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.

Winter's Child

Winter's Child

To live a dream, was to have a normal life,
a childhood devoid of any strife.
To live a nightmare, was to be all alone,
starving for love, all skin and bone.

There was a child, who couldn't sleep,
who couldn't dream, who couldn't weep.
She couldn't drink, she couldn't eat,
all she had were her own two feet.

A pretty child, a flower of five,
a miracle that was she was still alive.
She wore rags of poverty, but she had a voice,
her dulcet tones, her livelihood choice.

Her lilting song, unmatched by any other,
but for the love, that comes from a mother.
Her lullabies charmed all those around,
the humming bird's notes, now a tuneless sound.

In her small, dainty hands, she clenched a cup,
she was a child, but she'd already grown up.
Closing her eyes, she would sing with her smile,
and not a person could judge, this sweet little child.

In her cup, the coins started to fall,
as she continued, her melodious call.
At the days end, she counted her earnings,
she needed to satiate her hunger yearnings.

10 dollars within, it was enough to eat,
all she needed was a bit of meat.
She started to walk, she heard a cry,
unlike her song, this voice would die.

As if a duet, another cry pierced the air,
limitless misery, for everyone to share.
She followed the sounds, it was a sight to see,
a boy and his mother, cold and hungry.

She sings for them, quelling their fears,
she kisses them gently, wiping their tears.
She gives them her cup and she goes on her way,
she did not know, who she met today.

Staring at her back, is this mother of one,
as her daughter recedes in the setting sun.
A winter frost, settles that night,
a starving flower, a wilted plight.

In the morning, she is found,
no more song, no more sound.

Far Below the Canopy

Far Below the Canopy

Clouded judgement, an air full of dust,

once a tread path, now forgotten.

The arched boughs, the supporters of this canopy,

masking what lies below.

The realm of branches, enclosed by lustrous, emerald leaves,

home to the song bird,

unaware of what lurks beneath this elevated paradise.

Its song rouses the sun from its slumber, as it descends,

and sets the forest ablaze;

but what lurks below extinguishes the flickering candle.

Far below the canopy, where only the fleeting light remains,

one can hear the song bird trill, it's voice full of love- 

unwittingly mocking,
what lies below.

As the sun sets, the enclave is near darkness,

and what lurks beneath, moves.

One step at a time, moving across the forest floor;

with each movement, desecrating the graves of its victims. 

It walks, it slithers, it travels slowly-

each step echoing off the bones strewn below.

In the shadows, pools of blood stare,

their feral nature ready to come forth.

A cloying stench permeates the darkness-

the putrid essence, nearly tangible.

The song bird sings, as the sun bids 'farewell',

and what lurks below, pauses beneath the canopy.

The last notes of the song bird fade away,

a distant memory of what was once true.

Then all is silent.

Ponderings of a Thunderstorm

     As I gaze out my window, I see lightning flashes lighting up the sky and hear the constant roar of thunder as if some creature above was angry. The accompanying rain only perpetuates the storm raging in my mind. My thoughts are quite turbulent and as the storm rages outside, I shall write about the storm within.

     Often I come up with these ideas for stories and immediately I become excited to start writing. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I don't start writing but the excitement is still there. When I finally convince myself to start working, I can continuously work for hours at a time but I can get easily distracted by such trivial things as that fly on my wall- who perhaps is an actual person who wished to be a 'fly on my wall' but I cannot imagine why- I was told my room was a disaster.

     Instead of launching into a meandering monologue, which would serve no purpose other than to instill boredom in my readers, I'll just get to the point. I often lack the motivation to ensure my ideas bear fruition. Wanting to be a writer sounds nice on paper but there is a certain a bit of realism that comes with being a writer that one must face. Not everyone can write literature that would be deemed worthy of comparison to something written by Charles Dickens or Emily Brontë. Not everyone can write novels that would be appealing to the masses such as anything written by J.K. Rowling. Lastly, not everyone will notice you. It is a lengthy process to get a book published. It must be edited professionally, an agent is usually acquired as most publishers refuse to accept unsolicited manuscripts, it must be marketed well (it's a misconception that the publisher will do all the marketing) and people must love it enough to buy it. There are people at every step, people who could choose not to notice you and often that is what happens. I do not know if I have the talent to write something that could be published someday. It's that nagging doubt that steals my motivation away. 

     There's always at least two people in the world that will admire something within you. Anything. Maybe it's your sense of morality or your style of writing. Every person has a personality; every person has a talent. But for the second person to notice you, you must notice yourself. If you do not believe in yourself, then you will not progress far and no one will notice. I may not always have motivation, I may even doubt myself at times but I do notice what I have. I believe I have talent even if I don't know that, but it is this belief that keeps me going even when my motivation disappears. Never give up and believe in yourself but believe within reason. For better or for worse- at the end of the day that's all you have left to hold on to. 

     The storm has briefly stopped but it is still the 'calm before the storm', to coin a phrase- for the sky is starting to rumble yet again. The storm within has died off. Writing has set my thoughts in order, provided an outlet for the uneasy thoughts floating around in my mind. Another flash of lightning- the storm continues.

-Mango