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I have a direct question to ask the minister of national security. What gives you the feeling that you are a better person than the ones whom you regard as criminals?
One of the beautiful things about nature, is that nothing feels as if it were looking down on me, passing judgement. It stands with me by my side. An oak trees wisdom is that it is still and embraces me without having eyes or any of the senses.
You are right And I’m wrong Like a bad song I keep my lips tight And my face as long As I can all year long.
The third and last poem in my final project assigned under the ELA 12 poetry unit. Dated 10/22/2019
You can easily identify false Christians by their questionable speech and action. They are like wolves among sheep and weeds growing together with wheat. And they are full of inordinate pride, self-righteousness and hypocrisy.
Strolling, walking, ambling So many ways to just say walking People go through life, focused on themselves Not noticing those few who sit and watch
The clouds are blissful. They show a silver lining. Life travels forward.
Even blind eyes recognize real lies, Her real eyes soon and surely realize, That these guys can't provide,.. what their boasting and bragging describe,
I have discovered the perfect plan. One that will keep thoughts and others at bay. I will learn their ways, their ideas, and emotions. I will be the perfect victim. I will learn to talk and say what is expected.
A moment frozen A single glance An observation made Of a boy's concentrating face. Golden hair tousled, Fingers cupping bangs, Rosy lips slightly parted,
The time that one takes to stop and look around Observing all of what the human condition can achieve. The amazement and wonderment of a child I have. For all that we're yet to discover and that of which we have.
You're tired so very tired
I travel by train and I look out My window, my legs are too close to the grey-man beside me Headphones in, power chords, progressions I am progressing, and my knees Need a shave; they catch on the silk of his suit.
Some people say I’m selfless. That I wake up and put myself on the back rack, But it’s definitely not that. When I wake up I look in the mirror past the dried slobber and nappy dew
A place of students They come for two things Desks and internet To relax, to study To pick up textbooks from a cubby A place of modernity Glass and concrete Microchips and metal
Quiet is the observer Motionless in kaleidoscopic torment. I thought until thought was meaningless. “Grab the pen! Grab it, you coward!” A ceaseless voice streams Through an intravenous drip.
Away from my body, Exiting the mental noise. I observe the feathered edge of light Surrounding these form-bearing objects. What is the meaning of meaning? The stem-held nerve endings sway
Existence lies creation Of the world with extreme variations My breath is gone away A kiss that's long to ever stay My delusion of my farther reach of the cosmos
I was going to start a poem about this topic But seriously fuck you if you think I write for anyone but myself I am
God has silver hair.
You’re afraid of what could happen So you constantly keep up a wall You are in a constant battle But aren’t we all?
hanging from a petals poredrying slowly above the floor,of yellow roses and red sunflowers. paint a florist affair as birds outside shoot ray-guns to the sun.
Beneath the HemlockI am at easeMy heart calmAs my mind. Beneath the HemlockI am at peaceAs I sitIn the soft grass and shade.
Intrigued, intrigued by life I see everything surrounding me. I feel it too. I went from learning to tie shoe to being able to choose.. Choose who it'll be I'll see in front of this country.. Ain't talking U.S. when they talking bout Us man..
In this mind full of clutter, this mind they called crazy. The memories still live, yet the image is now hazy. This paper understands me, it puts my mind at ease. With a deep breath, I write and the voices suddenly cease.
I write to express myself To show that there’s more To what you see on the outside Inside there is a girl Who has been through hell and back But keeps a smile on her face
Everyday we walk through the Air. We hear things, See things, in a way that others don't. Everyday we walk through this Hell. We feel things, taste things in a way that others don't
He looked as if he was transported from a Druidic circle of stones during days long past.
He looks up and sees the moon. It looks beautiful tonight.
In New York City, you’ll find two kinds of people; those who see something and say something, and those who see something and assume nothing is wrong. As I walked to the South Street Seaport one weekend last Summer,
Intelligence used to be a virtue, Ignorance used to hurt you, But in the past few decades the roles have reversed . . . I though about rhyming but now it's a free-verse,
Passing by their faces show, The ignorance hidden deep below. I read their faces like a book, Absorbing every dirty look. Fear and guilt consume their eyes, Unconcealed through pretty lies.