Long poem by
Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Details |
Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.
Long poem by
Katie Pukash | Details |
When I was a child I only ever wanted to be strong.
I wanted to be able to compete with the boys
and when I foot raced them at recess I won every time.
They called me ‘She Hulk’ because of my muscular frame
and from the way I only ever wore soccer t-shirts and sweat pants.
After that nickname was implanted into my brain like a growing weed,
I’ve only ever wanted to be feminine.
I started wearing skirts and dresses
and in middle school they shrieked at the site of my makeup and done up hair.
But that weed inside of my mind only grew, and grew, and grew
until I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part anorexic and two parts lonely,
because I thought that the definition of feminine began with the word frail.
No one ever realizes how greatly words affect us,
how a simple nickname can turn a pretty girl into a skeleton.
I stood at five foot two weighing seventy nine pounds,
so cold and frozen,
yet I still considered myself a ‘She Hulk.’
You could see my ribcage through my t-shirt
and my spinal cord protruded loudly through my weathered skin,
as if somehow my bones were dirty knives
just trying to cut through the flesh of judgment.
As I grew older I became the girl that was never enough.
Not good enough to speak poetry.
Not good enough to lay paint on a canvas.
Not good enough.
Not tall enough.
Not big enough boobs for them.
Not primped to perfection.
Not undeniably straight.
Not smart enough.
Not dumb enough.
Not ditsy enough.
Not cool enough or fun enough.
And I began to believe, too, that I wasn’t enough.
I never told my mother that I had been in madly in love with a girl.
I never told anyone about the night we first kissed
because I was too vulnerable for the judgment.
And parents always justify saying that ‘kids will be kids’
But when we are kids our brains are still growing
and the smallest of seeds that get planted will one day bloom
into one giant regret,
will one day affect the choices that we make,
will one day influence us about the clothes that we wear,
will one day shape us into the person who we thought we would never be.
I only ever wanted to be strong,
and as a child I thought strength was only about being able
to lift a bar stool above your head.
I thought that strength was only about being able
to beat the boys in bare foot running races.
I was told that strength was something only
a man could have.
But as I’ve grown older I’ve realized that strength
isn’t about muscle at all,
but it’s about weakness,
and the ability to overcome the social anxiousness.
It’s about carrying around a lifetime of baggage
on your broken back
because the ones that kicked you when you were down
are going to be the ones that were ultimately wrong.
I thought that the definition of woman
began with the word disappointment.
And I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part freedom
and two parts Sailor Jerry
because every girl needs a stiff drink once and awhile.
We are not disappointments.
We will never be the ones who gave up on hope.
We will never be the ones who gave up on each other,
or our mothers.
We will always be enough;
enough for the ones who shunned us
enough for the ones that cursed us
enough for the ones the hurt us
and destroyed us
and beat us when we were covered in bruises.
But you see, bruises fade
and the scars of our flesh are only stories
things we have overcame
and there are things out there that we will overcome.
When I was a child, I only ever wanted to be strong.
I hid my vulnerability.
I hid the parts of me that were true.
I never told my mother about my girlfriend
because I was afraid she wouldn’t understand,
kind of like all those people who never understood
just how much words effect us.
I can’t say that I can beat the boys at foot races anymore,
because, well, I smoke cigarettes now.
And I can’t say that the nickname of my childhood didn’t affect me.
But I take that name now and embrace it.
Because I am strong.
I am the ‘she hulk’.
I am a mixed drink cocktail
with three parts greatful.
Long poem by
Raymond Ngomane | Details |
Today i was wearing my words in codes
Full stops and brackets covered me from sniper voices.
Codes that smell choices made to cancel chances of painting pavements around angry gestures I had battery guitar sound effects attached to my metaphors Killing my new pair of rhymes
Snapping snaps of brain camera snaps that showered me in photographic memory Lefifi Tladi knows Africa's memory
I was confident in my African steps avoiding felonies
My walk spoke smiles and street smartness painting my fellow fallen niece and kings Fellow poets put together broken knees!!
Like verses that rebuke fire fighters who own dry lips and yellow teeth in the streets Those that waste water in their desert
Today i was wearing my respect, my colourless mind blowing words in a black tie that secured my images tying all broken knots that were secretly tailor made for joy
Gossips that emancipate heart burns burning safe houses in details Shots were taken from experience's tail telling tales wearing attitude and my brain Engels borrowed me wings to fly over long distant hatred Chances define spoken word fashion
Get lost in poetry's outfit while searching word designers
I address my visions dressing my body language in different stresses undressing my presence in fashion police poetry fashions
Blessed kings know my motive is to parade my voice in the streets of your desert The dusty land you set to sell ideas in slippery days Poetry's only red carpet in open mic pamphlets
Today i was wearing my pride and sniper mood in baby dippers Any bumper let loose all dirt in my head
Unpredictable i am
Like written revenge beautiful words don't ask for attention Attention hires beautiful words to word the spoken word in different fantasies Today I loved my dress code.
Myself loving words (c)
By Raymond Ngomane
Long poem by
Jorn Kolding | Details |
I am a virgin slammer,
Let me get that over with,
So if I stammer and speak like a bludgeoning hammer,
Let the record be clear: I’m just trying to go with this.
So I won’t walk the walk or talk the talk,
I may even stain the sheets while I am at it,
A crimson red outpouring of moonshine soup you best delete.
This isn’t going to be easy, I am feeling downright queazy,
Who do I pretend to be today?
How many second meanings should I hide behind?
Should I show my behind to get the right effect? Or be that disrespect?
Elloweeeze Eloise where are you, I need your attitude, right now,
Get your little sass into my face so I can pull this off with urban grace.
Second meaning by the way is not like second base..
It’s more like you understand that I understand that you understand what I understand,
Which is a very non-poetical way of saying you don’t get it.
Nah, you don’t.
Woaaa, I don’t like this tone or where this is going,
Better to slam this casket shut,
Close it man, bury it
This storm ain’t gonna get blowing,
Not enough to sack Rome with at least,
Chill down a bit, let it sit, slow, slow, slow, down
Into another town I must go,
Find another weather pattern,
Let it snow.
By the way, I didn’t finish my thought about second base,
Didn’t quite tie that one in,
So let me try to do something about that,
Fear, dust…. ? Oh, I lust…
By way of second meaning I will show you where its at,
You see (no you don’t) second base is not like second meaning
Because (I don’t mean to lecture you my faithful reader just stay with me
Together we shall taste victory)
Because… well just because (by the way I feel a buzz)
Because while second base is halfway to home second meaning
Is as far away as you can get from home,
At least the kind of home where your mommy and daddy live.
Oh, your mommy and daddy….
Or where doggies and kitties roam.
Don’t touch the cute doggy, its gonna bite you..
You see, second meaning is like dreaming,
Of worlds and words that get to go streaming,
Carried down a river, right smack into a gaping verbal liver,
On the other side of this metaphorical ride,
You can take what once was and use it to deride.
Did I make that clear, my teary-eyed poet little dear?
Am I filtering things enough for you?
So let’s get back to business and draw up another plan,
No diversions this time, I’m gonna be a man now,
The big poet man, destroy what I can,
That’s right, that’s what I am,
A big poet human flotsam sack of feathery fluff,
Whose gonna huff and puff and blow this safe-house down,
Into the ground
And bury all you living poets under a mound,
Of toothpaste carrion and jelly-shaking deception.
What kind of reception do I expect?
Less than lukewarm I suspect,
This is a virginal conception after all, I am untouched you know,
Pure, white, light innocent snow,
Falling, slow, slow, slow,
Upon fertile land that has known no plow,
I feel a seizure… wouldn’t you know
ZZZZZsurprise, Johnny is back,
Let us pick up the slack, slam a knife in your poet back,
Have some fun, take out my horny verbal gun,
Do a zig-zag flyby, grab you by the wings, count your balls,
Watch as you fall
Into the bottle you go
(better to have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy) - that’s a quote “quote”
And that was all you wrote my little friend,
Buzz, buzz, buzz
What a killer buzz….
Did I tie in lust?
Well, if you have my trust,
I will get back to you on that one.
My girl in little red shoes, I will bring you news,
And tell you who I AM.
Long poem by
Spenser Jones | Details |
God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.
Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical,
that there must be death before birth
My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.
I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone
My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.
My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.
Long poem by
Jerry T Curtis | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/santas_seeing_red_619139' st_title='Santa's Seeing Red'>
Santa’s Seeing Red
Late one evening up at the pole
Santa was watching TV
He shook his head as he started for bed
After seeing how people could be
All night long he tossed and turned
I guess he just couldn’t let go
He saw a sleigh and watched burn
As it sat there in the snow
When he woke He realize
That Christmas was actually dead
He couldn’t sleep with those sugarplums
Dancing inside his head, Now it’s said
Santa’s seeing red
That next morning, Santa was warming
His hands by a fireside
Someone had set the toyshop a flame
But there was no one, to blame in site
The elves then noticed the deer were gone
Someone must have let them go
But they never seemed to take noticed
There were no tracks left in the snow
That same day they had a feast
But not a single word was said
About were all the meat came from
That was stuffed inside the bread, with Christmas dead
Santa’s seeing red
After dinner Santa stood up
And laid off all of his crew
He said the world was so screwed up
There was nothing He could do
He said that people hearts were colder
Much colder than the Arctic’s air
They're filled with greed, and blind to the needs
Of poor people everywhere,
So Father Christmas will be no more
For the little girls and little boys
They can say goodbye to all of those treats
And all those fricken' toys, Because instead
Santa’s seeing red
So when the twenty-fifth rolls by
You can treat it like another day
Santa’s found a new hometown
And a different game to play
He now sits back upon a beach
With women and booze he likes
Forgetting about frozen toes
And all of those silent nights
So don’t you pout and you better watch out
For that lump of coal instead
You did your part now add to your cart
All the things that I’ve just said, and where it’s lead
To Santa’s seeing red
Some say that giving is more blessed
And better than to receive
Santa will put you to the test
And see what you believe
So pass a man who’s homeless
Without reaching for a little doe
For what you do might follow you
No matter where you go
Now you’re sitting on Christmas eve
Just thinking about what I’ve said
You’ll all miss your shiny gifts
But not the people without bread, so stay bed
Cause Santa’s seeing red
So don’t look at the poor folks
Just look the other way
And Christ won’t be the only one
That’s missing on Christmas day,
Just drink until you’re merry
And feast until you’re full
He knows that you’ve been naughty
Cause he’s not gullible
So when you see him on the street
It’s a sight that you should dread
Cause he knows all your sins
And they're stored inside his head or so it’s said
Santa’s seeing red
Now it’s time to anti up
And dig into your stash
If you want him to stay quiet
Better cough up a little cash
And I think that you’ll remember
Christmas time every year
It’s time to give to Santa
Or live in constant fear
So you had better be real nice
And kick in a little bread
And you’ll better not think it twice
Or your reputation will be dead, like I said
Santa’s seeing red
Long poem by
Kaitlyn Fox | Details |
This is what it feels like to have your heart racing
and not knowing when or if it will ever slow down.
Your fatigued body can not keep up with its rapid thumping against your chest,
you’re winded after climbing a flight of steps.
Just the thought of tomorrow leaves you gasping for air,
only its not refreshing like the first breath you take
after being plunged under water.
It’s tight and sharp
as if your lungs are collapsing in their cage
like two popped balloons hanging lifelessly in your chest.
This is feeling like your socks are filled with stones
and the world is zipping past you on roller skates.
This is being a day ahead on your calendar,
never learning to live in the moment
and letting your life slip under your shaking feet.
This is storing your past in the corner of your closet,
hoping the clutter won’t occupy the space for your self confidence,
but every now and then it likes to creep out to remind you it’s still there.
This is remembering the time you fell off your bike in fourth grade,
or when you were tongue tied in front of your crush at age thirteen.
You can piece events from your life together through flashbacks
that will come when you least expect it.
A flood of past emotions, still so vivid and alive,
rushes over you like a monstrous wave in the ocean
that sends you off your feet and spits you back out,
salty and heaving for air.
This is living in a dream state,
one you wish you’d wake up from
so you can feel the ground beneath your feet.
This is instability of the body, heart and mind.
This is learning to walk again,
carefully thinking through each step so you don’t send yourself falling.
This is questioning yourself constantly,
wondering if everything you’ve set your heart to is worthwhile,
because, afterall, your mind has been impaired by your drowsiness
of nights staring at a dark ceiling,
not knowing what is holding you from rest.
This is operating on fumes,
slowly disintegrating into just flesh and bone,
losing your focus and strength to your clouded head
and aching heart.
This is worrying so much about what has yet to change,
that you don’t have the conscious to take a look at what is changing,
to see the nothingness that you are slowly evolving to.
This is trembling hands,
this is stuttered words,
this is the inability to unclench your tense fists.
This is independence.
This is holding yourself at gunpoint,
and not knowing which side to surrender.
This is being the enemy
and the survivor.
This is telling yourself, “It’s going to be ok”,
but not believing in the words you use
to try to soothe your rigid body.
You don’t know if you will be ok.
You have lost control over yourself
before you had the chance to try and grab the wheel.
You’ve become so attached to what is to come,
the thought of what has captured you may never cross your mind.
Maybe one day you will learn that there is no use in trying to run from the beast,
for it will shadow your every move.
And maybe one day you’ll learn that to stab it would be a mistake
because you will find yourself with bloody hands and a dying heart.
Long poem by
Chris D. Aechtner | Details |
The Fuhrer's deceit is baked with OCD tendencies,
one hand doling it out to the masses,
while the other hand places more checkpoints
along the already tightly surveilled perimeter.
The Fuhrer's Souper Troopers, Gestapo and Souparazzi
scour the Soup halls for any anomalies,
for any Resistance Fighters of literature
who might distract the masses' attention
away from the Fuhrer's spotlight. And there! Hark
the Herald Demons, the Head Pig pounds the podium,
refocuses the little piggies' minutely distracted attention
with tales of fearful monsters, uniting the crowd
against a common enemy.
Divide the mind, to conquer it. "Divide and Conquer,"
whisper the Fuhrer's elite henchmen
as they send-out another wave of soupmail propaganda,
while running fingers across the mustaches dangling
from their rat-faces like miniature toupees meant for
the now-aged Ken dolls stricken with cancer from eating
too many GMO Swastika corn-dogs and Huns.burger Helper --
cannibalistic swine eating their own kind. "Sieg Heil!"
The little piggies devour Swastika slop from their troughs:
big lies broken down, fed to them over time
until they squeal dolefully, piggies wrapped in blankets
waiting for another bribed lullaby to help them fall asleep.
Poor little piggies. Believing themselves to have no talent
of their own, they ride on the barbeque sauce coat tails of a
one-trick pony-pig Fuhrer -- selling short their own deserved
spotlight to a fugazi masquerading as a 24 Carat saint.
July 22nd, 2013
"Take the greatest deceits, decorate them with gold and hand them out as gifts.
When the masses have swallowed the contents, you can make these people
believe and do anything." - Adolf Hitler
"The more we do to you, the less you seem to believe we are doing it."
- Dr. Joseph Mengele
"The most common characteristic of all police states, is intimidation by surveillance. Citizens know they are being watched and overheard. Their mail is being examined. Their homes can be invaded. When citizens alter their natural conduct via the fear of being watched, truth becomes suppressed when public discussion turns into whispers." - Vance Packard
"To silence satire, is to silence freedom." - Sidney Hook
“The true essence of a dictatorship is in fact not its regularity, but its unpredictability and caprice; those who live under it must never be able to relax, must never be quite sure if they have followed the rules correctly or not.”
- Christopher Hitchens, Hitch-22: A Memoir
“The first truth is that the liberty of a democracy is not safe if the people tolerate the growth of private power to a point where it becomes stronger than their democratic state itself. That, in its essence, is fascism -- ownership of government by an individual, by a group, or by any other controlling private power."
- Franklin D. Roosevelt
*Author's Note: This satire does not involve the TPS administration.
Long poem by
Kaitlyn Fox | Details |
When you were ten,
your mother offered you a sip of her wine.
Curious, you allowed her to slightly tip the glass
so that a drop of the purple liquid landed on your tongue.
You cringed at the bitter taste of it and spit it back into your small hand.
Chuckling, you mother said,
“It may taste bad now, but it’ll grow on you once you get older”.
But womanhood was never something you grew into.
It was force fed down your throat,
they pried your lips apart
and shoved a spoonful of it into your stomach
before you had the chance to swallow it all.
It left you feeling uneasy,
your stomach churned the new substances it was still digesting,
rolling over silence, insecurity, and hopelessness until it became a part of you.
Like many young girls, you asked yourself, “why so soon?”
and learned that womanhood was a burden your mother carried on her back
and she jumped on the opportunity to pass on some of that weight
so she could ease her pain.
You wished someone would have told you this was coming
or you would’ve savored the last bites of your childhood,
enjoyed your last meal of sweetness in large proportions
before you would be given a teaspoon of regret
designed to shrink your stomach to a dime.
It didn’t take you long to learn how to communicate through the hollowness of silence,
learn about the unspoken problem women face everyday,
and find yourself tongue tied to pin down the beast just like generations before you.
Today we teach our daughters that innocence is not a privilege,
We are taught how to flutter our long lashes
and pucker our ruby lips
before we are even able to cross the street by ourselves.
Our picture books have been replaced by fashion magazines
where we learn to study how to be something we know we can’t achieve,
yet we try our hardest anyway.
We beat ourselves up for what we have inherited:
Eyes too far apart, nose too big, fingers too scrawny,
all things accidental, yet we find ways to make it our faults.
It’s always been your fault.
It was your fault he loved her more than you.
It’s your fault your father started drinking again.
When will we learn to stop listening to the voice
that speaks to us right before we fall asleep?
When will our voices escape the knots in our mouths?
When will our pride triumph fear?
All questions lost in the cloud of feminine mystery,
a lineage that is so long,
we don’t even know who to blame anymore
aside from ourselves.
These days seem longer,
sleeping is a chore,
your eyes are misty every time I look into them.
I know you keep yourself awake at night,
afraid the unleashed ghost of the unknown future
will sweep you under its wing,
but do not fear what has not yet changed.
And as tears spill down your cheeks,
as your heart throbs for your old self,
as you feel yourself disappearing into others,
be prepared to be cured by false reassurance.
“It may not feel right now,” they’ll say, “but the feeling will grow on you”.
Long poem by
Tiana Tillman | Details |
Yeah true she might not be flesh of my flesh or a product of my seed, i may not have carried her in my womb for 9 months but that don't mean I didn't succeed. because u will never be more of a mother than I've proven to be. U will never fill my shoes or be able to
Walk the path that I lead. She means more to me then u ever would she will be more of a woman then u ever could. Although we will never have the same blood run through our veins or the same letters spell out our last name, that doesnt make me any less relevant, matter fact just the opposite because that makes me even more prevalent. The fact that I could take on this child with nothing handed to me but a barely empty baby bag but i did it all not for u but because I could never deny a childs innocence because of your stupidness, or neglect a childs needs, the needs that u never could even see. She too nieve to have been brought up any other way then protected and loved and i refused to have her stay wit u and suffer because u didn't have your head right too preoccupied with u and your loser mans life that u didn't appreciate the gift that god gave u in order to change, u threw away the only life line that could ever save your name. If you had done right by her u could of claimed that title but because the worlds drugs and games got the best of u, u will never be entitled. u will never have any rights u will never hurt this child. Because I would die before Id ever let your influence turn her in to a abuser a loser a liar, before she will ever be a whore a freak before u will ever bring her into a world of prostitution and cheats she will never follow in your steps and be so lazy, so your words on me as a person will never faze me cuz I know what I've done I've seen what she came from and I guareentee her life will be a clean one. You will have no part in having her follow in your footsteps by being used and abused by the same type of worthless men that you've fall victim to. Cuz u chose to repeatedly lay on your back and give all the power to a man, rather then have a spine that was worthy to defend. She will never succumb to the same objects of your defeat. She is worthy of so much more than u ever will be. And that's only because she learned how to be a woman from me! U will never be worthy of calling yourself a mother to the smart independent and strong woman, that she will some day grow to be because I take responsibility for that and I only have wishes that she is not like....but yet better than even me. That she never have any needs that she'd have to rely on any one else for, she will never live off the system in order to pay her bills because she will be a well developed perfectly capable and functioning woman living by her own means making her own rules. Cuz I made it all possible I've given her the tools to be able to go out in the world and succeed and never be used, know that she will surpass every bad decision u chose to do. Because after all her real mama didn't raise no fool!