the more I study
the more I educate myself
the more I learn
the more I grow
the more I evolve
the more distant I feel from you
all of you
and your ideas of reality, life, and how it’s lived
but the struggle of it all is that,
you all are who I want to share this Newfound land with
yet I can’t, because your comfort is blanketed in what is
which is my, ‘was’
and I doubt any of you would embrace the unfamiliar like I would,
like I do
because the unfamiliar is all I’ve ever known,
all I’ve been accustomed to
and you all only knew me while I was trying to fit inside your customs
just to feel like I was a part of your whole
so I’m tortured by the urge to share
by the reality of, knowing some treasures just have to be kept to yourself,
myself
because not everyone will recognize and appraise the same value to the things you discover as gifts
even if it was, is, or can be a key to a door of a much vaster and beautiful world
so here again, I must be lonely
because the more that I discover in myself and this life
may only be cherished alone,
because no one else will understand,
or care too
how many would willingly free fall from all they knew,
parachuting to an idea of a fuller freedom that may not manifest in material means?
I try to be a student of history and a child of the spirit
but that choice is likened to being alone with a pure truth and infinite power
which most could care less about
unless they could see and feel the immediate impact in their lives
such is the irony of those who also choose to live a faith-driven life
our language may never be the same
forever parsed by distant dialects of existence and experience
because while I can understand everyone else
almost no one else will, or can, understand me,
which is to better understand themselves
a self, that most will never know-
and never know that they do not know-
so what does it matter what I know,
if they prefer not to know, more?
or me?
although this loneliness bears more gifts, than a curse
because it’s the gifts that create the loneliness
but that’s the thing about a curse,
it traps you in what seems like an inescapable spell
but this spell,
is of discovering truth and freedom
but who gives a damn
and so lonely, and damned, I am
Honor Thy Struggle
the strength you think you have…
fits the life you live
ingest my struggle
possess its skin
swallow its pride
live its life
see its sights
hear it’s sounds
feel its feelings
bear its wounds
be above its average,
then expect and accept less
battle the world and the mirror
and still smile
then strength won’t be such a universal word
it’ll have a more profound meaning
it’ll be earned
and maybe,
just maybe you and I
can see one another eye to eye
understanding and respecting each other,
as equals
because in my life, we respect the struggle
struggle is the triumph
struggle is the stripes
Killer Instinct
when there’s nothing left to kill
whom shall be preyed upon
deviant desires don’t dissipate and disappear overnight
like vampires, the thirst always wins
cravings will carve a carnal tunnel
energizing the instinct to surge and convert
but to what…or who, next
In My Void
in my void,
I created you,
in my absence
I re-created my void
and now that void is in you
that void, is you
I often wonder
what did my creation create?
I created you
I created a void between us
now what has been created because of it all?
because of me?
and will it die, so something more can be unearthed?
or can it grow and mature into something of worth?
or is it just me that will always make it worse?
because I’m not only the father of your birth,
but also the father of your first hurt
Best of Both Wars
contemplating my death
before my life contemplated its life
before my life conceived its own life
and now my death awaits my life
and my life awaits death
I’m stuck in between the two wars
and this is my existence
sometimes I thrive
sometimes I survive
but in this great in between, I just vibe
because it is what it is
and that is my way of life
and I am, WayOfLife
so let it be the way
and let the way, be
so be it to suffice, until another way surfaces
until then,
life and death both await me
and I defy them both, by just being me
the best of both wars
I’m not a Poet, Surprised You didn’t Know it
what I write, isn’t poetry
to me
poetry is clean
direct in its route
impactful in its message
meticulous in its process
vast in its imagination of worlds
creating from conclusions and proclamations, cosigning a specific tone
poetry filters thoughts,
intangibly directing it towards a tangible something,
arriving at a statement, filtered of excess garb and gab
redundancy possibly overwhelming the message intended
poetry assumes an emotion, innovating metrics and metaphors-
playing with language and its neologisms, inside subliminal and ambiguous plots
I’m no storyteller
I don’t wish to learn to write right
I love embodiment and expression
because I’m a physical learner
absorbing emotions and events
poets have more maturity, discipline, composure, and structural form than I
they have more theatrical build-up than my impulsiveness has patience for
though we both have a flair for the dramatic and a desire to express
they have more harmony with the traditional mechanics of language
I detest tradition,
in that it is imprisoning to me creatively and personally,
I am broad in my edges,
and rebelliously sharp in my proclamations-as to compensate for the decades of voicelessness I embodied-
because fear of a truth that I didn’t fit in,
didn’t fit me,
or a truth that did not accept me
rendering me more lonely once exposed to conformity personified in my family, peers, neighbors, strangers, and authority figures,
all which I felt outside of,
and shunned from,
doing anything just to cling to a semblance of their acceptance for what I never naturally inherited-per my physiognomy, genome, geography, and manner of upbringing
but to me,
I take every bit of scrap and create a collage of expressions,
sometimes duplicitous,
sometimes ambiguous,
sometimes ambivalent
sometimes paradoxical
sometimes in prose and parables
I write in a solecism-type style,
with pompous wordy redundant uses of language
implanting colloquialisms, neologisms, euphemisms, and sesquipedalians
to create a raw, unforgiving, matter of fact way of speaking-a slap in the face- with the free flowing form of any conversation, plea, diatribe, and pontification for attention,
usually attached to a rhyme scheme,
as to be entertaining enough to be digestible to help whoever reading arrive at the end,
without leaving a word too soon,
and in that audacious and often witty juxtaposition,
I hope to create an invite into my depth
and the meaning of my words and the why of their usage
because words by themselves for me are hard to have enough attention span to read
but words that are raw expressive and creative,
capturing both imagination and emotion, always lure me in
all I wish to create is either a questioning that creates a journey in itself,
or a purging that creates a look into my depth,
that can’t just be conversed in its natural form
and may summon an empathy or familiarity,
where a bond can be formed
or at least an open wound congealed enough to get to the next barrage of pain and trauma left in wake of moments, before the rigamortis of new scars set in
I’m not a poet
I just prose emotional positions
to purge out my internal calamity
and external insanity
poetry is necessary as a translator
for its vast realism and imaginative impact
and to achieve, it must write and read with an eloquence and beauty
to believe my writing is poetry, you must first investigate and then redefine what your meaning of beauty and eloquence is
but since when have people ever liked change?
at least in their immediate lifespan, change is always spoken of as a point of pride, heroically lauded as a champion of humanity in the lense of history, but that same outlook never occurs interpersonally
change is too threatening
that is a line too uncomfortable to broach or breach, when people pride their comforts over conscience
change is the martyrdom of tradition and complacency,
it doesn’t not come without a fatalistic attempt at resistance, as if the very preservation it seeks will put an end to life, likened to an extinction-level event, if not accomplished
…and I think I’m dramatic?!
but drama is life, and art imitates life
and such is our country I suppose..
all that to say, I’m not a poet
I just Poet
poet justice, poet strength, poet individuality, poet pain, poet spirituality, poet equality, poet expressions, poet emotions, poet reality, poet truth, poet darkness, poet light, poet imbalance, poet balance, poet war, poet peace, poet struggle, poet life, poet death, poet love, poet confusion, poet prose, poet wisdom, poet process, poet growth, poet empowerment, poet imprisonment, poet liberation, poet redemption, poet truth, poet lies
and poet a drink or two and swallow the bittersweet and indifference
I just do me…don’t cage it, let it, me, yourself, and us all be free