Diversity and Imperfection
Anonymity. Poetry is the face of humanity. A message directly from the psych that has travel throughout light. The escape of fools, and the voice of the messengers and vagabonds of thoughts and inquiry. A gamble for millions of secretes and stories that waited a bit too long. Poetry is the archetype of communication intra/inter persona. The birth of letters and words meant to give us back our immortality.
Or you know, something like that
Poetry is my pain reliever. For a long time I covered up my pain with addictions, but when I started writing there was actually some relief. It didn’t just cover up the pain for a short time, it allowed me to let it out little by little. Through poetry I am able to let out my anger, my sadness, my hurt, and my confusion; those are all valid feelings, and poetry validates them for me. I know I am real, I am alive because I am validated through poetry.
I fell to the earth the other day – soil staining my kneecaps, and weeds braided into my hair like locks of twined green ribbons - your mouth was on mine before I could stumble to trembling legs that couldn’t seem to hold me up anymore and your eyes were shedding tears that looked like blue ink…
Ink is a poison, a drug, a lotus flower
One I take great pleasure in dabbling in
My life is stolen through my pen
And the murder is then inscribed in stone
Though pain and sorrow, freedom and justice
Create a different rhythm and mystery
I blissfully whisk through the glass
And allow these loaded guns to commit their crimes
Taking in several satisfying puffs of
This graphite narcotic
Allowing the ecstasy of paper drugs
To consume, to defile my being
To let the kisses of faded lips
Spoil my blank-palette mind
I would amorously allow the pastel ammunition
To take my most precious treasure
And bring me to the doorstep of
My dearest grim friend
Silhouette whispers
Shadows with hearts
No specific answers
Only playful dreams
Nightmares that feel
Remorse with misdeed
This is just a mask
Where all lies hidden
All is misjudged
And we are given
Petty little flasks
Of surreal emotions
Premonitions befallen
Upon those long, lost souls
Which all seem to neglect
Even when lost travelers
Seek to find a home
One is not given
And they are lost
Only left to give
Silhouette whispers
Library Scenery (Taken with instagram)
Library 2 (Taken with instagram)
From http://yeahwriters.tumblr.com/: Write a story/scene/poem/etc. where a girl is flashing a city.
Was she dared to? Is she trying to prove a point?
“Shut the fuck up.”
There was no fear,
No hesitation,
No regret…
We had embarked
For the streets;
The rooftops suddenly
Beckoned.
And then…
“Just do it.”
She merely looked back
Only for a second, smiling;
Then she pulled up her white v-neck
And yelled
“FUCK THE WORLD!”
I had never been more attracted to her since I met her.
She was the most enticing spectacle I had laid eyes on.
As she turned back to me
I kissed her.
I could not control my impulse…
But she did not defect;
The fervor of passion was returned.
Her shirt was still up,
But it didn’t matter;
We had only apathy
For the world below our feet.
“Rivers, Vains, and Roots” by Trevor Boykin (Taken with instagram)
Just procrastinating at the library
Hi (Taken with instagram)
Good bye my dear sweet
It’s time I bid aediu
For I’ve lost love
It’s slipped away
Like the sands of despair
And drops of dew
At every spring I sought to renew
What once was you and me
But I could forget the deed
That cast me out to this dark sea
So love came back to me anew
A shocker to my very core
I found the lilies sang her name
The sun shine down on her glass frame
My new sweet love is never a bore
Oh, how I adore her so
She changed love for me
With her hair tied with a blue bow
Once again, it is love I see
Reflected in those gray, misty eyes
I love alas once more
Hello my dear sweet
There were moments
There were memories
Promises broken
Amidst the pages sent to me
I was hoping
That you’d have something left to say
Instead I’m just here coping
And praying for the end of May
There are no more words
There are no more meanings
There is nothing left to be heard
…
In poetry, one writes to convey.
Convey what?
The heart, the mind, the soul…
All of one’s being and emotion
Yet some write with only half-hearted words
Because at those times we become writers who
Do not merely write to give insight
But write because our bodies compel us to
We write because we are angry or jubilant
We write…
When we have
Or even feel
Nothing
The pen merely refilled with blood-ink
So that our sanity can remain on the parchment
Writers…
We are not sane
We are not bound by normal human convictions
Or emotions and quarrels, the struggles of the standard
We are the embodiment of all human suffering and compassion
Yet we are not bound by a frigid mentality
We are those god steals from this earth
For we are those who have gained the most
We have suffered the most
And we are the ones
Whom require salvation
From not only others
But from ourselves
We are our own demise
But also our greatest gift
We are nothing.
