More Thoughts

August 22, 2010

.2.
a believer indeed
should never be
a believer in need,
but one we see
as believing in deed.

.3.
At what point does the marginal return of extra income diminish?
At what point can we create change and not merely count it?
At death, we are remembered for the good we have accomplished,
For some difference we have made that is cajoled in our obit.
Do we need the disposable income that we squander?
Now is the time to give our wealth a second ponder.

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Hey You

February 15, 2009

“Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime.” -H.W.

She goes by “You.”
He’s heard as “Hey.”
“Hey You” echoes through
The walls stormy gray.

“You are useless, worthless, Stupid You.”
“You are ugly, clumsy; who needs You?”
“You are a disgrace; just look at You!”
“You, YOU, ruined my life and I HATE YOU!”

“Hey You, come wipe off your brainless mess!”
“You” stares at the slipshod spill of his.
“You” opens her mouth, tries to protest.
“Hey, do it now!” Her plea is dismissed.

“Hey” rages fiercer with extra fire;
“You” trembles from her head to her toe.
“Hey” rumbles like a mighty lion choir;
“You” crumbles from the strength of the blow.

“You” buries her face in her frail hands,
Lets out a moan, a cry in disguise.
“Hey, stop what you’re doing,” he demands.
“You” lifts her head, showing fearful eyes.

It’s sad to know that dolls suffer too,
With scars behind the linen and lace.
It’s hard to conceive what “You” goes through,
Beneath her tender, angelic face.

“Hey” roars louder from a harried man.
“You” is his child, a 6-year old girl.
“Hey You” thunders again and again.
“You” recoils in a crestfallen curl.

“You” closes her eyes and stands up still.
Dreams of a father float through her head.
“Hey You” resounds in a bitter shrill.
“You” forces a smile and prays instead.

Broken lips crack open a dire cry;
“You” is blemished in black and dark blue.
Arms outstretched, she looks him in the eye,
And utters “Hey Daddy, I love You.”

He goes by “You.”
She’s heard as “Hey.”
“Hey You” echoes through
The walls cloudy gray.


A Thought

October 17, 2008

Yesterday marks a history;
Tomorrow lies a mystery.
But you can solve it easily
With today’s earnest energy.


A Tree Grows In Brooklyn

October 12, 2008

Down the street, sneakers hang from cable lines.
Along cement walls are graffiti gang signs.
One never walks alone here;
One is never without fear.
Brooklyn: where felons advance their career;
Brooklyn: where the innocent disappear,
A child dreams to become a pioneer.

In the media,
He is painted the shade of sin with the tone of threat,
The source of shame in a dark silhouette.
As if he is invisible yet ominously there,
Sprouting sin and fostering fear.
Roaming the mean streets of Brooklyn,
Grounds nourished in hate and bred for sin,
A child dreams to become a pioneer.

In this hood,
The crime-ridden projects of urban cityscape,
Day shines light on the sight of caution tape,
As the dreadful night before had taken shape
In the ugly forms of homicide and rape,
Of violent theft and victims’ futile escape,
In this vicinity of vice lived in constant fear,
A child dreams to become a pioneer.

In his family,
One might even say that the rumors hold truth,
As blood-kin behave in ways deemed uncouth:
An uncle on the run, and another behind bars,
His father charged for hijacking cars.
His older sister smokes pot outside the corner store,
As his little sister walks from behind to explore.
Yet he holds them dear and dreams to be the pioneer.

He is trampled by hollow assumptions,
Labeled with loathe and stamped with shame.
Using food stamps for daily consumptions,
He etches a living in his own name:
A student with perfect attendance,
And a fine scholar with straight A’s.
He is living with independence,
Fear overcome and peace embraced.

This child dreams to become a pioneer:
A brother who takes care of his sisters at will,
A son who makes his parents proud of him too.
A boy who, towards his ambitions, pursue,
Will one day find all his wishes fulfilled,
To become the man with his dreams come true.

The media can lie.
And people will die,
In this place where calm drowns into a cry,
And yet a tree grows high into the sky.
Living a life of fear with no despair,
A child dreams to become a pioneer.


The Color Of Clear

October 5, 2008

~ dedicated to the children of tomorrow and our friends from days past ~

Pain is the color of clear.
No one can see it but me.
I have it locked up in my body
So no one can feel my fear.

What is the color of clear?
It is the shade of a hundred pictures,
A thousand feelings, a million thoughts.
Emotions revolving around caricatures,
In search of the ideal I’ve been taught:
The perfect angel floating in air.

I distance myself from reality,
Guarding secrets I must hide–
My life, my confidentiality;
No one sees me cry at night.
Hurting myself in sorrow,
Wishing for a better tomorrow–
Imperfection is brutality.

What I see is what I’ll be:
The model student that everyone loves.
The hidden angel inside of me
One day will emerge and fly with doves.

Suicide seems sweet and I have tried,
Punishing myself by day and night.
While my doctor proclaims I’m ill,
Mom weeps aloud as Dad stands still.
I know that I have shamed their pride.

I will try to everyone’s delight,
Sink with gravity and lose this fight,
And in losing, end my woeful plight,
And live to see tomorrow bright.

With all the pain I’ve had to bear,
I feel lost and crushed inside.
I still seek out corners to hide.
Life is not one very smooth ride,
But it is better than having died.

To Deception, I have complied,
Using Paragon as my guide.
I’ve lied and cried, but now I decide
To live what I have self-denied,
And free this pain so crystal clear;
I will give life one more try.

My mind may still engage in mental strife,
But I am so happy to be alive!


Man’s Best Friend

September 28, 2008

You’ll run to me, barking with delight.
When I hear your bark, I feel alright.
You are waiting and I feel safe.
You greet me with a tail wave,
Like a smile ever so polite.

You follow me when we walk outside;
You stop at stoplights as you are clever.
Next to me, you sit with your head held high;
Proud of me, and I am too filled with pride,
And hope to be your companion forever.

When I am sick, I can count on you,
To be there to make me feel happy.
Your friendship is ever so true,
And I know that you’ll stand by me,
Through good and bad, for eternity.

Mom says that we shouldn’t be too close,
Because we are both growing old.
Even with the ones we love the most,
The course of life is out of our control.
A rose will die and new ones grow.

As soon as I come home, you’re within sight.
I see you running, and barking with delight.
Hearing your bark, I feel safe; I feel alright.
I feel alright
as all are right.


Butterflies

September 28, 2008

Complex paragraphs stare at me;
They need to be read.
Empty lines moan and groan sadly;
They need to be fed.

However, my eyes have gone blind,
And I cannot locate the food.
I’m sorry I didn’t have you on my mind.
Now the time’s come; I am the fool.

Somehow, I cannot say “I am sorry,”
Because my stomach is reacting first.
Butterflies galore flutter within me;
I cannot think and must be cursed.
Into a sea of void I am submersed.

Can you stop having complains,
And simply feed yourself?
Or give me tools to ease your pains,
So into this sheet I can delve?
A clue or two,
And that will do;
You will be fed and my sight regained.
Oh, those miracle points I can attain!

Butterflies flutter and fly swifter.
I know they will not go away,
Since my mind is getting stiffer.
I wish I had prepared yesterday,
So I can feed the empty lines today,
So I can proceed to write this essay.