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kevin Mar 27
i own a delapidated apartment complex
transfered to me in obligation of legislation
this is a single watergate
a gate from which i am responsible to provide moisture
the ink publishing rights i have are civil rights
they are not civil rights violation
i have not committed treason by causation of fraud in the legislature by mismanaging legislated possession and title of house
the timeline and events in historical record that have handled these paperworks are not able to re handle the violation
i have handled my paperworks without clerical error
my paperworks and identity are not in question
my paperworks and identity are my personal property
What makes a piece of art beautiful are its imperfections
Smirks and smears that callously redirect ones attention
When the piece can transcend societal norms and march upon new land
Constructing a new sense of understanding that bashes boundaries many never understand
It is in that instance that creation reaches its epitome of aesthetic

Melanin……
I reiterate MELANIN, God bless the skin that it’s enriched in
Imagine being birthed with a substance that halts the aging process
That personifies strength and out runs the confines of carnivorous opinions
Easily absorbing and reflecting the sun’s kisses as if its purpose was to point to the right way with light rays
Just the thought of being born lit is enough to brighten up a black person’s day!
And dear I say God looked upon you and thought to himself
You deserve a few extra dashes of my chemical X incarnate

As if your bronzed caramel skin wasn’t enough to garner sin
Those spots that delicately mark your face
They intrinsically provide a map to where any and many can find an escape
They are scientifically classified as clusters of concentrated melanocytes
But to any human not gifted with scientific insight
They can be categorized as imperfection whose greatness is directly proportional to the chaos of loss
The L taken by any X of yours that couldn’t step up
For any passer-by that is struck in awe by your gaze
Then immediately sullen by the fact that at that moment
Those seconds were a part of their last happy day
Because to go on living in a world where those cautiously coined clusters cannot be seen at one’s leisure
Is one life that is bereft of joy and filled with everything meagre
…..where one never wakes up eager

I pen this poem with the burning desire to let my fantasies run rampant
To the minds of the individuals whose faces are blessed canvases

So that they know they are walking statues of vigour and vaulting hues
Specifically my Black Brothas and Sistas that were blessed by the Gods
And given a torch that burns more radiant than the polygamous escapades of Zeus’s heart
I want you all to know that you add something extra to this world
That your beauty marks, moles, scars and freckles are a sight to behold
So continue to tread this earth carefully as children that hold the keys to its Gates
You all are indeed the Melanin Kings and Queens that leave nothing but courageous attitude and aspirations in your wake
And Lead with everything that Melanin can provide in its namesake
Pixie Feb 11
Beyond the hills, they understood me,
In the quiet of my mind, I am seen.
Then my eyes are ripped open, the world hits me like a wave, the anger thick and metallic in my mouth. My pulse races, my skin aches — everything feels too loud, too bright, too much. I can’t escape, and the weight of it all is crushing me, like a  drop of water dripping constantly.

I was not a problem child,
I was a child with a problem That caused me to process the world in patterns and pieces instead of as a whole. I wasn't a puzzle I just needed stability in the home.

Around the river and down the path they supported me
But I'm laying in bed instead
Paralyzed in my own skin, stuck in the chaos of my mind.
Hearing their words on repeat and rewind
Lazy lazy lazy
Try harder try harder try harder
You're a liar liar liar
But I'm trying my hardest I'm doing my best  and the weight of their disbelief presses heavily on my chest. It's thick and suffocating they can't see the mental war inside of me, just the absence of my results. I regret to inform you that It wasn't laziness but invisibility that was a plague to me.


Even when I mixed up my letters and struggled to sit still. I could never be quite and my mind spun like a windmil, running 3 miles a minute,  my mind has never known silence and peace. Though somehow to them  it was always a calculated plan. I would manipulate them with ease.

Fear claws at me, a constant gnawing,
My head starts spinning, and the weight of failure bears down.
I avoid, I freeze, my mind a storm, afraid of failure and afraid to try creating a tornado of paralysis in my mind
I try to speak, but my words are tangled in knots.
no matter the effort and energy I use
It always seems to be reduced, in their minds,
It's all a tactical plan, a game I play to illict attention, even if I lack having an attention span.


When my brain can't comprehend the world in a typical way, I'm told I just need to grow up and deal with the pain.

Lacking the ability to thrive as a child, no one to support the way my brain had been wired, falling deeper and deeper into the role of a liar.

I'm too smart to struggle
I don't apply myself and I lack the ability to juggle multiple tasks
They swear I'm lazy
And I know I'm not good enough for the world they made for me
I can hardly talk to the cashier ladies
I need to improve my work ethic
I need to apply myself.
But what good is trying when you already know you're piling information on top of itsself, crashing and malfunctioning, the system creating coding errors, measured in dysfunction and despair.

Sitting on top of the tree, the branches hug me as I lean into them. I can't be lazy if I climbed all the way up here. I can't be dumb if I know how to get down. I know that what I feel is normalized as unproblematic in my parents town. I can see beyond my struggles and I know I have the ability to succeed. I excell in subject that are beyond me, even if I lack basic literacy and feel lonely.

Everything is normal nothing is symptomatic I'm just being dramatic I'm only a child and children like me can't have that.

Feeling the breeze hit me, and taking in all the shame, I struggle to understand myself and I lack the ability to make it a game. My struggles slip through the cracks and I'm always met with attacks. The fact remains the same that imposter will always be attached to my name

My feelings slip through my finger tips, like sand in the wind. I reach for them on the wheel, but the words dissolve before I grasp them, not even having names. only shapes, fleeting like shadows. Hiding behind the walls. There is not one word to describe this pain at all.

Failing to help regulate my constantly  unregulated body and speculating my motives. Constantly on the edge of our seats fighting for my mind to just be right. Hoping for us to all feel peace

Down by meadow surrounded by flowers, I hear the wind and I know the truth at last. I needed support and a helping hand. A routine and someone to try and understand. Someone to help me find peace within myself and not find chaos in their judgement . I wasn't the problem, I needed to be seen, not as a puzzle but as a whole piece. It was the world at hand not being built for a brain that  processes information like I can
Anyone else need to use the wheel of emotions to figure out what they're feelings
ben dover Jan 31
i knew what i was destined to do,
to be,
to see
the surface of the water had broken
splattering liquid across the lakes surface
causing more and more ripples  
making my impact
only to slowly drift away losing momentum
slowly one day being forgotten...
making the water clear once again.
i wanted to make a poem called clear
zozzyz Jan 9
يغازلنا المطر و الغيم يا من بعدي
تدافع عني مهماً انقال و كان ضدي
افكر من بعد السحور و الوردي على خدي
لو انك تدري الي يدور فالقلب و في صدري

قال لي شخص كله حكمة و نور
خلك من الباقي و ابقى مع الي يجيب السرور
دام ان الوقت يركض لا تركض وراه
تابع ايامك  ولا تطلب رضاه

فالحفرة تكون لي سروري
تلعب بأشاير الحب مع فاضٍ خط المروري
فألي مر عليك هبته ريح الندا
لؤلؤ كعيونك الي تنسيني همومي و الشقى.
onlylovepoetry Dec 2024
See the profile pic
See the little girl
My baby grandchild,
coucher bouncer dancer,
now so much more
almost all grown-up

Who now knows to inform
Herself by reading words
In “hole” books, she reads
all by herself

So for a Chanukah
present, the doting
Grandfather sends
books, Quelle surprise!

The little charmrr
trained in both
manners and text tech,
reports in that:

* I read:
“Never let a unicorn
wear a tutu”
just right now.


So somewhere
an old fool tears
up, with a pleasure
immeasurable, and
****, he is thinking,
is this;
the bestus
onlylovepoetry
he has ever composed?

and her replies
in years yet to go bye
to himself will surely
arrive as follows:

“Old codger, do not be
a silly old man, not your
best but maybe your
purest love poem
from the joyous mixture
of tears and laughter
making you happily drunk…”
zozzyz Dec 2024
وينك يا جاذب شعوري             و مطمن إحساسي
كتبت عنك رواية تنقال         و وصفتك في اشعاري
غرت عليك من الباقي          و ما سمحت للي نوى
انغمرت فالليل و عيونك       و اخذ يلعب فيني الهوا
   خذيتني بسؤال طرحته           كنت نسيتني الهم توا
و نضراتك تدلني طية            تلمع و كأنها موه
سلبت روحي و اخذت        صبري  و انفاسي بقوة
     اننا نفترق لعيون الغير           ماهو شي قد شرحته
احبك  والله                    قلبي لغيرك ما فتحته
عيونك تغطيها الشهب       شي ما قد وصفته
احتار بين الكلمات            ما قد كلام شين بعثته
احبك, و ربي انا واثق من الي كتبته.
Left Foot Poet Nov 2024
“In some office sits a poet,
and he trembles as he sings,
and he asks some guy,
to circulate his soul around”
Joni Mitchell

<>

joni:
your both sides
then and  now,
was my guiding glasses
for a life of motley loving
and love, gained, pained,
lost and found
as a younger man,
and now, as old soul
with rear view perspective,
the glasses tinted transition grey,
(matching his pallor, his hair.
his transient perspective,
trembling fingers as he writes,
with humility,
0
pleeze circulate these
decoded words
mate them out of clay
hoping  come new daylight
one or two, even a few
will lend a rosy thistle, blow softly
an encouraging breeze
upon this poem
the freedom to burn into
glowing embers
in our circulating worlds
of pass/fail
it’s my mere soul
you pass judgement
with a hint of tasteful scents
on
and beyond
with an
honorable push
your mentioned
breath,
guiding them
to the currents
where poems go to
blossom
Nov ‘ 24
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