Long Same exact Poems
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I sit there on that wooden bench, simply sitting. I am not waiting for someone, not for anything. Sunlight peeks through the leaves of the two oak trees whose branches are mingling above my head. It is pleasant to feel its warmth. There is no reason for me to be outside other than the cigarette resting between my middle and index fingers. I walked down three flights of stairs to simply sit and smoke and be judged by the occasional passersby. I lift the cigarette to my lips and place it there gently. It sort of dangles there as I light the lighter in one hand and cup the other around the flame to protect it from a nonexistent breeze in the dry Southern heat. I suck in, trying to puff, which is hard to do without a hand to steady the cigarette, but it is lit and that is what matters. I take a deep drag, deep into my lungs, deep into my soul, and I can feel the calm wash over me. The nicotine is my oxygen; I can’t breathe without it sometimes. I blow the smoke out, admiring its delicious taste and scent. I like to hold the slowly smoldering cigarette in my right hand and then smoke out of the left side of my mouth. The way I hold it makes me look like a nineteen-forties gangster. I like that. Sitting there, on my wooden bench, I react. I don’t moan in ecstasy and I don’t close my eyes in pleasure. I don’t take it for granted and I don’t have a habit. I just enjoy my cigarette, no more and no less than it ever should have been. As it slowly converts itself into smoke and ashes I think to myself that most people probably wonder why an eighteen year old in this day and age would choose to take up smoking. At least I assume that is what the occasional passerby must be thinking when they see me sitting here on this wooden bench, for no other reason than to smoke the cigarette in my hand right now. I wonder what I would say if any one of them ever bothered to ask me. Because I want to, I would reply before standing, putting out my cigarette, and walking away. I look down and see that if I took another drag I would be smoking the filter. So I stand, put out my cigarette, and walk away. I walk away from the sunlight, from the two oak trees, and that wooden bench. I walk away with my fingers smelling like nicotine and that makes me smile because I know that I will sit at that wooden bench tomorrow to do the same exact thing. I know because that is what I did yesterday.
What Will Be,Will Come to Be...!
Kill Three Birds With One Stone,to Be Free...!
Sacred Fire Upon My Chest......
Do Thy Will...And Do It Best...!
Let That Pain Go Forth And Be....
Unto Those Who've Caused Thy Misery...!
The Names I Won't Say....
For You Know Them Very Well....
Go Forth Unto Them,Time Three.....
And Make Them Suffer The Same Exact Hell.....!
What Will Be....Will Come To Be.....!
Make Them All Suffer Three Times The Pain That They've Done Unto Me....!
Whether By Natural GOD'S GIVEN GRACE.....
Put These Vipers In Their Place...!
Whether TEMPEST,TSUNAMI, or....Even TORNADO......
Fulfill Thy Will With Such Powerful Bravado....!
Just Like Shakespeare's DUKE OF MILAN...PROSPERO....
Though I'm Not A Man....
Upon This Enchanted Island.....
I Be.....
A CONJURER'S DAUGHTER....A MAMBO....Is ME!
All I want Is Justice,But...More Than For Me.....!
But,FOR THE OTHERS WHO WERE WRONGED....NOW...As Well As Years,Decades,Besides....THE CENTURIES....!
Whether...TEMPEST,TSUNAMI,TORNADO,...EVEN EARTH QUAKE......
All We Want Is Justice Fulfilled To The Greatest By GOD'S Powerful Grace!
As MOSES DONE DID OVER THREE THOUSAND YEARS PAST.....
As QUEEN ESTER DONE,ALSO....
IT'S ALL THAT I ASK...!
To Prevent A MUCH BIGGER MESS WORSE THAN WORLD WAR TWO....
I PRAY TO THE ALMIGHTY....YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO....!
EVEN IF YOU GOTTA DO AFTER NOAH BUILT THE ARK....
EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO TEAR THE WHOLE EARTH APART...!
IF THAT WHAT IT TAKES FOR ABSOLUTE PEACE....
THAN DO IT SOON...TO CAUSE WAR TO BE PERMANENTLY TO CEASE...!
IN ORDER TAKE US ALL TO THE PROMISED LAND....
THAT HIGHER DIMENSION,AWAY FROM THE EVILS OF MAN...!
WHAT EVER IT TAKES IN THE GREAT MOTHER'S NAME.....
GAIA TERRA...SO PEACE WILL FINALLY REIGN...!
WHAT EVER IT TAKES....!
FOR ALL OF OUR SAKES...!
PLEASE MAKE A WAY...!
That's All That I Have To Say...!
I Have Said My Say......
No one is permanent.
You wake up, get dressed and go to school,
you walk down the same hallway
and go to the same class at the same exact time everyday.
You go to lunch, talk to the same people and then go back to class.
You go to practice then go home and do homework.
Repeat.
Before you know it,
you’re graduating.
the people you called your best friends,
you no longer speak to,
or see them ever again.
Your boyfriend of 2 years is going to his dream school
5,000 miles away.
you thought you’d be “together forever”
but this isn’t some sappy love story,
this is reality.
You finally see him after 6 months,
nothings the same
you grew apart.
You never see him again.
He’s gone.
It’s your first year of college
and you made a few friends.
You go to parties and have a good time,
but then it happens.
there was an accident.
“It wouldn’t happen to me.” she said
“it only happens in the movies.”
You couldn’t believe it happened,
especially to your best friend.
There’s nothing you can do.
She’s gone.
You graduate from college
the friends you made feel like sisters by now
but you’re all going in different directions.
Your best friends becoming a teacher,
and you’re a nurse.
With the busy schedules there’s no time for each other.
you never talk to her again.
she’s gone.
You’re at work and you hear the phone ring.
“Oh my god” you hear your assistant say,
“are you sure?”
A million thoughts go through your mind at once.
Your heart races.
“Your mother just had a heart attack.”
Your heart drops to the floor and you become numb.
You couldn’t believe this could happen to the strongest woman you know.
You get on the first flight back home.
It’s too late
She’s gone.
No one is permanent.
There some who prefer loneliness
And there are some who just put up with it
There are some who say they aren't lonely
But in fact, there are many
However, I prefer to be by myself
For there are many things to be done
Only I can reflect on many ideas
And only I can discover myself
Now many would consider me very weird
But it is in fact I, who learns the most alone…
Being alone in solitude
Isn't wrong nor is it bad for you
We need to be alone
Because we don't know ourselves…
We deserve to live in solitude
Until we are reborn again
And when that day in fact comes
Then you'll see the world change for good…
Now there is a choice to be made
But it doesn't seem like it’s the right moment
Are we all ready to change our lives?
To tell the truth, I don't think so
Everyday it is the same exact thing
People harming and fighting each other
Now is humanity ready to be free?
To tell the truth, I don't think so
Now many would consider me very weird
But it is in fact I, who realizes the most alone…
We deserve eternal solitude
For we're all a danger to everything living
And we must stay this way
Until we all know the truth…
We deserve nothing but solitude
Until we realize that we're full of deceit and malice
And that goes for everyone
That is called a human being…
Now many would consider me very weird
But it is in fact I, who knows the most alone…
Being alone in solitude
Isn't wrong nor is it bad for you
We need to be alone
Because we don't know ourselves…
We deserve to live in solitude
Until we are reborn again
And when that day in fact comes
Then you'll see the world change for good…
I'm tired of writing love poems and trying to put spins on them;
So for inspiration and ideas i go brainstorming;
But each thought, each idea seems to be a duplicate of the last poem;
"The glimmer of her memory never seems to diminish" if i should quote one;
The most amazing part about all these poems is not that I wrote them;
its that they're all about you;
so a thought about you is always around the corner from my mind;
But loving you was always harder than putting thread through a needle if i was blind;
And i could never figure you out even if i was smarter than Einstein;
See pain and love reside in the same exact address of my heart either one would answer the door when you runged;
Like when you didn't say nothing when your brother called me out my name and we got the scrapping cause i ain't no punk;
Or when you finally said i love you who would've thunk;
In my hearts mind i know i have to free you from the prison that is deep inside my aorta, pass the pulmonary valve;
there you'll find all of our memories that were once upon a time;
before i unlock the doors with the keys of forgiveness and free the memories we once shared like wind to leaves;
I just want you to know a couple things to put my mind at ease;
You were my definition of love when problems arose we chose to be more discrete;
Who knew my heart would tremble, broken like a Haitian street;
They told me to be patient and that time heels all wounds;
But you leaving left a big whole in my heart the size of a balloon;
Ive been walking around these streets hoping nobody pops it so i wont end up a guy in a loveless casket
Form:
the stink of the swamp slaps you in the face in the same exact spot
never disappointing, memorizing the land mark where you began to hold your breath
after years you become accustomed, how will you know you are getting close to home
restless frogs after the rain, mating season in the south
resurfacing sounds of nostalgic sweet warm spring sound-front breezes
blue-jays playfully dance in a puddle
looking way pass the caterpillar stricken tobacco fields where the eagles circle
death lingers, something quite necessary in nature
a hologram of my granddaddy on his tractor diffracting from memory, he's waving
all surreal, times are still changing, the corn fields don't look the same to me anymore
and yet the urge to see them is of a giddy child
flocks of geese overwhelm the atmosphere with the honking echoes of familiarity
a sense of relief as they drown out the on key invisible cicadas all in their own tune
blackbirds orderly swarm to hang out on the power lines
cattle so few grazing the grass appearing smaller in stature
photographic memory scrambles, usually there is a crane by the canal
obviously noticeable there were more and more trees missing
stripping away the land of the deer and black bear
taking for granted cute bunny rabbits territory furthermore, all the tiny forest creatures
goodness, what happened to the woods around the bend
once flourished with pines, oaks, and a giant maple tree that spoke of seasons
the weeping willow on the corner vanished overnight replaced by a garage
look at the doe standing near the edge of the road confused too
“holiday” card scramblers
seen them “holiday” card scramblers
heads down, frantically shuffling fingers
through the leftover scraps of the
rush from last week, from the weeks
before, from that crazy ****ing black
friday---
complaining & spoiled college brats
home from sucking on a bong, ****ing
24/7 & “studying,”
procrastinating boyfriends & husbands
who put off everything till’ that last
crucial minute,
running their fingers through their
dwindling hair follicles---
daughters with their friends chuckling
under their breath
about the idiosyncrasies
that both their mom’s exhibit,
bumping heads in that quick crouch down
to grab that last pseudo-funny card,
the one that is supposed to say
“i care,” but at the end of the day
who is being fooled?
probably, most importantly,
you!---for you be shelling out the moola
for the card that will eventually coast on
down to the bottom of that
round filing cabinet,
just beneath the old orange peels &
the empty bag of potato chips.
knew a guy who stopped buying cards
years ago, seeing no point,
“all they do is throw them away anyway”
he’d say &
the guy was on to something,
but you know the stigma that you’d receive
if you didn’t show up on said “holidays”
with a card that revealed a little prewritten
comment that 10,000 or more other people
go on the same exact day, with the same
exact graphics, the same exact art, the same
exact envelope…
&
it’d just be such a shame if you didn’t get a
piece of that fruitcake that much like those
who would condemn you
serve much more purpose as a silent, rotting
doorstop,
than anything else.
Why would I pay someone
to tell me how to think?
If I can't come up with my own thoughts
and my own way of thinking,
then wouldn't I be considered
as being a stupid person?
Didn't God give us
a brain to think with?
To think for ourselves?
Or did He give us a brain
to pay someone else
to think for us?
If a professor read a book
and had written his own thesis,
on that book and he told me to read that same book and write my own thesis.
Who would that professor be, if he marked my thesis about the same exact book that he read and wrote a thesis on, just to say that I am wrong about what I had written?
What would give that professor the right to give me a failing grade, because my thesis didn't match his to a T?
Don't I have my own way of thinking?
Don't my own thoughts exist?
How does he know that his thesis that he wrote, wasn't wrong and the thesis (my thesis), that he just got finished reading and marked...wasn't right?
Why would I pay someone to do my thinking for me?
Why would I pay someone to grade me...on my own thoughts?
Would you?
Copyright Cynthia Jones
May.8/2015
You don't need a college degree to figure this one out. And you certainly don't need a college degree to come up with your own questions, that you would be able to provide answers for yourself. It doesn't matter what someone else thinks, because they have their own way of thinking. Don't their thoughts exist, just as much as yours do? Who are you to question them, about the way they think? Isn't that the reason why God gave us a brain?
I get a severe case of ghetto epilepsy
when it goes skin dark at night
Get a bad reaction ... very violently,
to any rearview flashing lights
Hear the loud siren behind,
see the shiny badges moving towards me
Fear gets cuffed to my mind —
Being black at night ain’t the color to be
Always ready to recite the blue uniform mantra
from the “Black Survivor Guide” handbook
Smiley face attitude, too often just ain’t enough ...
Racial profile consider this a suspicious look
Flashlight come tapping on the window,
it’s time for a minstrel rehearsal
Give an automatic lip involuntary flow,
just be calm ~ no mood reversal
Keep the eyes down,
keep the voice low
Raise the hands high ...
do it very, very slow
Speak to the officers respectfully,
say: Sirs, did I do something that was wrong?
If so, I didn’t know ... believe me
Hope their trigger finger ain’t an itchy bone
If sweaty hands get fidgety on the gun
don’t give ‘em any nervous firing notions
Still in doubt about the final outcome ...
politely repeat those same exact motions
Keep your eyes down,
keep your voice low
Raise your hands high ...
do it very, very slow
Suddenmovements will get you shot
by the brave, “Serve and protect”
Resist pleas will buy you a burial plot,
from a coroner’s morgue inquest
I hope you don’t suffer from a bad case
of ghetto epilepsy, my night time skin affliction
Or have a dark mood like my black face
If so, then you can expect a code blue condition
remember these rich kids
who moved from downtown
Manhattan,
after the towers fell,
out into the uncharted territories of
Bushwick & those regions of
Brooklyn, which had once been
lined with 3 story houses (or fewer)
& whose skyline one could
see over,
when stores, music venues &
cheeseball clubs were
closer to the exception than the rule,
when there were genuine poor people
who dressed the way that they could
afford,
when these mungo hipsters
didn’t plague the land like the
rats that come squealing out from
beneath the garbage bags piled up
outside their loft buildings,
remade factories, which now serve
as high income palaces
with the guise of low income &
the sprawl of fake-poor in the land of
the
cool.
these hipsters would bump from
thrift store to thrift store,
shopping with mommy & daddy’s money
(now safe from the downtown “terrorist
threats”)
in order to look like they were straight from
the 1970’s, like corduroy everything
was somehow a part of the 21st century,
like sideburns were the way of the
future---
parading with pocketbooks full of cash
which would allow them to frequent the
sushi bars that had sprung up or
pop from expensive café to expensive café
without a second thought
about the same exact dream that they all had
followed,
from the white picket fences in the suburbs of
bumble**** wherever,
to transplant themselves into the
dumpster diving
“soul” searching
snot nosed brats
that lit the fuse for gentrification
all over what used to be
Brooklyn.