Flower 

Now Deeply rooted in my grey matter, emotions stem from a flower that never leaves. I lay there, mired in thought, wondering how different my plot would be, if her seeds were never sown… If she had never grown on me…

Her petals shine like gold medals, on my podium of pandemonium, cropping up ever more awesome with each blossom…implanted in my dreams, almost magically…

Tragically, She radically soils my clarity…
I work tirelessly to harvest reality, supersede her from train of thought, weed her from my memories…an endless lobotomy, aimed at this enigmatic botany… My efforts are fruitless…

But the truth is, she is not to blame for this matter, It was I who plowed my grey matter, till it was conducive, exclusively for… my flower

A new balance

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yin yang

Peace in one eye, love in the other, too blessed to be stressed and too cool to be bothered …

not that she didnt care, or couldn’t notice…Even those wo claimed to know her wouldn’t know this, but at one point she cared more than most did. The winters of life had forced her to grow colder shoulders, but after a while its was too hard too ignore what her soul had told her…. so she took a trip, took a chance, trusting the cos=mic forces to bring her a new balance…

she did just that, then came back, with peace in one eye and love in the other.

In colour and in rhyme

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the walk

“We are all here for a reason on a particular path
You don’t need a curriculum to know that you’re apart of the math
Cats think I’m delirious but I’m so damn serious
That’s why I expose my soul to the globe; the world
I’m tryin’ to make it better for these little boys and girls
I’m not just another individual
My spirit is a part of this, that’s why it’s spiritual
But I get my hymns from him
So it’s not me, it’s he, that’s lyrical
I’m not a miracle, I’m a heaven sent instrument
My rhythmatic regiment navigates melodic notes
For your soul and your mental
That’s why I’m instrumental, vibrations is what I’m into
Yeah I need my loot by rent day
But that ain’t what gives me the heart of Kunta Kinte
I’m tryin’ to give us us free like Sinke
I can’t stop, that’s why I’m hot
Determination, dedication, motivation
I’m talking to you of my many inspirations
When I say I can’t let you or self down
If I were on the highest cliff, on the highest riff
And if you slipped off the side, and clinched on to your life,
In my grip. I would never ever let you down
And when these words are found
Let it be known that God’s penmanship has been signed
With a language called love
That’s why my breath is felt by the death
And while my words are heard and confined to the ears of the blind
I too dream in color and in rhyme

So I guess I’m one of a kind in a full house
Cause whenever I open my heart, my soul or my mouth
A touch of god reigns out.” 

This poem by j. Ivy. was recorded on the track “never let you down” on kanye wests graduation album in 2004 .

 

 

Shadow of supremacy

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 They stand against the light to cast shadows, that make our paths dark, it’s no wonder we got lost on our way home. We once sat on gold thrones, now we beg thieves for a place in our own home…

we’ve been taught to fight their shadows, with the shade we throw, while the grave they dug for us grows and grows…Go to their schools to borrow our own ideas, the innovators become imitators, in hopes to integrate, into their hateful ways..  

 When they can’t break us, they’ll force us to bend, and blend, into the violent trends they set without regrets. They’ll pretend to be our friends, tell us they mean “no offence” …while keeping our very being misunderstood.

Until we end up in a shadow war with no end. Cast by burning crosses ,pointed hoods…and fear 

 

Fake flowers 

Dear inventor of fake flowers, why?

I understand that maybe you just wanted to capture beauty and keep it forever,

but don’t you let people believe that looks will last.

Didn’t you realise that there is beauty in aging,

that there is character to the bunch with a few wilting stems?

You can’t trick me into believing that there is beauty in perfection,

see I’ve tried to reach it and failed many times.

Starved of water, we all die,

so how can pretty be pretty without the spark of alive?

See, this bunch may have been beautiful at first glance,

but I’ve had it for years now and nothings changed.

No new sprouts, no death-

No need to nurture and love for that won’t affect these fakes.

I don’t even look at them anymore.

Beautiful as they may be, they are less beautiful to me knowing that this is all that they will ever be.

Dear lover,

please don’t ever buy me fake flowers with the hope that I will feel comforted by everlasting beauty.

Buy me ones that will die.

One’s that I will therefore cherish for every moment that they are alive,

One’s with bruised petals and wilting stems but still fragrant so that I can see that beautiful is more than meets the eye.

Dear inventor of fake flowers, why?

Poetry by the amazingly talented https://fontsize4poetry.com

Paper tigers 

Paper tigers on the paper trail, earning their stripes without fail.

The Hunter talks of taking the beast by its tail, while the shepherd tells comforting wife’s tales, to the rest of the villagers praying not to fall prey.
Those from the west begin to flee east, from the heardless beast, that didn’t roar to be heard. The eye of the Tiger speaks a thousand words, all of which are echos of death.
Prowling quietly, growling silently, crouching low before it pounces violently…

Shades of black and bright vermillion, like a frightening fire that freezes millions… The Hunter tries to ride the Tiger wild, the shepherd would rather see it tamed.
They all fail to understand. To the beast, everyone is game… regardless of where they may stand.
Paper tigers lead us to the paper trial…

I am 

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I am

I am

I am

I am as empty as the meaning of my opening line,

Yet as full as an avocado;

Ripe with potential to be sweet and smooth.

I don’t want to be vain,

I don’t mean to be as bold as the cock…

Of a gun,

Or to cock back my head and dictate this space,

Or dictate your pace,

But dictate my pace

And not waste…

My words, because you are going to listen to me.
even if I seem as empty as the meaning of my opening line…

Because my words are weapons, and my tongue is cocked back ready to shoot my soul at you…

I changed from a chicken into a rooster, so now I come across as cocky, when I crow at you … I just sat on my potential till it hatched.

I don’t want to be arrogant, but you are going to listen to every last word of my written rant.

Because until I find someone who can relate, at the pace I dictate

to what, I am;

Where, I am;

Who, I am;

and all. the emptyness I’ve faced.

My world and my words would have gone to waste

And I am… Just not going to let that happen.

(Co written by harmony farrell)

Beautiful Struggle

so much beauty…you would struggle to see, but be left in awe once you saw it… I watched myself profit from my plummet…

Encouraged  by contagiously courageous condemnation,  inspired by painstakingly painful perspicacity…

What gave me the audacity, to stay, to face it… I had to face it, I could never escape it, through empty glasses, or an overflowing ash tray…the storm always passes, to reveal evermore joyous days…

beautiful cliches, describe all the romantic realizations… I struggle to say…

What gave me the grace, to stay…grateful, humble…to seek not trouble, when I stumbled, to burst only the bubbles, that confined I… My life-style has been ruled by error and trail, so my eye, must Seek truth, until ONE can no longer hide behind Denial…

I changed my mind to find;

The true intentions behind ,the whimsical lies of life, the tranquil amidst the turmoil, the strength in each stumble, the air within the bubble, the relics among the rubble…all that is beautiful within, my struggle

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Peice of my mind 

The mind;

a battle field, for the worrier warrior, who draws the will he wields from his soul sheath, while hiding behind his ego shield.

Fighting for a sense of security, defending a feeling of purity, descending and transcending maturity. An odyssey not for the eyes to see, just time zones redefined by a mind blown, as the worrier fights to align the crown.
The brain;

a vast network of ever growing chains , the worriers bane,as he approaches insane…

Fighting to figure out how to eat love, somewhere in-between the stomach and the heart, torn apart, by hard fought thoughts of heaven and hell, hard thoughts sought out where his conscience may dwell. He may well, free all the great warriors, trapped in his grey cells…

A thought;

The pen and the sword that are equally mighty, that colour and carve the warrior worriers reality…

Fighting for a glimpse of clarity, while fighting reality. A missile from a mile away, a beacon beaming through the darkest day, that of which , could guide the blind , and on its way, destroy every last remaining peace …of mind

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Lost at sea 

Lost at sea, where I can find myself;  

Soaking, in hope; tired, from riding the tides of life’s ocean. Floating, from coast to coast with nothing to boast of; bar the treasures of truth. Navigating my thoughts through, future mist, towards something new. Blue, when I look back on ships that sailed past. Lost, for all that’s here to see is my eerie reflection, drifting. I find myself sifting through ship wrecks left behind. Diving too deep, yet somehow washed up on freedoms shoreline… Im tired, and I’m lost, but I’m doing just fine…