Classism At Its Finest

Should a man be judged by
The shabby clothes he wears
The way he smells, for the fact
That he is a simple bum enjoying a hot meal?

NO!

Should a woman be judged by
How short or long her skirt is or
How she does or doesnt show her cleavage or
How she may or may not put out?

NO!

Should a person be judged because of
Their sexual preference(s) or
Their personal gender identity or issues or
Their capacity for loving many at once?

NO!

Should a person be judged for
The god or gods or lack thereof they
Choose to worship or not worship
And for the rites that go with it?

NO!

Should a person be judged based on
Whether or not they trust our bi-partisan system
Whether they are Democrat, Republican,
Green Party, Libertarian, or Anarchist?

NO!

America was founded by the people,
For the people and increasingly we are
Shoved onto the sidelines of society or
Put into boxes of stereotypes.

WAKE UP!

That homeless man with his pack
Could really be an Angel stuck on
This now hellish Earth, being his best
So that he might be prepared for wings again.

That woman in the "slutty" clothes
Is not asking for rape, she's
Merely taking pride in her beauteous
Figure and graciously allowing us a glimpse.

That gay couple walking down the street
Holding hands, locking eyes and lips
Just want the same legal perks as any
Heterosexual married couple, grow up.

All religions are created to mollify
The masses into the division and slavery
Of our current world social structure
Take what truth you can and dont feel superior

The anarchist you label an idealistic fool
Is just sick of the fucking bullshit
Gritting their teeth at socioeconomic injustice
Wondering: Why can't we just live free?

JOIN THE REVOLT!

Heartbeat, Drumbeat, Song

Shy and uncertain, I stand
Staring around a room full of
Expensive hand-crafted cozy rugs
That look as if each could be a flying carpet

Earthy brown and tan colors combine
With bright reds of passion in
Intricate detailed intertwining patterns
On these masterpieces fit for Sultans.

I peruse the back courtyard area,
Admiring the raging flaming fire
That anoints the mild night air
With a smoky aroma reminiscent of Home.

People begin to arrive and congregate,
And suddenly I'm not such a stranger
As I chat, laugh, mingle and puff-puff-pass
With all these beautiful souls I've been missing

By the time I come back to the fromt
Thirty energetic people are at one with
The beat and the resounding cacophany
Is so intrinsically beautiful it will never be forgotten.

I sit outside the circle, swaying with the
Rooms echoing heartbeat, picking apart layers
And as I let my ears and mind go I begin to Think I hear something other than drums.

Its like a chant, barely audible, flowing
Like a river beneath all the layers
I question in wonderment the sound I hear:
A womans voice crooning universal sounds.

My eyes hungrily gaze at the mouths of all,
But I can't place it; am I really just
Hallucinating it? But no, I hear it again,
Close my eyes and savor the precious moment.

I feel the energy of the music as it
Wraps around all involved, uplifting,
Heartening, strengthening all our spirits
For the next lunar month and feel blessed.

untitled 1/22/13

I hate being alone
For all the various
Memories and thoughts
That follow and haunt me.

Everytime I turn around
There's this voice in the
Back of my head full of
Self-judgement and hate.

It throws all my past mistakes
Back in my face with
The 1080p HD clarity of my 20/20
Past vision; tells me I'm always gonna fail.

And for years and years I've
Been in this struggle, telling and yelling at
This voice that is myself that it is
Wrong; I will succeed!

But in the end, I don't; I'm human
And I err and the voice triumphant
Crows: "See? See! I told you so."
And I try to hide in my shame and my grief.

I turn to MaryJane for sweet numbed solace
And comfort, but even her great powers
Only shelter me but for a second
Against this endless barrage of shit.

So I sit here on my bed
Just as haunted as before, sober
Trying to scribble away the pain
And I wonder: "Will I fail?"

The Dangers of Fury

Bubbling, blistering anger,
It overcomes my mind.
It makes my whole body
Shake with the tremor of a
Thousand inner earthquakes.

My thoughts are cloaked in
The color and feel of blood
And violence. That nice doormat,
Well, you just killed her.
Now you've got to deal with FURY.

Fury, in me, becomes like a
Force of nature. I can just
Imagine myself launching at
Somebody, wailing on them, and
All that's left is a bloody, pulpy mush.

All my morals go against murder.
I'm against physical fighting. I'm
Against hurting others, and I don't
Like making fists. But Fury, well,
She likes to try and break my Peace.

When She's got a hold of my Brain,
And I can't think of anything peaceful,
That's when I pull out my big bargain.
See, Fury, she wants to see blood. She
Wants to feel the physical pain of a fight.

So, when part of me switches off, and
I just don't give a fuck, I scare myself.
But fixing it is so, so simple. I rush
To my tools. I scamper to safety;
I open them up, and I draw.

This drawing, though, it's done in blood.
My blood. I hurt myself before I hurt others.
I'll beat myself up when I'm mad. When
All I want to do is see someones' guts all
Over a floor, I got cut. It's weirdly calming.

I get to see the blood, and feel the
Sweet scratches. I do something memorable,
So that I can never foreget that person and
Get taken advantage of so badly by another.
It saves me from becoming someone I don't want to be.

With each scratch, the sting worsens.
When it begins to be bothered and it
Actually hurts, that's when I know it's safe.
I can stop, because Fury has been beat back.
I can re-emerge that peaceful Autumn Breeze.

Boulevard Bonds

So many fun and
Exciting things occur
In that infamous,
Glorious, glitz and squalor.

As cars rush past,
Take time out down
McCadden, by Scrub Life
To pause the day with a bowl.

Light it and puff-puff.
Pass it, and chat.
Sit back, and observe.
The color of the sunlight Turns.

Turns everything all down
That grand boulevard to only
The gold color a 4:20 sun
Can create in the gray shadow of city.

Sit with the street family,
And trade epic tales of adventure -
Stories that only arise from
Circumstances of pure "squalor".

You are destined to chat
With the most wonderfully eccentric
Tribe of people you shall ever meet -
Createing those Boulevard Bonds.

Crush....

*Author's note: Yeah, it's a stupid poem, about a stupid crush, but I think it's okay.*

It doesn't yet show,
But on the inside, I am
Crying. Mourning over the
Loss of someone before I ever had them.

It began, this stupid
Crush of absolute folly,
With me watching him
From afar. Isolated in my "new-girl" role.

As I acclimated to the surroundings,
My heard soared as I came across
The opportunity to converse and
Interact with said crush.

But, alas, he told me that
My bubbly, always-kind-to-everyone
Nature made him nervous.
So, I had to back away.

There are so many questions I
Yearn to ask him, so many
Stories unique to my desired one
That I wish to hear, and it hurts.

Hurts because when I am
Around him, I have to be quiet,
For fear of scaring him off.
(You see, I cherish each inconsequential moment.)

My heart flutters each time
That he speaks to me, only
For me to hang my head in shame,
Because he's wishing for me to go away or give him paper.

There have been times, though,
Few and far between, in which,
Miraculously, us two are sitting together,
Silently writing, writing, writing.\

And now, inside I cry, because
I turn around, and there he is,
Smiling and talking and laughing with
Another nice girl, and I can't get through.

Fuck! I first and foremost wish
To be friends with the boy, yet
 I can't seem to even make him
Smile like others do....

My crush on him, well, that
Simply makes my failure feel
All the more tragic. So I sit,
Write this poem, cry, grieve, and will eventually move on.

Smoke

When it's just me,
In a cozy spot with
A lit cigarrette, smoking
Unharried, I sit and watch.

Watch the orange-hot cherry
Burn down the length of
White paper and brown tobbacco.
And the blue smoke curling up, upward.

Inside, it curls and then
Mushrooms out, swirling, twirling
Reminding me of the underwater
Flutter and bob of clear-blue jelly-fish.

Sometimes, I reflect on that
One night, when someone who
Holds knowledge far beyond his year
Introduced me to the idea that smoke can be scryed.

All alone, I meditatively gaze
At and through the large
Explosions of carbon monoxide
That my lungs expell.

I have yet to scry the smoke,
But instead it has brought
Me hours of fascinated analyzation
Of its curling ribbon of blue-gray.

There's nothing so beautiful as
The ancient, intricate swirls and
Patterns that my modern, man-made
Cigarrettes produce everyday.