literature
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Je veux être connu sous un seul nom
Comme Dessalines, Christophe et Pétion
Comme Pelé, Ali ou un grand champion
Comme Edison, Jefferson et Washington.
I want to be known by one name
Like Dessalines, Christophe and Pétion
Like Pelé, Ali or a Great Champion
Never, never tell a good Poet what to write
Or what to say. The Poet always tries to be right
To be on the good and the best side of history
For some poems, you’re punctual:
You place your pencil on your notepad,
You settle in your seat,
You even read the syllabus,
The poem introduces itself,
I have fought with great feebleness for twenty-one days
Confusion, suspicion, suffocation, anxiety all were there
I did not see the sky for five hundred and four hours in a row
I craved words that could explain what I was feeling
I searched for the comfort that I desperately needed
And when I couldn’t find it in any novel, or poem, or song,
I wish I could forget you,
And all we have been through.
I wish I could free my self from
These prison walls around me.
Walls you built to torture me
Selfishly, in the name of love.
I'm awful sure
i never liked that damned book;
i always rushed through chapters
so i could read anything else
before the bell rang.
But when I open the windows nowadays
A classic, A man revered by the world
Stories stolen from others and passed
off as his own, The greatest of all time
Convoluted language, a sharpened sword
Opressive tool to step on those without
Inspiration has to be courted,
But, like a person infatuated,
I lack patience.
I am easily frustrated
By the lack of her favor, but
An old man
On a boat
Fishing
He's caught none in his day
But he is not a fisherman
Bring America simplicity
Strip the pomp
From our prose
You've done that, Hemingway
Old crusty
I think you thought you were
Witty
Clever old man
But I can see you
Looking down
The slow,
Sassy
Mississippi
Remembering boyhood days
And you make me
Petruchio and Kate, equals in wit;
Darcy and Miss Bennet, with surety;
Gilbert and Anne, sharing kindred spirits;
Marius and Cosette, in purity;
Petruchio and Kate, who view each other as equals in wit;
Gilbert and Anne, bright kindred spirits and beauties;
Darcy and Elizabeth, correcting any and all misgivings;
There once was a worlds, where theys, for live, were gone
The home you lived in, life mild, or did you think it was
Love? Justly so, or where to worlds could be, and life was
but that these, were of our people, We.
The God of Small Things in one hand
The waist of my world wrapped around, the other
We sit in mezzo-silence,
My murmuring the words of Roy’s clever, crushing prose,
Years ago, I picked up my first book and immediately I was immersed into a new world
Never to be seen again, as I drown in a sea of my own imagination
dusty covers
star crossed lovers
paper cuts
open and shut
i go through them so fast
know the feeling won’t last
Poetry taught me how to write Poetry
Prose has lots of rules and grammar and punctuation and it’s very cluttered in paragraphs, orderly yet stifling
Poetry has less rules
Shelley, Keats, and Byron:
The Romantics or the Tyrannts.
Colridge, Wordsworth, and Blake:
Men of nature or fate.
Jane Eyre, Frankenstein, and 1984:
When will we be our own?
Dearest Ophelia
I too spend my days wallowing in sorrow
Drowning in tears
Like you, I've a brother that cares not for me.
Sweet Ophelia, I too am lost
For I gave my heart blindly
Dear Authors,
I dream of your literature which keeps me up at night as I pore over each page, deciphering and synthesizing each phrase, detail, and word.
Dear Authors,
I dream of your literature which keeps me up at night as I pore over each page, deciphering and synthesizing each phrase, detail, and word.
The breeze flutters the inked pages softly,
A reader’s gaze follows every a word.
Nose stuck in a book, in hand a coffee,
Far off places and new worlds most unheard.
This is a tale of a pen warrior in the west
Mighty as Zeus but not a kin or next
And till death die he will always amuse
But his love for Mousai left many bemused
Composed with envy atop his brick wall
A gust of wind coursing through his veins
Humpty Dumpty sat and pondered, with tears in his eyes
as he studied his broken remains
My words are a journey in itself,
An adventure which defines my identity,
Most likely as an individual;
From a 'seed' to a 'root' stemming a lineage of an ancient wealth,
When you see me reaching down,
With a needful talon in clear distress,
Today my talents seem faint, so impotent,
From my beak croaks a mournful sound.
In the garden you'll find this raven,
It’s not what wakes me up in the morning it’s what keeps me up at night.
Because I wake up and my first words are
“I’m going to take a nap later.”
Then I get home.
My time for me, away from me
Away from the white noise and uncertainties of life
To be in a world apart from my own
A far away land in the comfort of home
Like the wizardry of a powerful mage
The pressure to find “The One” was immense,
Especially with it being my freshman year of high school and all.
Everyone was beginning to come into their own,
The power of poetry is incredible.
To pick up a tool and paper and decide,
I will change something,
with words...
is extremely powerful.
Humans have the ability to communicate,
When I was young I wanted the spotlight.
I did whatever I could to have people notice me.
Now, not that much.
I guess that is what happens
When you want to hide from the bullies.
Bring a pen to paper,
Hear the scribbling sounds
Do it now and never later
What you write may be profound.
Constantly erasing,
lit is lit
the written word
the modern expression
lit is lit
am i horse or girl
misinterpretation
despite careful deliberation
must get five
must get five
a juggler
18
You said we'd both be different when we're 18.
You said you'd see yourself in a band,
Or maybe just going to a nice college.
Then you asked me where I thought I'd be
And I told you I had no clue,
Suffocation. Pent up emotions
Boiling up inside me, begging
For release. But how??
Is there any way to release the pain?
Talking doesn't help, only hurts
Ignoring my heart only allows for
She flips page after page, anxiously trying to reach the end;
Because there will be an end,
And it will be a happy one;
Hers? She's not so sure;
But no, she won't think of that;
Holden is the catcher in my rye,
but who ever caught him?
Salinger, I praise him often
The Catcher in the Rye is the one book I need
It kept me up to speed
on the 50's
Crippled crying, face like paper,
pen that hinders and defies
a vision made by slender taper,
appalling to my watery eyes.
Chords that always come out rotten,
voice and string both shaking, shrill;
I.
Am.
A reader.
A starry-eyed dreamer
Who holds worlds in her hands on a daily basis
Escaping from the hum-drum to a mythical oasis.
I'm a devotee of words, a disciple.
How can love be sweet like a summer's day,
When it will always leave a bitter taste?
Capturing and blinding mystified prey,
Defeating mesmerised loves in the chase.
It smothers the heart in an icy grip,
Don't panic, our blue planet's a wonderful placeDreamers, we live, we fly, we soar, we singUnlike the desolate rest of outer spaceAlthough all curious wonders always bring.
The smile is a lie, a lonely cryMisunderstood perception of the mindThis moonless night no sorrows' death defyBut twisted and undone for fighting blind.
Everyone needs a helping handFor the heart and soul.
I talk, listen, and most of all,I care about you.
Don't be afraid, you can tell me,And I promise I won't tell.
Black for her darkness hidden.
Blue for her not yet cried tears.
Green for her pain that is there but not found.
Pink for all her fake smiles.
Purple for the laughs that pains her but she tries.
She sits in the room full with her friends.
They all laugh and talk.
But why cant she seem to smile?
She tries but their all fakes.
She had plenty of reasons to be happy.
She had her friends.
The happiest absolute of life to live,
would be to start the work, unnamed, in death,
But confused above this harsh world,
I'd died a worker with the riches.
That everything you wouldn't lose,
Wisdom in each droplet
like a sea of broken roads
with each forgotten memory
to lighten the weight of loads
.
For every breath forsaken
and every tear forgiven
A cloud so unreliableto provide such decent shadethough many stop to watch themthey're perfect, they're God made..They're made of wispy waterso white up in the skycollections of lovely ice
The air currents swirled
like water in the ocean,
swift and calming.
.
The air reminded me of fall,
though life blossomed like spring,
new and refreshing.
.
A garden green,
A svelte owl,
on wing through this dark mooned night,
an ego ghost on the prowl,
to find what has been for his might.
.
Elusive moonlight,
scattered over frosty grass,
Within, there must be that voice...The one to push you to succeed.For me, it tells me that all is okay,And I need to prepare for what I may see.
A goddess, leads to shoes, leads to sports
Leads to drinks, leads to cars, leads to on and on and on
Words and words and words
Such wonderfully malicious beasts
When released
by those
who know
Desire thrives best under pressure.
Examine, for instance, the fragmented poetry of Sappho:
for how many years did those tattered scraps of Papyrus survive?
Robbed of throne and robbed of crown
robbed of family and of dignity
robbed of school but not of worth
appers a father's ghost.
Killed or murdered has been answered
but the question of revenge has not.
Some may say that this is powerful stuff
But the general consensus is that it's not different enough
You have to be the next Green, the Rowell of this generation
But all this standard lends to is my general consternation
A thousand heroes Standing tall, A thousand heroes Together fall. From beneath the dusty, Yellowed pages Charge these warriors Of varying ages. United they stood,
I stand in an empty room But I am not alone. Big Brother is watching you. I think in my own head But everyone knows my thoughts Big Brother is watching you. I whisper to myself But everyone can hear me Big Brother is watching you.
Type.
Just type.
My fingers dangle above the keyboard,
Splashing each word, verb, sentence-
That comes to mind.
The words are like snow to me:
Soft,
Delicate,
And pure.
White as snow.
The dead trees
With no leaves.
Animals hibernating
In a deep sleep.
The night is silent.
The water flows
Calmly.
Woosh! Woosh!
The wind blows in,
Giving the night
Before:
I have never so alone
I will let it get to me
And I will never stay in the past
But I will always be smiling
The ocean mirrors midnight sky,
barely brushing our toes.
I whisper words
I want to write beneath your skin,
my violent delight.
I lay by you on the moistened sand,
It's a lonesome life,but with a flame that entices the soul
To attract others and fight the good fight,
in our hearts, you know you're right.
But what happens when someone takes the keys,
"I've Learned" by Nicholas Jones.In my 18 years of life,I've yearned for happiness,And I've yearned for strife,I've learned of death,And I've learned of life,
Candy is delightful, destructive, including soothing.
I relish Reese because,
I endure the peanut butter that is cradled in the chocolate.
It accumulates mass, however its great to lounge with.
I find that as a writer
I'm not very good
At using colorful language
Or creating vivid imagery
In a person's mind
With only words.
I'm really good at black and white
Cut and dry and to the point
I've learned many things
In the eighteen years of my life,
Many of them being rather disconcerting.
Perhaps to you,
But not so much to me.
We learn what we are taught. We use crayons to draw up a life that’s already been planned in permanent ink. But we still try.
Wandering amongst the maze of shelves,
I hear their whispers of stories yearning to be heard from a multicolored sea,
Who grows up like their parents expect
Now-a-days?
Divorce when I was three
Marriage when I was four
Divorce when I was eight.
Maybe I didn’t grow up in the slums
Bad as it could be
When I was five years old,I heard that boys stood when they peed.Angry and jealous,I dragged my princess panties down to my ankles,Held my skirt above my belly button,
I had never noticed as a child, but she was always there.
Veronica clasped me close, and held me in her stare.
Her fragile reflection pursued me to the broken footsteps of my home.
If I could take a pen,
And make the world understand,
I would,
Paint a picture of peace,
Clarity among the people.
I would make them all read,
Open their minds and see,
If you find something you love; then you'll never work a day of your life. I was told this as a child. I was told this as a teen and now im just understanding the concept of how it can effect my life.
Tired,
to even when the pen scratches paper,
an uneven blank etched scrawl,
It mirrors the state of mind,
a crease present now and for all the pages to come,
Over lines and crossing through spaces,
Literature is as necessary to the mind as oxygen to the body,
Reading helps the brain develop and imagination soar.
Ranging from an ironic drama to a jocular comedy,
Literature has several shapes, sizes and form.
Folds of purple satin cloth,
Swallow me.
The lancet from out of darkness,
Taunts me.
Creaking stairs choke on themselves,
begging for attention, I cannot give.
Colorful cotton candy is grasped firmly in children’s hands.
And their parents watch as they go ‘round and ‘round.
Some may never have the chance to see these fun-filled lands
Crystal clear water
dances effortlessly amongst the reefs.
The crest of waves
fall upon the sand
like gentle giants.
Seashells abundant in every direction
are vivid in the morning light.
Close to my head a monster lurks. Although she seems tranquil, her sounds
I fear.
She's dangerous, but delicate. There's a music to her roar, a gentleness.
I love reading. I really do.
When I was a kid, I used to curl up on my bed with a three hundred page book.
And then I'd wake up in the morning and the book would be gone, finished.
Difference is separated in a community
Where it's hard to find another
To break away from negativity
Just to be together.
Sometimes belonging never really feels equally connected
A gift card was given to me,
It was alive not with spending power but with literature,
The concept was familiar but I would have to spend the last cent,
in order to understand it’s true worth, or its lack their of.
Sitting at a desk in front of a screen with a blinking line
My fingers don’t touch any keys,
But rather they trace the edges of a box,
An adventure all to myselfI once again escape into my own realmA kingdom that has been lost to all but IA land that has been enveloped by my imagination
Tales like foxtails pepper my mind
And I find that naked the wind hurts
But clothed not so much.
I am from out-of-the-notebook poetry, happy and sad.
From broken Luna ukuleles and loud music.
I am from the constant but happy silences, echoing into the night.
Worlds grow,
Budding behind unfiltered eyes,
Breaking from tradition.
Christened creativity,
In actuality,
Unrealized forms of magic.
The potential,
You can't talk back to me
I don't talk back to you
But the words you speak to me
I listen through and through
I can't look into a person's eyes
I studder when I speak
But the words you speak to me
The art is never visual to the eye.
It’s not always painted and framed on walls,
Nor has it always consisted of paints.
Repititious summers drive denial home for one more night.An indestructible contradiction prays past sarcasm
Life is poetry.
The delivery and how you read it
Changes its meaning and how it’s interpreted.
How you deliver yourself and how you read your mind
Changes people’s feelings and how they’re influenced.
Inside I can see, I can feel
Everything is beautiful, everything is perfect
I revisit the outside
The fear, the worry, the insecurity
I hate it
I dread it
Let me back inside forever,
This house is full of the sort of warmth
that comes from good conversations
and good books.
A welcoming place that won’t change you,
but will help you change
if you want it.
For the "I Am... Scholarship Slam."
We write, we hide,
we live our lives in coffee shops,
sippin' tea from little mugs,
stains on our teeth,
contemplating the meaning of life.
Why I write? I write because it’s right and its fundamental value can compensate for what I’m feeling. I write to tell the story of my life, what I’ve done, where I’ve been, what’s my meaning?
Our life is Fragile, our life is short
So when life took you I didn't know where to go
I found myself visiting the places we’d been
Reminiscing of the times you stood next to me
The more I remembered the more I cried
Expression is a lethal weapon,
Locked in my own judgments,
Don’t understand why I’ve been chosen to fill the shoes of an unholy person
Coal black attacks like razor knives,
And grips and rips your dreams good-bye.
It calls your name—oh countless lives
Have no known clue what myst’ries lie.
Give me your pain
every ounce of it
Drop every single drop into my mouth
Let me taste it
swallow it, consume it
When your pain is in me, you are in me
I am you, but you are not me.
Once I was a legend,
Of getting all Cs straight.
Teachers laughed, so did friends,
Then came sister and mom.
No spur I was down
Of shame and jealousy
Of stupidity and folly
Abhorrent how I was.
I feel in a chapel the same way
I feel in a bathtub
Old with iron feet and spindle faucets,
Or in a treehouse made of pirates and magic
And simpler days.
I look up at the speckled ceiling
Or painted chapel
A poem is
A poet's ways
Of portraying life
Precisely as it is
With a twist,
Betwixt a reality
And no sense of rationality
(Rationally-speaking, of course).
A poem can
A woman's assumption made wrong
Betraying her husband who's gone
Caught by the town, a baby was found
Distressed, she confessed, by her sins she is bound
Extracted from prison, she stands on the scaffold
Twenty six letters composing a phrase,
Letters that have the power to break chains,
Whether they exist in books or essays,
Penetrate my heart, running through my veins.
In a remote European kingdom
Lived two feuding families:
the Montagues and the Capulets.
Romeo, a Montague,
met Juliet, a Capulet,
at a party one night.
I smile when I read this line of Shakespeare
And I nod to myself
And think
That never have I been so satisfied
With a few words typed on paper.
There are certain precautions one must take
when stalking the aisles of a book store.
It isn’t so simple as a stroll in the park
or a saunter along some moonlit path.
No. This is war. You’ve entered the most
