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Poetry and Prose by Russell Wardlow

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Generational Curse (spoken word)

June 28, 2022 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

I am a generational curse
I am my generation’s curse
cursed,
fuck!
I am the reason my generation is cursed
spewing hatred, I’m hurt!
and I don’t care who gets it-
anyone can get it,
you can get it first!
I may aim this hatred at “you name it”
pick a name or be it nameless,
regardless reputation and just call it reparations!
you can’t structure the lane nor limit the effect and expression of what ‘pain’ is!
no clear definition painted
just scratching the itch that pain is

internal preparation for perpetuated segregation-
imposed on my being like mass incarceration

I was section 8’ed

insecurities and complexes not abated,
I need separation!
white people, all people, back the fuck up!

indoctrinated since educated,
I wasn’t educated…

I’m still not educated

retribution the best solution for defamation
my pride is all I got!
so hold ya tongue in check,
and keep it from character slaying and any semblance of disrespect,
cuz you best not say it!

dedicated to predestinations-
prison, matrix

my
historical excavation
brings about cultural restoration
foster child to imprisoned man, the highest incentives was and is
visitation
nobody visiting anyway

emboldening reservations ’bout preconditions imposed by slavers
onto descendants of slaves
America is one gigantic slaveship
and the flotilla was actually packed in spaceships

predispositions inherited
yet gave birth to Douglas’ and Harriets
railroads and chariots
still, instilled
predatorial merits cherished like carots
half man half animal, embellished
premeditative-
lowest character plot like a terrorist
fight or flight from assimilation
registered narratives
felons and Hellenists
heathens with melanin
plan B, tramzidole Zoloft Lithium Valium Ritalin

second-guessing my medication
it needs regulations
I Need regulation!
I know regulators!
I used to regulate!
no remorse when regulated
fuck whoever of no relation
No, this ain’t registrated!

erratic respiration
assented trepidation
I can’t afford a tepid nature

my traumatic shocks set tremors about my being
that quakes my status,
and places I’ve been raised in,
subversive behavior,
emerging from basements,
debased with no basis for acting this way,
besides this is the way we make a way through our days,
mazes and cages

I cope, so fuck medication!
fearing a vegetative-
state to keep me on my best behavior,
devastating my consciousness with segmentation

I stick out like decorations
I zone out, patience gets ran out, I’m turned off like the next direction

I hate being questioned

I hate asking questions

I feel stupid, you call me stupid, you’ll feel stupid!

I hang on edges, don’t threaten me with a good flight, never been on airplanes but I’ll do it!

so family secrets kept from surfacing to preserve dignity
but they didn’t realize those secrets enforced mentalities that taught me out of my divinity

I learned the language of scars before love nature planets and stars
I spoke fluent pain in every language,
twinkle twinkle how I wonder what you are

don’t show me love nor shine on me,
I don’t know that language
I’ll feel threatened, unconceal and reveal my weapon and return that damage…or favor
if love is food I’ma die famished as a hopeless manic
I heard it’s an infinite resource but a limited commodity and like bunny rabbits it’s cute but quick to vanish

I’m Ill-advantaged to feel its antics,
all good things banish
I’ll grip the essence like smoke and watch it escapes my hands
and like usually, I end up empty-handed

now there goes any chance for me to transform and transcend this vantage
my eyes are clouded by galaxies of hate fear intolerance and suppressed talents replaced by survival tactics to survive this world of challenges…
while being the disadvantaged

my pain feel as gigantic as state-sized asteroids on a course for earth threatening the end of days or at least apocalyptic conditions

most won’t survive me getting into my feelings!
there’s too much risk assessment to giving into my feelings, so fuck it I’m giving up every feelings

matter fact…
I’ll be as numb as the submerged and largest part of the iceberg unseen and I just won’t have any feelings

I wish I could live in a house that doesn’t have any ceilings
that way only God can always look in on me, I wonder how it would feel to live and not have any secrets
to not have to veil anything, how long would I live with
feeling the only eyes that matter on me as I process the things that occupy my existence, temperature, disposition and the surrounding system minute to minute-
which feels insurmountably persistent to impress upon me lemons and limits
reacting to everything as opposition and competition..

imbued with doubt, lacking confidence and faith in an all-powerful ever-present God’s omniscience
I’m so two dimensioned

but I’m just a black man realizing he’s the product of generational hurt
trying to break the chains of this generational curse
due to my ignorance pigment reciprocated projections and lacking discipline, my generations are cursed
by an evil spell that I can’t reverse
no matter how many attempts I rehearse
changing, nothing will work
if I don’t seek find and then speak the “safe” word
that heals hurt
builds worth
and will kill this generational curse that slithers inside like a tapeworm
that I identify more with than any promise or purpose discerned
as the day burns
but it has to be yearned learned and earned
and maybe this one-sided world, just may begin to turn
that word is…
LOVE.

Filed Under: Culture, Inside, Love

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Prose of a Con

Prose of a Con is a collection of Russell Wardlow’s prose and poetry written entirely behind bars. Through writings on family, spirituality, freedom, love, justice, redemption, and vulnerability, Russell seeks to show the humanity and hope of individuals like himself who are incarcerated.

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