Oblivion

Slave to the world, to the land and to the nation,
born into disease, without provocation.
The sadness infests, it ain't dysentery,
there's no end for the war, in this century.
Surrender to the violence, they call it motion,
this land got water- tears of the ocean.
Poverty, sovereignty, the devotional legacy,
stirring up the past of emotional ecstasy.
The tale of the man, he's standing next to me,
the world looks at him and says, "hey you're dead to me".
The anger and frustration, it's a burden to bear,
that's the toll for life, but see life isn't fair.
The chemical imbalances, can be blamed for war,
but it is our values that truly determine our core.
They say carbon is the basis for all life forms,
what is the basis of societal norms?
Third world countries still face a hunger fight,
we examine third world planets, like that's our plight.
The innocent in cells, it's always the night,
we're upset when we lose an hour of light.
They climb trees for coconuts, that's their height,
we're higher up, because we can afford the flight.
They don't have doctors, so they lose their sight,
we buy contacts, so we look alright.
The rich of the poor, they play with a kite,
we need music and movies, for us to feel right.
Backed in a corner, their situation is tight,
do we care? "if it's here, we might"
People starve and go on hunger strikes,
do we care? "how many facebook likes?"
To explain this scientifically, let me go by the book,
then maybe these people, will take a good look.
See biologically speaking, we are all related,
the land was populated, when our ancestors mated.
See when humans were created, DNA had genes,
so chemically it says we all came from the queens.
Our walk is the same, we move physically,
our motion is the science of physics typically.
We are the same species, we appear the same,
society shouldn't look at colour and name.
The world is a chess board, but this isn't a game,
checkmating the pawns, doesn't make for fair game.
We are oblivious, that is neglect,
we're all wrong and that's what's truly correct.

The Woman Called Lolo, Part 1 - 10 Years into Mist

Even when sleeping the mind is awake;

unbeknownst to him, his thoughts have a meeting. 

The doors close-they deliberate, proliferate and then create dreams that resemble little of where they started from.

The origins are there; the maker of this tapestry has left his signature but has given no map to find it.

The sleeping mind wanders the turbulent sea, yet it flies in the sky on a dragon, for the debate is raging on as imagination takes the reins of the horse that gallops forward.

There in the shadows, a fair maiden awaits,

exchanging pleasantries with her,

as the chemistries take place.

The euphoric emotions, leave him with notions that cause an illustrious yet unbidden smile to slowly disturb the sleeping 'facade' that graces his face, every night.

In this moment he is awake in another world; a secret his mind conceals from him.

As he blinks, the fair maiden is pierced by an arrow and silently she drops to the ground- sorrow etched on her face, like a scar that cannot be healed.

 She dissipates into mist, drifting off to realms unknown.

Fear courses through his veins and he realizes that on Earth, he is truly sleeping.

The mind can no longer hide this secret, for he is now weeping.

Desperately he struggles to awaken before he must face death's dance,

as the twang of a bowstring echoes in the near distance.

In that moment before death, he awakens on Earth, his mind still alert, yet asleep in his dreams.

His eyes are moist, his mouth parched.

"Lolo?" he says trembling.
10 years it has been.

The fair maiden- someone he had once seen.
He has found the signature of the weaver of this tapestry,
it is signed in his writing but not in his name.
...A first, middle & last name ...
Lolo is dead.

Sleeper's Eyes

I find that poetry is an art form that can effectively create the illusion that my feelings are by any means- interesting. While my poetry ranges from freeverse to rhyme, my more recent work portrays a message of some sort. The themes vary from poem to poem but I have chose this poem in particular to briefly discuss. "The Sleeper's Eyes", discusses how people see what they want to see in order to make life bearable. They see grandiose illusions that appeal to the weaker part of their mind that wills these illusions to become true. Even a deer must see past the yellow grass illusions of the deserts to realize that a tiger lurks behind the stalks, waiting to pounce.

Even when a awake, many are still asleep,
reality is their slumber, they're still dreaming deep.
They cannot see, but they stare with their eyes,
at the masks we wear, at the tongue that tells lies.
Yet it passes by them, the ghost that cannot be seen,
high on our pedestal, haunted by our dreams.
The nuances of our life, tangled in a knot,
sleeping in oblivion, in this illusion of a cot.
'We stand above all', is the thought in our head,
but you're lying down, because you're still in bed.
Are we all equal? That remains to be seen,
see we're all average and that's what I mean.

Yet even the average person, has love in their heart,
still sleeping, when they say 'till death do us apart'.
The average person, does not love any more,
and it is this dream, that makes people so poor.
For when truly awake, the lover hears,
the sobs, the cries and the drowning tears.
'When the rain from your eyes, ceases to exist,
my being deceased will cease to persist.'

See the words of a person, who is truly awake,
will always reflect what is truly at stake.
But the eyes are open, they've closed their mind,
covering the windows- yes they're blind.
Vision is chosen, it is free will,
witnessing murder, but 'no blood was spilled'.
Call it a dream or a pleasant nightmare,
the clock ticks the time, warning to be aware.

If we ever do awaken, we will write a fable,
of how we all dined at the very same table.
If we ever do awaken, we shall see a fight,
a sight that can only be seen with sight.

The Senses - Part I

The human mouth, it is made to speak, But the words spoken, are truly too weak. For equality is preached from gender to race, But judgment is passed on the colour of face. The revulsion in the eyes, of those that see colour, Take away our luster and we become much duller. But see it’s the human ear, that hears and listens, And that’s why our tears will always glisten.
And it’s the human heart that was made to feel, And that’s why we will always be made to kneel.

Visionless Words

I speak words that I write,

that people listen to and touch with their hands,

as if the eerie silence is tangible.

The sun sets; the crimson of my veins grace the sky,

the violet flowers bloom as the sapphire recedes,

and the darkness slowly descends.

 My shadow comes out,

following me, listening to my every word,

as I stare at this nameless outline of me.

In the morning, the sun rises,

I speak words that I write,

that people listen to and touch with their hands,

but my words can't help me see ...

my shadow.

Destitute Destiny

*This work borders more on rap than it does poetry. The 6 poems I've written have all been of varied styles.

I'm sick of sickness, it's like a disease,

provoking for change but still trying to please.

I'm not a doctor, I'm not a nurse,

but I see how this world, has gotten worse.

What's my comparison, I haven't lived long,

forever is not needed, for the world to be wrong.

Looking in a mirror, I see my reflection,

to others their reflection, is a visual infection.

Their inspection is flawed, it's what's wrong with this world,

Lacking direction, like straight hair to curled.

Making corrections, it's their insanity,

when things don't work out, it's all profanity.

Then there are those that compare grass to roses,

infatuated within, a facade of poses.

Pity to pity, or misplaced vanity,

Judgmental and cruel, it's called humanity.

I don't speak for anyone, I just illustrate,

what an artist can't paint, is what I imitate. 

Initiate a war, that's our history,

it's all the bloodshed, that's really the mystery.

Taking control has been the primary reason,

"off with your heads," said the man of treason.

See the gold and the silver doesn't fulfill the greed,

it's diamonds that's apparently everyone's need.

Talk to the farmer who can plant a seed,

his crop is the only honest deed.

But it's the honest folk, that always dies,

behind the lies, you can hear their cries.

There will always be someone, greedier than the last,

it's another chapter in our past.

This earth was built on water, sun and air,

it never asked for a human to care.

Yet we tainted it's water, stole all of it's nature,

made it bow to us, eliminated its stature.

Despite all of this it continues to be earth,

Our mother, our land, our place of birth.

She's seen too much, she's stained with sorrow,

we're always taking away someone's tomorrow.

We are her children, yet we resent each other,

skin colour does not make you my family or brother.

This is our past, present and our future for years,

shedding tears like snake skin, only for our fears.

See we kill salmon, herring and all kinds of fish,

but we fail as humans, when we don't kill selfish.

This is our reality, this is our life,

that pain in your back? it is a knife.

See when I started this rhyme, you were fine,

but things changed when you read the last line,

it's been a few minutes but you've been stabbed in the back 

and that's why humanity will never be on track.

The Woe Queen

Wind swept hair, obsidian eyes,
beguiling pools, a thousand lies.
Honeyed words, from caressing lips,
bloody allure, mesmeric hips.

Adorned in snow, blooming in rain,
each step taken, another's pain.
Ancient in age, a delicate primrose,
a seductress, a temptress, a Queen of all woes.

A silken dress, the cocoon of a moth,
hue of her eyes, the onyx cloth.
It moves with the rain, the breeze and snow,
an ebony stream, that continuously flows.

A drifting feather, in silence she comes,
a voice of the past, is what she's become.
The harbinger of death, the charming black widow,
an exquisite spectre, a disguised minnow.

Hypnotic gaze, a pandora's box,
to be enamored, to be mocked.
Barefoot she ventures, she walks this earth,
to avenge, revenge, an antique birth.

Not a drop reaches her, as the skies well up,
her face never seen, unless all time is up.
When the skies calm, she is not here,
but the Lady in Black will always be near.