They said the youths
Are leaders of tomorrow
That we're the future
In a system we're not featured
Where the youths are not in the picture
That's why they never nurture us
They always acting like vulture
Giving us mental and emotional torture.
How would the youths
Partake in a system
That doesn't recognize them
Even to socialize is now a crime
Freedom of speech and movement
Which is our fundamental human rights
We've been denied, due to their insecurities.
They're brutalizing us
Traumatizing us
Same people
That is supposed to protect us
Are the ones killing us
Inputting pains and fears in us
Just to sustain and maintain their negligence.
Some of us,
diversely theistic
and atheistic,
are still,
to this traumatizing partisan day,
committed to a multiculturally inter-religious
and ecologically healthy
democracy.
We are suffering
an anxious sense of deeply felt loss
fueled, inflamed, ignited
by RightWing MonoTheistic
and ATheistic
and Agnostic Theistic?
trauma,
fear- and anger-mongers,
weaponized hate-predators,
ideological dogmatists
propaganda influencers.
UnChristianRight MonoTheists
are also LeftBrain verbally dominant
anthro-privileged
patriarchally plagued
by win/lose partisanship
0-sum devolutionary economics
dualistic YangPassion v YinPleasure
dogmatic ideation.
Both Left and Right Wings
failing to feel depolarizing sides
of our comedic-belonging
v tragic-longing
Bicamerally common
cobinary
sense of faithful humor.
About some of us,
diversely theistic
and atheistic,
still,
to this traumatizing partisan day,
feeling shared passion
for a multiculturally inter-religious
and pleasure within
an ecologically healthy
organic democracy.
Those thugs, that try to teach tiny tots, to taut taunting tautogram tales, to tiny, terrified toddlers.
They think that telling tales to toddlers through tautogram tales, teaches them to trust tormenting teasing troublesome thugs. That's truly traumatizing to those tiny toddlers.
Ex-President Trump had a near miss recently. That can be traumatizing.
We know how it is, our old republic survived a near insurrection recently.
At least Trump's assailant was killed, he can rest easy.
Thanks to faux-jurisprudence, our felon is still out there - on the loose.
.
.
Songs for this:
Run On by Elvis Presley
Use Me (feat. Cynthia Greene) by The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir
Order My Steps by The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir
.
I love gospel music, maybe because I’m from Georgia, the home of MLK, civil rights and the Ebenezer Baptist Church. Lisa (who lives in Manhattan) and I’ve made two pilgrimages to the Brooklyn Tabernacle to hear the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. I admit that I’m a heathen and a pagan but when I hear a gospel choir - I'm easily reduced to tears, and I’m moved to at least wish that I believed.
.
I would never wish Mr. Trump harm. I would like to see him loose fairly and resume his opulent, civilian life.
The world has become jaded by the news we observe
It’s not until we notice something morally monstrous
Neither peacemakers nor warmongers have the nerve
It’s the emotions of the weak that raise our awareness
Our heads turn around when it involves the innocent
The terror and tears on their face make us take notice
Traumatizing their faultless world are the malcontents
Disrupting their pure sanctity with death and sickness
Trying to make sense of what has harassed their reality
Children and the elderly suffer, contrary to popular belief
Too delicate to be collateral damage of the war’s tragedy
Hearing the innocent cry, are you listening to their grief
shock
electric, astound
zapping, traumatizing, reacting
speechlessness, surprise, spellbound, thrill
bedazzling, gaping, impressing
majestic, awestruck,
awe
Date written: 06/06/2023
Zafar Supari killer chemical Drink produces
numerous symptoms such as Pale urine,
Stomach swelling,headches,fainting,despair,
Palpitations,convulsive & psycho behaviour etc..
Note.1.Drink.2.Drugs.3.Injection..GAME..
Lesson.Zafar Khan Dan is dangerous...
Authors and writers, poets of all;
We are a group of scribers
You can see down our halls.
On documents, on paper,
In books that we read.
Writing our words;
As if no one is watching
Choosing our letters
Writing poems: Oh, so touching!
Scribers we are;
We bring it with style
Sit down, relax
Read for a while.
Writing of words;
Turning them into songs we do
The writers we are to be
Rings deep in our veins, blue.
Seeking: searching;
For the right words to be said
For the writers to be writing
On fine paper, be them read.
The lessons we'll read;
Through the experiences of others
Giving this writing gift
All notions of worth that it covers.
Writing in poetry:
Of our demons, we must face
Or about traumatizing events
That unfolds, not to retrace.
The writings of other poems;
Of families and friends
Maybe it's about a past love
That we're writing, making amends!
For the writers, we are:
We bring it, too, with grace
But I'll end this poetry:
Maybe you will find its bookcase?
A storm
Winds as strong as ox
Gray skies nearly blinding all birds
Fearfully trying to find their way home
An ocean
Pure blue waters
And the slightest waves
That kisses the shores
They meet
The scene is beautiful
Yet the damage...
It's traumatizing
The waves are angry
The birds are still lost
And they don't know what to do
And sometimes
Relationships work this way too
Like million waves of melancholic music,
Surpassing the consciousness,
Like a Traumatizing muse.
Consistent chaotic translucent perceptions,
An age of wandering afoot with deceptions.
They walk amidst a synchronized loop,
Creating deceptive,
Or surrealistic tunes.
A universe of sentiments, so nostalgic,
In the veracious, vicarious,
Vibrantly glowing moon.
They dance to the tunes of musical ocean,
Enhancing, so growing,
Like a colorful lagoon.
They crawl in to their fundamentality,
Immersed, submerged,
As the embraced sand dunes.
And the music melancholic, so alcoholic,
Unrelenting, recommencing,
Persistent, preservant, perpetual monsoon.
SAID THE VICTIM OF SEXUAL ASSAULT
To me,
my cries
deep and soul wrenching.
To you,
shallow. and insignificant.
My tongue forever
twisted with fear,
slurs every word with emotion,
as shame and society's curses invoke themselves
into MY soul.
For though,
I was the prey,
this a crime that blames the victim,
and who wants to hear a woman’s cries of sexual abuse?
No friends
and sometimes no family,
life places you in seclusion.
HE,
the predator,
baroque with prudent calculated words,
tearing down my character,
gratifying himself,
like one who has never done a wrong.
Episodically traumatizing searing jolts in my chest,
as the congested lies continue to spew,
casting a veil of derision
reviving the shameful and revolting touches
all over again.
A new ghostly shadow
creeping out into the light
that will forever follow me,
pre-empt MY days and steal MY nights.
How are yours?
© Al Juman The "said" Poet 9/25/2018
She whines because her food needs salt.
A 2-year-old-child dies of leukemia while she is glaring at the waiter.
He grouses because the neighbor’s garbage is out two hours ahead of time.
He calls 911 to report this infraction, not caring that another person had an emergency.
A young mother is murdered in her home because she could not get through.
An elderly woman is yelling at her neighbor, because she thinks the woman looked at her flowers.
She is so mad, she walks in front of a bus when she leaves, traumatizing twenty-three children and a bus driver.
A mommy’s boyfriend gets upset because a baby will not quit crying. He tries to pawn it off on a neighbor.
She knows he is violent, but she has done more than her share, so she ignores his pleas.
The baby ends up shaken to death.
A sixty-two-year-old man begins pounding on a door to complain about the neighbor’s loud rap music.
The neighbor comes to the door, laughs, and slams the door in his face.
The sixty-two-year-old goes home and gets his loaded gun.
It is everyone’s problem.
Yours
Mine.
Everyone’s.
Let us fix this!
HANDMADE FROM (the genes of) BOYCE AND HARRIET HARRIS
(poetry my atypical mode at introducing myself).
How apropos and divine to stumble (merely by happenstance) across a chance to claim my (virtual) fifteen minute fragments of fame just in the click and nick of time.
Although gainfully unemployed (do to a series of unfortunate events that now finds me receiving social security disability), I can still vividly visualize utter despair and vouchsafe to acquire the requisite trappings emblematic of psychic misfortune.
Indelible, permanent and unfading abysmal damaging domestic dynamics got etched deep upon the memory of this erstwhile individual! The general gist in the form of quick brush strokes (namely written) of psychologically traumatizing recollection now follows.
I can attest to malevolent mean-spirited objections by my father (and late mother) in regard to my grossly unacceptable attire, deportment and work ethic.
The heart is....
an organ which feels love,
but also damaged by
it's traumatizing effects
Your velvet voice
Fires up my day,
I am learning to smile,
You're a teacher, aren't you!
From now on I declare
I will be where a smile
Is made worth, if not
I will make it with you.
Your love is smooth and strong
It will be traumatizing
To live without it.
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