What you can’t tell by looking at me…
is that i wish you could see what i see
but because you don’t you go ahead and without thinking twice,
you point the finger of judgement at me
and through your eyes you think of me as a criminal, illegal, poor
you don’t even question what is deeper inside besides the color of my skin

I wish you could see how much this hurts me
because maybe this isn’t your fault
that you were brought up to see corruption, drugs, violence
but listen to me, and trust me that there is another world out there
one story, one you have yet to hear
and i hope you find some way to appreciate it
until you feel the pain from our struggle
to make you think any different.
make you think I am not less than you

There are so many things you cannot see
this is my culture, soy hispana y orgullosa
and these are my people
my people, who are more than you think they are
for they are doctors, innovators, mathematicians, even scientists
you see, there are many things you have not seen, this is only the beginning

My people struggle for strength
nunca te dejes vencer, porque el triunfo puede estar de la esquina as my mother tells me
because pride is what keeps our will to fight going
it is what makes us want to make a change, una cambio
change your perception from rapists, homeless and corrupt
to normal everyday people
….
i hope one day you are able to see past the color of my skin
and to accept what is there
to know that we are not criminals, or crazed animals than what you set us out to be
no, we are more than that
we are human beings… just like you

I scribble on
With a half lobotomy;
A radar seeking Hell by looking up
And another dictionary
From another time and place;
An alternate timeline
Reaching right and left
As well as fore and aft;
The beard of a ******
And naïveté too;
Undiscovered depths of emotional manipulation
Unseeing, unthinking,
A new old structural familiarity
To abduct and probe
The time-honored, vacuum-sealed
Ineptitude of ideology
Whose meat is sweet
But suits the skeletons of standardized educational theories
Like a pair of jeans at age eleven that you expect to grow into;
In hope of justifying
Overuse of monetary resource
For the sake of bonus states of mind;
Scouring the depths of discarded everything
With hooks catching on to all the similarly forgotten names
Who live in fear of obscurity
Clinging, not unlike insects
To their sixteenth minute of fame;
Finding in myself no way but out
To understand that which lives inside;
With disregard for any thread which weaves past me and takes no hold,
And loathing for the ones that do but unravel before the eyes;
Lightheaded, ending any sense of continuity
When, prostrate in the comfort of another tapestry
I stand abruptly, let my dreams be drained from me through tendrils
Like the passing of a temporal existence;
Drinking in the dust and glue of crowded bookshops
In fear of losing inspiration
To the insatiable jaws of my consumerist natural state;
Rummaging in a bargain bin
In search of someone to tell me, “Stop!"
With heads in clouds and bodies in ice trays,
Stealing lines of logic and lyric,
Throwing down and hacking into
Elemental bits which fit into my own vernacular
Sacrificing beauty for originality and vice versa;
Choosing idols idly with the tides
Of knowledge and of art
Rising and falling without fail
Never apparent and never blurred by motion;
Searching for a style like an odd-numbered jean size;
Finding greater inspiration in waves of unopened mysteries;
Following examples laid by unsuccessful fictions;
Learning ethics only from the prologues of ****** novels,
Unsuspecting victims snuffed in interesting and lurid ways;
Letting technological distraction detract from the projections of psychological complexity
Which I, from atop the high horse of my own pretensions
Pretended to embrace;
Committing massive acts of thievery, fraud, and infinite lethargy
For the sake of juvenile, illegitimate art forms;
Seeking other seekers who exist autonomously
For the sake of personal independent credibility;
Leading unsuspecting, overreaching, overeating, understanding, undemanding,
Too forgiving, not forgetting,
Victims of domestic warfare
To a loveless watery grave
For the sake of my own loneliness;
Patronizing every segregated buffet
With courage enough only for a small taste of everything;
With the flavors of the day swirling around
For me to shoot them down
And pin their carcasses to elementary school walls
And Mormon tool sheds
And nature centers
And all the forgotten places of summers past
In the hope of rediscovering
Some old buried treasure
Be it wondrous or worthless;
With the uneasy insincerity of a rodent who pretends to understand a city;
With adopted methods
And repeated thoughts
And ideas which came to me in waking dreams of my own retirement;
Sharing, for a captive audience,
The formidable giants which
Inform our common denominator
Searching through myself for only the most indecipherable
With the fear of being understood
And the fear of being ridiculed
And pretensions of some preternatural predetermination for greatness;
With acceptance of predisposition for obscurity,
The cost of the inundation of the new airwaves.
The series of tubes that feed us intravenously
With information, information, information,
Having killed God and left material validation in His wake;
It could be that new gods are born in the minds of the innovators,
Those wonderfully wealthy
Whose social structuralism
Was a beacon to us all;
In the darkness of an architectural anomaly
Where lights extinguish as my body lies dormant
Alone and abandoned
Only by my own subversion;
Confined ever to a convolution of passages
While above me all my peers still carry on;
Overstaying welcomes
And letting emotionality
Color conversation
A sicklier green,
A green of a tree only just sprouted,
A green of a new recruit,
A green of an inexperienced schoolboy
Faced with the daunting and timeless act
Of copulation;
Somehow taking in the sights and sounds and smells
Of advanced mathematics
Even occupied, as I am,
With explaining my actions
Most eloquently;
Devoting myself to another cause,
Another, another, another
Always relaxing my grip by losing focus;
Desperately hoping not to let my fellow travelers
Lose their innocence
While I reluctantly, dogmatically
Keep mine on a leash;
Always keenly aware
Of the universe of worlds
Beyond my control,
And even my understanding;
On the increasingly frequent
Intrusions of risk
Into my significant reality
And the iota of explainable truth which guides the motion of my body but most frequently my mind;
Questioning the meaning of all words
Without thought or coordination;
Considering another restful journey
To clear my mind of human language
And in its place acquire thoughts and emotions from the street;
Without foreseeable direction,
Malice aforethought
Or noticeable signs of critical reaction
Giving birth to litter
Forgetting articles
And floating my sense of time up the Ganges;
Taking only seconds to counter the possibility of
Accepting more responsibility for myself;
Complicating matters with an interesting or bitter goodbye.

Farce!
False!
Fantasy maybe. Even still,
It’s far from fact.
Fiction!
I've seen more accurate depictions
Of Love
In abstract pictures.
At least it’s fierce colors
Show so form of passion
Fashion!
Artistic? It can be
But this is trendy
It'll fade as a
Fad!
True art is timeless
Truth? It can be
But this is candy
Not fruit
This is pop
Not soul
Technically it’s music
Because of it’s movement
But this needed no muse
Only tech
No chords
Piano or vocal
Only vocoder!
Inhumane, alien maybe.
But even the Vulcan
Shows some form of fire  
Folktale!
Fog!
The misleading smoke
Shows no water
In the vicinity
Only industry
The only esteem
In this engine
Is steam
Gas.
The closest thing
To nothing
Fodder!
Deflowered. Devoured
By self-expression
Selfish innovators imitating life
Forgetting to live it.
****!

Tell the truth about the way we loved.
Savagely
Fervidly
Passionately
Wildy
We burned down the walls of our own bedroom
We gave the stars a show
The shore something to grab hold of...
We were endless
Brilliant in our together
Innovators in our type of beautiful.
We inspired...
Men to love women whose mind's were worth
kneeling for,
And women who loved men with respect worth
submitting to...
Tell them how we loved
Tell them
Their was love
in the  way our feet moved
in relation to the other
The way our eyes danced through
all of these people
Till their was something worth settling on...
For me it was you...
For you it will forever be me...
I will tell them...
because sometimes the things that burn
the brightest tend to leave one breathless...
In a world so self contained...
We could not burn down these walls for our beautiful...

Raise your hand* if
your confidence is reaching its limit
Well let me tell you,
don't dare believe it for a minute

A poet stands at the center
of circles of illusions
Sparked by the fire within
and burnin' institutions

They write about the current state
as far as they can see it,
as well as personal doubts
claimin' that they can feel it

Don't hand your savings over,
'cause now you pay it forward,
but life won't pay you back,

So what you say to that?

"I say we're bein' controlled
by such an evil system;
a metal contract was forced
on lost and bleedin' victims."

"I don't agree with you, man.
We're where we need to be.
With very little control,
we risk to eat for free!"

We risk to eat for free?

"Food's a commodity!
And with overpopulation,
I say this honestly!"

"Don't mean to interrupt;
your notion of depravity
appears dumbfounded and
far from grounded by gravity."

"I say this world belongs
to kings and innovators;
hope of the people is thrown
to the incinerator."

"We're seeking liberators
mightier than the sword.
We work to buy them a pen -
weapons we can afford."

"And when their eyes are wide open
I think that writers see
the world not for what it is,
rather what it could be."

"Yeah! They're talkin' for us metaphorically,
imaginin' utopias for you and me,
questions answered rhetorically."

The world is yours**
and no one else's,
so live to give it more time
through love and being selfless.

Barack Obama, first US President of African origin.
Langston Hughes, earliest innovators of then-new literary jazz
                                     poetry.
Angela Davis, African American political activist, and author
Coretta Scott King, author, activist, and civil rights leader
Katherine Johnson, African-American mathematician

Anita Baker, African American singer-songwriter
Muhammed Ali, African American professional boxer and activist
Erykah Badu, African American singer-songwriter activist
Rosa Parks, the mother of the freedom movement and civil rights
Ida B Wells, African-American journalist and feminist
Colin Powell, statesman and retired four-star general in US Army
Al Sharpton, civil rights activist and Baptist minister
N*elson Mandela, South African anti-apartheid revolutionary
                                   political leader

Under the unforgiving summer sun, their small, winged bodies hover from one flowering plant to another, working tirelessly in the sweltering heat as we laze in the shade...

Their work is endless, the product harvested in minutes. Smoked into a stupor while we steal their treasures, and if some of them die, so be it...

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
revered before by human royalty and great innovators,

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
who connects life and death,
whose children killed the demon Arunasura in India,
and were prophets to the gods in Greece and Rome.

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
her bees fell from the sun in Egypt,
aided the first living man in Uganda,
and created man from the back of a mantis in the Kalahari Desert.

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
her children are the origin of magic in Eastern Europe,
a source of fertility and a connection to nature in North America,
and fierce, terrifying warriors in the South.

Melissa, Queen of Bees,
the Great Mother,
the root of being,
the bridge to the afterlife,
we owe her children our lives,
the least we can do is spare them their's.

Anigh, is the darkling of the effrontery eagle, effaced, replaced; it's worship towards the devil. Gallons of blood, used as cover, ash and mud; defiling of ****** mother's. Gallizing men drowned in sweetness of drunkened friends. Gamins created by cankered loot, oil fills the pockets; diamonds make slaves to. Gangrels run kingdom's from their ancestral hand-me-downs, gaolers imprison innocents, whilst thy rulers throw ****** for babes at compounds. Innovators; mocking God's name. Mixing men with robotics, keeping the pure obscured, locking animals in a cage. Inorbing creation with cameras as eyes, like rats they scurry, hide; when the truth is knocking. Like a drunkard; This circular hell shalt rock as a ship, many planet's art approaching, none help shalt thou get.

©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poet's poetry
©prophetic poetry.

Word meanings:
Anigh: near.
Darkling: growing darkness.
effrontery: shameless.
Eagle: the united states.
Effaced: erased, forgotten.
Gallizing: add water plus sugar to make stronger wine from grape juice.
Gamins: neglected boy left to the streets.
Gangrel: vagrant, loose built person.
Gaoler: jailer.
Whilst:while.
Thy:your.
Inorb: encircle, surround.
Circular hell: earth.
Art:are.