The rat tamer

They’re in the dark corners you pretend not to notice, and they come out to play when it’s dirty inside… or sometimes just at random…
The rats that you tried to hide, running rampant chewing up your curtains and carpets…taking your values for randsome. They grow if you feed them, they become rabid when you attack them, they only get smarter when you try to trap them.
Try to drown them in poison, that might kill you too… So what can you really do?… except make it worse…

Well, we all have rats ofcourse, and You can’t get rid of them, you just have to find a way to learn to live with yours.

Sincerely,
The rat tamer

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

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 

 

A Pegasus perplexus 

A zebra, made to stand out, forever wild and free.

It seeks to rid itself of those that would ride on its back.

It strives to know it’s stripes, not to earn them…

For with that wisdom comes a new genesis of elegance, the birth of the peagusus.

Made to fly high above life’s perplexus…controlling the reins of its own destiny… Reigned over by no man.

 

Forever wild and free…

 

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concrete jungle

In this capitalist climate, where you’re only as good as the goods and services you provide, the way you’re taught to market yourself is often mistaken for a personality… When really, we’re all just products of the massive factory our environment has become…put some pretty packaging on, and hope you fit in with the rest of the breathing statistics.
It is, however, what it is… Get lost, or get with it… At least that what they tell us.
When they can’t see what propells us. They’ll say we’re headstrong and overzealous…but the sad fact is that, living or loving freely in this mad factory, will leave you labelled as rebellious…

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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

Naked 

Optimism, the stunning dress that accentuates her curves, the make-up that brings out her best features, a mask to hide all her beautiful flaws…

Pessimism
, the comfy outfit that makes it look like she didn’t try, the dark shades that cover the sparkle in her eyes, the thick blanket in a gloomy slumber. a dark cloak to cower under…

Realism
, the very skin she was born in, the way she is and not the way she wants to be seen, no clothes, jewelry, shoes or belts. nothing, but a naked reflection of her true self.

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(model: Danielle Sams)

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)

Sinai 

    The preacher begins to speak of peace, as the quire grows quiet. The sermon was yearning to learn, the demons were burning in the urns of those earning. 

The spirit however, did not desert the undeserving. Every soul within the temple could feel a tide turning, in a baptism of realism. Manifested true, through a catalogue of material cataclysms. Each eye saw the same Visions of the Schism.
The walls began to burn, unconcerned by who was what, or who wasn’t  with sin. The temple began combusting, like a furnace, yet not even a single Scream scratched the surface; 

The preacher was now looking increasingly nervous. Pushing his faith desperate to see the purpose, of the torture that he had used to torch the tortious…

Wealth had now become worthless; to all the snowy Saints in their burning churches. That now claimed to know of holy verses, yet could not recall their saviours birthplace; 
The quire so inspired that they sang through the fire, until the entire procession sought out a new professions. 
Like the holy smoke that filled their lungs and stained the air. They where there, yet everywhere. A heavy cross to bare, till they were near, their last breath…

A church full of New desciples that wrote divergent bibles, as they stifled, walking through the fiery shadow of death…