second,
an old woman eternally searching for her dead sons and daughters,
the old man shedding tears before the church's sacred altar,
his mind could not imagine the magnitude of the devastation,
an unthinkable natural calamity,
such a tragic phenomenon he just experienced in his lifetime.
My heart bleeds while watching these heart breaking news flashed
in every corner of the victims' eyes are unimaginable sufferings beyond human comprehension,
not even a poetic thought could find a word to describe the sorrow they are going through,
even an artist's passionate hand finds it hard to portray on canvass the agonies of homelessness,
worst than nightmare is that their dreams are swept away by heavy flooding.
how depressing to see them trembling under the bitter coldness without clothes.
Even the wrath of nature is terrible,
the very nature that we abused for so long,
but never loose hope,
there will always be calm after the storm,
as beautiful rainbow appears after the rain,
you'll never walk alone through your endeavor towards rehabilitation and restoration,
in spite of the political scandal of corruption that afflicts our country,
the politicians that put us in global shame,
the disease that we are trying to cure day by day,
but always remember,
we are filipinos born with a spoon of resiliency,
deep in our hearts are true compassion for others,
the spirit of bayanihan still dwells within us,
hand in hand we help each other like a one big family,
together we stand united,
this tragedy will be overcame,
and realize that this enemy is just but a small problem to beat.
Poem | |
Brains excreting pictures
"Chia Pet Poets"
exploring emotional trade winds
for SIX minutes
for SIX hours
grins hidden deep
beneath booger eyelids
wipe clean morning's green sleep
disappearing dried dreams
wetting the head
freeing sick insecurities
since haunted childhood
frozen within vaults
SIX feet thick
wrecking ball rehabilitation
cannot promise demolition
diffusing demon whispers
Poem | |
For every month of March in every year
For every month of March in every year
Of course marks days to my renaissance
Refurbishment, metamorphosis, rejuvenation
Every day of my life is never a dearth
Virtues are ample in each of them
Even I befriend and I reciprocally befriends
Revelation, rehabilitation are fine things
Yes that usually surround most of my day
Moment by moment I sense reasons and purposes
Of why precious is my being to this land of living
No matter coma, the what though
Till now that not all envisage comes to pass
Happy I am for those ones that come to pass
Of every month that revolves the year, aside
Full moon counts, is my month of April
Mind loves sharing the joy of half of that month
At least with hearts and eyes that give succor-
Roommates, family members, friends near and far
Comportment in consternation, plus compensation
Have to be my compilation till that day departures
It's in my day, meant to set aside by me
Nay, all day stand and bring the best to me
Even at work that I'll always be occupied by
Visitor's wants and needs, and by colleagues' things…
Elders' summon demanding full attention to their plights
Resting intermittently with siesta and dusk
Yes, all of these are pertinent and need to be orchestrated
You see when I tell you I do have time, not to check time...
Etching some of the things I believe will guest and best me
Anywhere, everywhere ...all times, so long as the world continues to live
Relics too relevant to living -the leader, the lead- will the encomium me be
Poem | |
I shoot up on words
Feeling the surge
Living the psychedelic transformation
Bursting into an explosion of colors
I ride it high
Knowing my addiction
Is devouring my soul
I flail my arms
Ravaged by nightmares
Fixated by one thought
My next high
My next trip
Into a better place
But the drug is withheld...
And I become part of the living dead
Until…the next dose is prepared
My fix of words…poetry…LIFE
MY DRUG OF CHOICE
And I shoot up
Pure and Sweet
There is no release
And no rehabilitation.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Poem | |
I had just reached the summit of the mountain;
The final reward for my four hour hike up the steep terrain.
There was still snow in abundance at the peak
Even though the summer sun bathed me in light from the cloudless sky.
The sweat, in which I was fully drenched,
Was turning cold against my aching body once I sat down for a rest and a view of the wondrous landscape below.
Each deep breath I inhaled further cleansed my soul; further restored my spent energy.
I sat and contemplated.
Even though I was alone, atop this glorious mountain;
Even though I passed no other hikers along the trail on which I labored for four hours;
Even though I was so high up, I could not make out any signs of human life in the miles and miles of God’s green earth that stretched out before me down below;
I somehow felt less lonely here than I do when I walk amongst the hordes of people in a mall;
Or, sit in a crowded theater;
Or, stand on the train because there are no seats left upon which to sit;
Or, walk the hallways of an office building full of employees just waiting for the time to go home.
At the same instance, while in awe of the beauty in the scenery I took in,
I felt so miserably insignificant and yet, so magnificently important.
My legs ached. My heart pounded. My feet throbbed. My back tightened. And, I had never felt better in all my life.
I sipped water from the bottle that accompanied me up the mountain.
I ate the power bar with the knowledge that going back down is no easy proposition.
I watched the sun slowly get closer to the distant horizon.
And, I smiled. And, I cried.
Then, it came time to head back down.
I felt like I was leaving my best friend on my way back to prison to finish out my sentence:
Found guilty of having accumulated debts that must be paid;
Found guilty of having responsibilities demanding my attention;
Found guilty of embarking on a career path that rewards me monetarily while sucking away the spirit of my soul.
But, I will be back. Not to this same mountain, but certainly to this same state of mind on another peak.
This is my rehabilitation. This is my church. This is my salvation.
Poem | |
Standing up Again
Just Like a national history book
Our moment is sticking on me
Like some weird painful cicatrix
That are bitting my corporal soul
You took me from the shiny sky
And you buried me in the darkness
Alive, with a knife set in my heart
There, I met the unconscious condition
I was worthless, I spent two years
In the sensational rehabilitation
While I was motivated to see her
Magic happened, I was Standing up again
I stood up again and I went to her
She saw me and sent a desolate face
Inside me, the reason was against the love
However, I was ready to be hitting again
Highly, she smiled and erased the past
I felt her sorcery power over me
I kissed her and knew she'll be more
But I want to stay even though she'll burn
me to ash
Poem | |
A sweet grain
Softly tasted upon my life
Turned over in my body
To enhance, increase, its longevity
Beginning to dissolve
Wishing it’d stay
A small taste lingers
The memory of deliciousness escapes
A craving formulates
A need, a want, an essential
This time it’s different
One grain is not enough
A more fulfilling amount is needed
To sate my hunger
An addiction forms
Repeated actions and results
Until the resource disappears
In the end rehabilitation
Relapse shifts life
The bliss outweighs consequences
Its flavor engulfs me
Unable to escape this love
Poem | |
Of my life it’s been four long years of never-ending trips to the facility, you name it, in and out and up and down and over.ARGUMENTS? Don’t get me started. Every doctor and nurse on the planet. Wages war with my attempts at keeping you alive.BONY your hand was, and FOUL your British mouth. Demanding you acted and entitled calling everyone a yellow *****.
“Do this not that and see that it’s done properly!”NO HELP. That’s what I got for my thankless job of rescuing your sorry ass out of the
gutter they called Rehabilitation on Riverside Drive.SALVATION. I saved your sorry self. I fought off your greedy nieces. I dove into Hell
and pulled you out. And now finally…FOUR YEARS LATER, at the nursing home, ninety minutes after they found
your body lying cold on the floor they called me. “We were unable to resuscitate her.”
PENNILESS.MONEY SPENT. So went their service.DEAD NOW. At last, I breathe and call the Executor.PARACHUTING! That’s what he called it, what he was doing out of town. Couldn’t assume responsibility. Couldn’t do what he promised the de-thronged former Gramercy Park Club President.
LEFT out in the cold. That’s what I was. My name as back up executor.RELEASE the body. That’s what I told the nursing home, that’s what I told the
funeral director.GREEDY BASTARDS. It’s what I thought when they said I didn’t plan for poll bearers
or music at the service. CALLED THEM OUT ON IT. Called the whole God damn world out on it. And I rose
and took over.STELLAR is what you looked like lying in that coffin. They did a bang up job making
it look as if you were well, and on the way to the Opera or a party at the Grammy’s and jewels looked real enough. It was as if you had stepped into the coffin and passed out cold from too much champagne, remember when you did that?
ARDUOUS AND CUMBERSOME were the services where the six good looking actor
poll bearers carried your coffin and stood while Mother and I, the only one’s
there, sat through the service in the Cathedral. NEVER ENDING is what the ride seemed like as I drove out to nearly the Hamptons,
Nearly in Calverton.QUICK was the service there. They don’t pay as much homage to the wives of sailors.
RELIEVED is what I felt when I left and finally came home.
UNLOVED BY LIFE. You delighted in torturing people.
Poem | |
My hands shake
I am drenched in sweat
I can feel my eyes rolling back
I slip into unconsciousness
Engulfed in excruciating pain
My body screams
Screams, for a new dose
My cheeks glisten with tears
The reality of what my life has become, is a death sentence
I have to change
I want to change
The rehabilitation centre is hell on earth
But I will fight, until I have nothing left
This is not who I am
And not who I want to be
Months and months of fear
My quality of life is gone
By the demons inside me
Each day is pure torture
My physical suffering is immense
But my regrets, are killing me
I have replaced myself
With a monster
Destroyed who I really am
But giving up, is not an option
I will fight
Until I am the victor of this war
My desire to change burns inside me
Flames of determination in my eyes
I suffer immensely for my recovery
I rise every time I fall
Becoming stronger than before
Fighting with courage in my heart
I begin to see light in my dark tunnel
I am now in control
Drugs becoming a ghostly shadow of my past
Fading but, never completely disappearing
As I walk away free of these monsters
I know my weakness to addiction still lurks
Deep inside me
But my new found strength and determination will forever overpower it
I am branded with scars
A constant reminder of who I was
But the encouragement
To never return
Poem | |
My mind is a prison
Overpopulated with remorse
Incarcerated by images of sin
My mind refuses rehabilitation
It cowers in a concrete corner
Face in hands; protesting parole
My mind punishes me with guilt
Terrorizing my thoughts
A reoccurring rape of recidivism
My mind is unforgiving
It confiscates my hope
Segregates my dreams in isolated darkness
Allowing occasional one hour visits of promise.
My mind is a complicated collage of convicting confessions
Callously castrating my continuing calls for clemency
My mind mocks mercy
It Mimics moments of misery In a mental mirror
Molesting my mild memories in a riot of regrets
My mind wants no truce
It gladly guards my goals behind gilded gates of grief
Giving me a life sentence of worry
My mind is a prison that I cannot escape
Every night I am summoned from my dim-lit cell
And violently beaten into submission
Here, I repent
I pray for a pardon
And although the Almighty has given me a reprieve
My mind assures me that death is my only release
Poem | |
1.Scotland has 20,000 methodone users-Double any country in Europe.
2.Our Government has spent 105 million pounds on it in 4 years !
3.After a 3 year programme only 3% of users ARE TOTALLY DRUG FREE.
4.Parking addicts on methadone is clearly not getting people off drugs.
Tommy"s parked on methadone,syringes all at sea.
This heroin substitute to make him drug free.
Saved from the gutter and no more petty crimes.
A body torn with needles,not like yours or like mine.
Drugs get the wrath and the public condemnation.
Now we"re spending money on his rehabilitation.
Our countries funds continue killing fellow man.
Its a costly failure,its a deathly plan.
Drug deaths happen all over this land.
Twenty thousand users,get our heads out of the sand.
We deal with the symptoms and not the real causes.
These poor wretched souls,we are poisoning their bodies.
One third of drugged corpses,contain that green curse.
From you and me given, from the public purse.
We have blood on our hands but its not too late.
Tommy"s still alive,what will be his fate?
Poem | |
What is mind thought determination?
It is the sophisticated thoughts of a individual wit self-taught mental sophistications.
It is the chemical mind thought process brain inspirational enhanced created word creations.
It is the one thought that keeps your hopes from being eliminated by your own weak minded self-doubt double eliminations.
It is the the thought that can turn your own pains into pleasure of our own sensified sensations.
It is the thought that can turn you into a leader of tis lost generation to inspire my reservation and maybe even in others parts of this nation to get your own redemptive vindication of those who took away your aspirations.
THIS WORLD IS YOURS FOR THE TAKNG.
Mind thought determination is for your embracing not to be forsaken,
you are your own movie in the making, let not your hope in the mind be shaken.
MIND THOUGHT POWER over all tis senseless hating, we got to stop all our senseless
chasing, you are forever a leader in this free world racing.
If you locked up it don't matter how much time that you facing.
INCARCERATION IS JUST A MIND THOUGHT METAPHOR FOR SELF-INFLICTED IMPOSED LIMITATIONS.
It is the thought to use what is against you and turn your hateration into inspiration.
IMPRISONMENT or EMPOWERMENT the choice is yours REINCARNATION over REHABILITATION.
My mind has but one destination of all mankinds fascinations .....and that is to finally use my MIND THOUGHT DETERMINATION.........
Poem | |
Founder upon ideals, resist the inevitable
Drink to cheer, not to drown
Along comes resistance to show me the way
Break me down and hand me the mirror
One may disagree with a foundation built on history
But to rebuild, you must carefully renovate...piece by piece
If Rome was not built in a day, how can one demolish it without care?
Masterpieces take time, if they are respectfully in view
Change is the hardest thing, if one is built of stone
To overcome the trauma, they must be weakened, but secure
Drugs consume my breath, rendering me without care
Offenses are high and sharp is the tongue
With no device to save me, I rely on pure faith to do so
Tearing at my emotions, I quiver without rehabilitation
Addicted to security, I venture out on my own
Wild at heart, with many trying to tame
I am therefore, intoxicated, never to domesticate
The pressure builds almost daily, the need for it still exists
But temperaments can not be subdued, just out of pure spite
I listen to the rhythm carefully, to elude what's always been wronged.
Poem | |
PART 1: BATTLE OF ADAM
And here HE is dwelling through the pages of life,
Preparing for yet another skirmish
HE has lost few battles, among the causalities
Were faith, competence and passion;
They were severely wounded and in need
For a rehabilitation period
Mend the wounds, and heal the past;
After all this wasn’t a mere opponent
But one that is stubborn and was set on a crusade to
Eradicate all that is bright and colorful
HE is petrified, nervous and worried
Worried of consequences HE can’t afford to loose
Loosing would mean defeat to HIM
This is PART 1 of the Main Poem "Eternal Battles"
I would describe this Poem as A Dark Period in my life where
I lost track of my identity and was fighting for it.