Culture

Tense as petrified wood
Bare bodies shudder in shivering states misunderstood
Dense in thought as autumn leaves returning down to their roots
A native man never spared the diversity of his unholy truths

Confined in booths of skin where people no longer mirror
Tempests of terror and the fear of other tiptoeing to not commit racial error
A habitat in eras where purity of skin is akin to success and material good
Never have we left a state degraded by where the imperial once stood

They have moved on and left us where we belong
So long, scorn, and see you tomorrow for you are not yet a bygone
By the names of our winding rivers and fermented livers refusing to move on
A new dawn tattered and torn, a pawn of hope like the Pope kissing new born before sending him down life’s sliding slope

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Art

Putting me at ease, the magic in art refuses to seize. I await the next exhibition and eagerly expect the best from the next gallery. Influences range for individuals and subjective to taste, the art I enjoy is a full plate of delicacies carefully prepared and served for keen eyes that wish peace from the absurdity of the world.

Monet, Picasso, and Cezanne, the list of classics is endless. Like a friendless boy finding joy in his books and toys, I loiter through galleries fixated. Elated by the fresh, the smell of oils and paint do little to quiet the hunger in my heart for works new and quaint. The skins of paintings carry the embodiment of artists, similar to traces of mist covering landscapes in morning light.

A painting must not be touched; an artist’s life is usually not worth much. The beauty in the eye of the beholder, growing warmer with each cold blow shouldered. Closing my eyes, the works are still there, bare and naked harboring experiences that cannot be replicated. My feet await the plod through the next corridor, into the world of art through the artist’s front door.

Poverty

Taunted and gaunt, flaunting not health but want of necessity
For the food, clothes, and shelter of others, sweltering heat upon backs tanning them further into a darkness covered
Rags covering their heads, is it too much to ask for a bag of bread and a safe place to spread at night when they rest away their dread
The best of the living dead, a dollar a day and officially literate so they may sign away their head without ever reading what has been said
Finger prints and rations, masters without compassion with only a lust for action in the fields, factories and for cash in hand for their schemes and plans of detraction
Modern day man made machinery, efficiency and greenery flaunted by corporations painting the perfect scenery
Green as their envy for those above
Climb the ladder, the sadder the pyramid at the top
The food chain is toppled through cash, people purchased like plots
Lives bought and sold until they are used and old without value in flesh and gold
With nowhere to go, the show must go on and they must be gone, prying off the fingers of those who hold on too long to a life they do not belong

There is no one left to blame, the perfect system is a nameless game of traditions and hierarchy that does not favor the sane

Timeless Defeat

Defeated in purpose by these minutes of surplus
Curses in bold cursive birthing verses frantic and nervous
These pages refuse to serve us, unnerve us in truths and fervor
Left to murmurs of what was before time crushed all upon its surface

Rest assured peace shall not be found
Bound by the rotation of earth and repetition of a world perhaps less profound
Down in our dumps, the thumps leave lasting lumps on our days now numbered and numb
Dumbed down and smartened, disheartened and sensible to a world so duly darkened

Ticking clocks blunting shock stacked upon the building blocks of man
Span wide standing tall with a ball and chain to refrain from pain staking plans
Deafened by mind, threatened in kind from behind walls of the jilted and blind
Yet life finds time within these moments to test what is left in the best our lasting lines

Surfaces

Scratching surfaces
digging in nails
to peel, to cut out
to rout appearance
casting an eye on your inner

A prized winner
skinned, opened
to show the losses, the bruises from brunt of effort
behold a package, perfectly wrapped for pleasure

Growth

Bills gutting the thirst of thrills
Drill into us adulthood until we are gone for good
Cram and claw, jam and saw pieces of discomfort until raw man is overwhelmed in awe

His moaning jaw complains no longer
Stronger in his back, stacked with straws and scars
From afar, he fits
Seldom he sits
Omits reference to self and others
Slowly disappearing into a life so covered

To live in love

The passing tragedy that is the life of others
Is not ours as intact as the first kiss between lovers?

How it is, without a broken heart, to touch lips sealed under moonlit covers
smothered, unconcerned under guises of one another

What it is, to love fully

But those cruelly detached from cupid’s arrows
the marrow of human motive
bound to lessons in humility
living life single in sedentary silences bound to frigidity

Love does not touch all, does not clutch on for long
Does not take us where we truly belong
Does less right than it does wrong

The unopened letters sealed under statements of sentiment
will they open into the arms of others or die away into dust
met with earned distrust
to thrust away the ways of an affection so often unjust

Failure

Lose to gain, the sunlight to rain
Maintain composure, light as leaves grieving the season’s closure

Humans stripped, dignity flipped
Boxed in, shipped out, cut loose, gutted by truth and left out

Fail until the strangled wind in your sails cries foul in your name
Brush off your shoulders, roll over boulders and move aside mountains in toughened states of growing older

You will succeed, you will be great
And the game shall end with a fully chalked slate of determined destiny and acquired fate

A Hopeful Dawn

A hopeful dawn rising in the earth’s distance
layers of fog accumulating; the light not wishing to shine through today
saving the sun, making way for mist
insisting on lasting into the high noon
shrouding us in our steps
clouding around us in the warmth of our breaths

Baggage

The rocks that crush into gravel upon impact of feet
smashed to cinder, crushed into little fragments of whole pieces that once were
Lay a flag, mark an arrival before moving onto smoother surfaces
Dragging little pebbles in the cracks of boots
pieces of the past brought along without any fault of their own

Without accord, the smashed pieces travel without my knowledge
with me, wherever I go, wherever I decide to be
Those that wonder how the pebbles entered onto smooth surfaces
they should look no further for the culprit