Why A Poem Never Belongs to The Author

Vengence, unguarded, has all but been abandoned. Anger, the burning coals the buddha talked about, drop them. See their sparks as they grind into the Earth, then darken into nothing. No time like the present, no fear but the accented. This is where I should always be, yet it means nothing when you stay stagnent.Continue reading “Why A Poem Never Belongs to The Author”

Hello My Pen, A Poem About Writers Block

Hello my pen, My long lost friend. I put you in your cup months ago, or was it years? You’re all I have now. These hands have toiled. This heart was broken. These eyes have cried. But still, my pen has ink. The hand that toiled Now wants that toil on the page, The heartContinue reading “Hello My Pen, A Poem About Writers Block”

Insulting, a poem

Too poor to write? Too dumb to be important. That is what you say when you scoff at the literate, When you make “beautiful” synonymous with “bougie” Literature and Revolution, name one that never had the other. Yes, the old guard is no longer revolutionary, but you still have much too learn if you replaceContinue reading “Insulting, a poem”

There is No Going Back, a poem in the time of Covid

There is no going back, Our heroes are dead. We are our own heroes now. There is no going back. – There is no going back, The tides are swallowing us, A virus is choking us, Our “leaders” are killing us. There is no going back. – There is no going back, You can’t getContinue reading “There is No Going Back, a poem in the time of Covid”

Behind Closed Doors, A Poem

More goes on behind closed doors Than you shall ever know. Yes, corruption and malfeasance But that is not what I mean. Behind closed doors, An abused partner cries. Behind closed doors A child’s dream is denied, Because Mommy got fired. Behind closed doors A young man cleans up his Grandmother’s urine Just like sheContinue reading “Behind Closed Doors, A Poem”

Hundreds of lives a year

Hundreds of lives a year, No rest for the wicked they say. But what is so wicked about selling something to feed a baby? When you have nothing to sell but flesh or a high, Is that really your fault? Hundreds of lives a year, Thousands rotting in the cold Or drowning in the rain.Continue reading “Hundreds of lives a year”