Long Lifewrite Poems
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Previous - Next"If He was you..."
Gently the wind blows ‘cross the faces
Of nations and lands of indistinct races
As the wind whips the flags, the crags of the arrogant faces
And the elitist who wear these blindest disgraces
The proud and the few, who publish what’s “true”, amid assumptions that flue
And echo in caverns of morals and right, being so wrong, ‘tis so obviously true
The patterns of fascists reflect in their you
As they contrive to survive their destruction so due
“We the people…”
in order to form a more perfect union, do wander
amid thoughts and imagines we meaningless wonder
what to think, and, finding thoughts, we pause, ponder clause
and make with logics sharp claws
"we the people..."
have thoughts, some not nice, some epicly so, in nature
and submit them all to our hearts legislature
if not just a seconds reflections of others
having no application to me or my brothers
then, to debate, or not, such is the right
of those who would not blindly blight
"We the people..."
the heart is the judge, a debate may take place
would i hurt, those i love, those who love, those who try
would i harm those who mean well, those i never can tell, just in case
would i fly, in formations with eagles, or contrive to lie
with the hogs
if the hogs would lie with me...
and if i
or even, i submit, if you
would
remember that "flue"?
what is it?
"would"?
"wood"?
"We the people..."
flew.
question:
"who are, for all the money in the world...
Shadrach, Meshack, and Abednego?"
and, if you had a God, or if you do, what would He want, or, if He was you...
Dear self,
The words that I have to say are not the nicest ones. I fear what my uncapped talent
might pour out. I only write truth and nothing else. So when my brother asks me to write
to my older brother in prison I resist. It's not that I don't love him I just can't
pretend that I have forgiven him.
I cannot mask the hurt that I feel like he is some pen pal that I've just been introduced
to. When the events were all too real how do you pretend they didn't singe through you?
How do they expect me to become a pathological liar over night? If I were to sit down and
write a pretend letter I wouldn't get a complete though out or anything right.
In a real letter I would yell and release and maybe write him off forever. If I really did
write to him It might reopen some wounds that are still fresh like just made french
vanilla ice cream. If I really did write I wouldn't be awaiting a reply. Some things I may
say would hurt like a dagger slowly slicing you to death.
I won't be writing to exchange pleasantries because being real is all I've ever know how
to be. My brother doesn't understand how such a lover of writing can have not a thing to
say. It's not that I have writer's block it's just that I refuse to pretend everything is
okay. I also refuse to inflict that kind of pain even though he deserves it I'd rather
just leave these thoughts unsaid. I'll live with the heavy shoulders and the extra heavy
burden because I really do love him.
Love Shahana Jackson
Life is lived as a book, so I’m told
and we live out this story in chapters.
And we even write of the stories we’ve lived
and regale with tales of our adventures.
Our childhood is a myriad of stories
filling chapter and chapter with discovery,
wonder, angst, joy, everything in growing up.
Our teens are chapters of pain, confusion and
experimentation. Temptation. Rebellion and growth.
Young adulthood … ah, sweet love. Career, family.
First foray into independence and building a family.
Then chapters for kids, school, braces, college …
Then they grow up and move out. Weddings, grandkids
retirements and IRA’s. The book is expanding.
But this book is predictable. This is the Brady Bunch.
Where is the crisis, the divorce or the addiction?
Where is the mental illness or the adulterous affair?
Where is the poverty, the abuse, unknown calamity or death?
If life is truly a book, then we write our chapters as we go.
There is no cookie-cutter life to stamp out and imitate.
Life is fluid, moving, changing, consuming, powerful,
destructive in its unrelenting, impersonal path.
This is the end of this chaotic chapter, a fresh page awaits.
Too many of my chapters are chaotic and destructive.
While the next chapter can’t be written until it has been lived,
I will make it a chapter worth remembering.
One I will want to read again, and again.
I am only thirteen yet ive experience many things out of my age.
I know what it feels like to be stabbed, or shunned.
Life is supposed to be full of joy, love, and laughter.
People write about happy things, for me its easier to write about the bad.
And sadly just a tad, I truly hate myself. Thanks Dad.
Mother does the best she can to make me feel as strong as a dam.
Lifes scary its harder to live then it is to die.
Sometimes reality and fantasy bleed and all i know is that i need a blade.
Rusted, trusty, sharp, small, anything to make these feelings dissapate.
People think I need help, maybe your right, dont get up tight.
My situation...is crappy, and unique, being a bisexual, bipolar, large girl...
Thats the hardest....No dont freak...leave my orientation alone.
I am only thirteen yet ive experienced many things out of my age.
Form:
'Till the day my ink well runs dry,
I will write what comes from my heart.
There will be one more tear to cry,
of which, my soul, is so much a part.
I will write what comes from my heart.
I found new life, in poetry,
of which my soul, is so much a part.
It brings with it tranquility.
I found new life, in poetry,
I will cling to it for all I'm worth.
It brings with it, tranquility.
My passion has been my rebirth.
I will cling to it for all I'm worth,
as my last spark of memory glows.
My passion has been my rebirth,
I will close my eyes, let it flow.
As my last spark of memory glows,
there will be one more tear to cry.
I will close my eyes, let it flow,
'till the day my ink well runs dry.
Will I ever be the one I want to be?
Will I ever be able to fly and be free?
Will I ever write the most beautiful song?
Will I ever feel like I belong?
Will I ever be able to mend my heart?
Will I ever feel like I am smart?
Will I ever think that I am pretty?
Will I ever stop living in self pity?
Will I ever be able to reach my dreams?
Will I ever be able to do what I believe?
Will I ever be able to write a best selling book?
Will I ever find the piece of my heart that he took?
Will I ever be able to win the never ending race?
Will I ever be able to see his smiling face?
Will I ever be able to stand up tall?
Will I ever get to have it all?
Will I ever?
Will I ever?
Form:
Poetry isn’t always happy or sad, sometimes what seems
to be sad are just someone's feelings they are dealing
with that are so overwhelming that they don’t know
what know what to do with them.
So they put them on paper to get them out, to get a release
from the emotions that are overwhelming them.
Keeping them trapped within themselves barely able to
communicate on any level.
Putting them on paper is such a release and gives them
such peace and understanding.
It makes walking through the valleys so much easier
when they can write it out and make it sound
however they want, they are in control and they
can write their own story.
Poetry is such a Great Story Writer.
I write about the things that I see and what happens to me.
They say my head's up in space but that's 'cause I keep thinking about you.
I meet a few hot girls but it's like I'm hypnotized by your smile.
Crazy stuff's been happening in my neighborhood.
Robberies, fights, arguments, and more.
Is this why Kanye wears Jesus' necklace around his neck?
Like they all say, " Passion of Christ " needs a sequel.
I write lyrics 'cause the only way from my real life.
In a way you could say that writing takes me to a different place.
One were I do nothing except write, sleep, eat, and watch tv.
These lyrics are what I am.
Just read them all and find out who I am.
It’s not my intention to judge, criticize, or offend
It works out for me to live in peace, and make amends.
To write poetry and express all the gifting within,
Enjoying everyone’s poetry and the messages they bring.
One may write on their achievements, another their hurt,
Expressing their anguish and what it takes its worth.
It’s good in a way to let it all out, venting your emotions
If you have to scream and shout.
All I can say and I’lm hope you’ll agree, don’t get me wrong
In the process you’ll see. My poetry reflects my situation
And the things I go through. Trust they’ll be a blessing
And a tower of strength to you.
Form:
There are so many things I must get done
But instead I procrastinate.
I further delay to write this poem;
Life’s priorities will just have to wait.
I don’t get paid to write my rhymes;
On the job I get paid for I can’t concentrate.
I’ve got plenty of tasks to take up my time,
But instead I procrastinate.
I’ve got a long list of domestic chores,
But instead I procrastinate;
My wife continues to add some more
To the Honey-Do list I really hate.
The more things that I have to do,
The more likely nothing gets done to date.
There may even be things I should do for you,
But instead I procrastinate.