I’m the blind man who can see
The wind that breathes between my fingers,
But sings with the leaves.
I look up and see them swaying in perfect joyful harmony.
I run sensing my freedom.
I’m the blind man who can see
The music, the melody,
The one that inspires me
Is the same thing that inspired Mozart,
Pure talent.
I’m the blind man who can see,
And all I need is rain, maybe thunder
To calm me down,
A different aroma from my candle.
Hiding from the powerful,
An alias to use peacefully.
The horrible enigma
that intimidates foes, equally.
The rancor that is used
won’t be used graciously.
It’s horror, but not fiction–
the laws we stand by
are ironic by definition.
With the insane imbeciles
asking why I must disdain
this world that we live in,
not knowing the truth.
Could you bear to bare the truth?
Our lucidity as a whole
is a timorous horse let loose.
Our so-called leaders
attempt to pacify us.
They don’t know that we hate them.
Let them comfort us
from our insipid sins.
They should know we are
only doing this because of them.
I exist in the core of the earth,
feel alone surrounded by hate.
Sometimes people give but mostly they take.
They took my trust – my heart isn’t broken,
but it doesn’t beat only three times a week.
Woke up and now I exist in the core of the earth,
No men, no women, none giving birth.
I’m all alone; I’m running out of hope now.
I’m kind of hurt as the dirt flows through my fingers.
I figure I’ll start some type of success.
It’s a strange feeling pumping in my chest.
God does everything for a reason,
and this is my test.
Felicity is simplicity
Indecency desolates
Tranquility
Happiness is seen habitually
Dissolving the hiatus of cheerful faces
In a glistening oasis
A drenched remedy
Although society begs to differ
Exiling the people who drown there sorrow in liquor
Questions purge out of bottle
Answered behind the wheel
This equation hushes the minds inside the penitentiary system-
Everything is quiet as the guards
Try to depict
This gibberish is sent to be spoken in prison
Behind bars where words echo supersonic
The wounds are chronic
The surges of pain blended with untranslatable words leave the drunken macaronic
While adolescence lacks parental guidance and bondage
Sooner or later these tweens
Spend currency illegally
To drown out problems
That arose from the father’s intoxicated violence
A road to disaster and the plane takes off on the blacktop and the child is the pilot
The airplane pivots
And spirals into bottle of jack
The father that
Acts ends up staring at concrete
Unable to envision his kin’s collapse
Am I ready for this situation? Would my participation raise my social relation, of the shady faces that fade in the light, or should I play their game and do what I know isn’t right, hitting the corner on the dot, out here whipping, trying to buy the family a mansion with the quick money out here, not caring for the consequence – the more I put in work, the more I become distant to me. Waking up in a cold sweat, trying to pay off drug debts, living a hard-knock life. Safe houses guarded up like Fort Knox, little do we know, police got this all on lock down BLAM! Gun shots flair into our sanctum, bits of brain matter flow from craniums, following closely behind is judgment, as I sit and think to myself, “Is this what I want now?” No never. I can make it through the struggle – I’ll prevail and be better.