Poetry
Will as a Noun
Iris Rhyee
I am like God when will overweighs worry
I am my body
And I am a bullet
I make to break
I rip my dead from the Earth
I bring Heaven down with every step
My will is my mark of Cain
Will never wants or waits
But will as a noun will never surmount worry as verb
I become a forest when glowing cigarette hits autumn grass
I remember that I am just my mother’s daughter
And when I just can’t help but derail my own train
I lose track of when recently was,
I don’t know the last time I ran my hands through my hair
Or the last time I wore lipstick
Or the last time I was cold
I haven’t wanted anything in so long
Iris Rhyee
I am like God when will overweighs worry
I am my body
And I am a bullet
I make to break
I rip my dead from the Earth
I bring Heaven down with every step
My will is my mark of Cain
Will never wants or waits
But will as a noun will never surmount worry as verb
I become a forest when glowing cigarette hits autumn grass
I remember that I am just my mother’s daughter
And when I just can’t help but derail my own train
I lose track of when recently was,
I don’t know the last time I ran my hands through my hair
Or the last time I wore lipstick
Or the last time I was cold
I haven’t wanted anything in so long
The World is Melting
Sierra Kelch A masquerade of animals, beautiful sculptures in ominous poses, carved out of crisp ice. A small rabbit leaps, its hind legs pushing off the ground as if it will open up, and turn into lava. An owl, wings outstretched, and closing down on a small mouse, bounding away, knowing its time is up. A mother gorilla, holding her baby, and gazing up at the sky. She knows it will forever darken soon. The fire is closing in. I stand in front of a bear, face to face, its giant claws reach out, as if trying to pierce my shoulder. I stand firm, untouched by the unfaltering anger hanging in the air. Into the bear's eyes, I look, and beyond its menacing aura is a fear masked by carnivorous instincts. I gaze into its glassy features, seeing my reflection. Don't forget about the ice sculptures, for they will melt soon. Cystisoma
Sierra Kelch I will hide if you try to find me. I will fade into the background, and never appear again. You will miss me. Or you won't. I don't care. I have no emotions. I am a Master of Disguise in the depths of the world. Try me. I'll fool you. I've fooled the most advanced eyes in these murky waters. I suck up all the light. I don't give happiness, I take it. And keep it. Don't try to get it back. You can't chase me. Blink, and I'm gone. No Words
Brendan Joerres Today is Valentine’s day. My girlfriend Dizzy is Feeling insecure. I want to help, But I don’t know how. Ideas seemed to flutter around my head, And I couldn’t pick out just one. Falling down a rabbit hole, One pops out ahead of the others. A poem. Paper and a pen flew into my hand. Blank. With no sense of what I should write, I brainstormed ideas. My hand began to flow across the paper, Allowing words to appear. Words such as angelic, love, memories Swirled and spun on the page. Something peculiar happened. This poem, once about Dizzy Was now shaped as Afton. My best friend forever. My phone. Eager to see her, I scrolled through her pictures she had posted. Not many likes nor followers, With her photos staying mysterious. She’s beautiful. My finger slipped through conscience, Liking her picture on accident. She texted me with grace, a simple word. Hi. At once, I ran to her house, Without a coat. Without locking my door. Her yellow home seemed to grow farther and Farther away. The driveway stretched longer than most lives. However, I did make it to her front porch. The doorbell seemed to move every which way until I hit it. Ring. Footsteps came about inside, And someone started turning the knob. I smoothed my hair. There she was. Her grown out blue bangs sat on her face, Her eyes almost covered. Without a word, I moved the strands out of her face. Trying not to think of Dizzy, I went in and kissed her. Her lips warmed me. She pushed me away and went inside. No Words. Alone. Where I Came From
Lily Davidson I came from a house in the mountains, All the way from Utah, I had a house so dear to me, It was my first home, I didn’t want to leave. I came from a place, Where there was adventure all around, Hikes that lead to a view of the city, Mountains that trapped the city within, Landscapes that almost didn’t look real, What a sight to see, Almost as if it were a picture, I didn’t want to leave. I came from close friends, Friends I loved, Friends that were like family, Now I’m alone, no one to talk to, No one to laugh with, I didn’t want to leave. I came from a school, Where I was comfortable, Where I could talk to everyone, Now, I can’t get one word out, I didn’t want to leave. I came here, No hikes to a city view, No landscapes that felt as if life wasn’t real, No adventure wherever you go, No sights that are so beautiful, That they would be mistaken for a picture, I want to leave. I came here, No house so dear to me, No friends that I love, No school where I could speak, No place I can call home, I want to leave. Walt Whitman, A Cosmic Inquiry
Emily Tonning Do you have a map of the stars? What did you use, Uncle Walt, All those years ago? What gave you the strength, Uncle Walt, To shamelessly walk against the scornful edges of this planet, Despite the chance that your clothes would catch Or that your skin would get cut up? How were you so brave, Uncle Walt? So sure of yourself, and so proud, Amidst a world where your kind wasn’t allowed? What constellations gave you the strength? Maybe it was as if the stars were inside of you the whole time. |
let's write some poetry
Grace Mita almost there almost there all these things I’ve been waiting for are finally steps away it’s bittersweet dreams are being put into action finally I’ll be somewhere new all the work the essays the grades the applications the tears the laughter the stress the happiness the sadness the memories will all be behind me just a few more… steps. just need to reach the climax of my own story the main character makes their big journey alone. So they have to say goodbye to the other characters to the ones that dragged them down to the mentors that guided them to the world that inspired and crushed them and to everything else in between. maybe just maybe the sidekick the partner in crime will tag along for the ride or maybe it's time for them to go separate ways and continue their own stories only to cross paths later for another journey. But for now it’s time to take a moment take all the little details of this story in take a moment to say goodbye to the house to the school to everything and say hello to the new characters new setting and everything else that comes with a new story it’s so damn bittersweet taking those final steps. magnetic
anonymous you stole another piece of my heart today no matter how many things i tell you in fear you’ll leave me like everyone else does you accept in stride. you listen to my incessant ramblings with an endearing attitude that i can just sense from here. but yes you stole yet another fraction of my heart today, a sliver of my love. i don’t know where you keep putting them, but you must have a small handful by now. i don’t know what it is about you, but i can just feel this one. are you collecting shards of my heart to fix a broken stained glass window of your own? or do you simply need the different shades of me to complete your masterpiece? i wish i knew what you were stealing it for. to love me, or to keep it from me? i don’t feel like i'm giving it away, as some people have described love as. rather every day something is just pulling the negative side of a magnet from my heart with your positive as you pull me towards you, ever closer, so the pieces of metal penetrating slashed through and corroded into my chest are being pulled from my body and soul. i don’t know how you do it, but I will never be able to say thank you enough. Maya Bella
Maya Alteri Maya Bella is Sunny days at the beach Sharp shells And seaglass glinting In the beating sun,lin A luminescent glow On your skin. Hand-me-downs With various unfamiliar scents, From cousins And aunts who Ended up being smaller Thank you. Long car rides Flipping through Album after album, Electric guitar And thundering bass BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, “This song is about you.” Bare feet, Prickly grass Tickling your toes, And the bass is louder now, So loud that You can feel it In your chest. Shimmery brown lipstick That smells sickly sweet Like cherries Gliding onto Thin, creased lips In the car mirror. Olive oil and Fresh basil left to dry in the sun, Rolling dough Into thick ropes, And crooked, wrinkled fingers That I’m starting to see too Grabbing your face, Icy cold And scented like garlic, “Mia Bella.” |
the ending of summer
Jocelyn MacDonough
the warm molasses of summer is slow to depart,
humid stickiness left for autumn to sweep away.
the bright blues and cherry pinks
are diffused into browns and yellow-reds,
falling to the ground and blanketing the dull grass.
sleepy and restrictive, the hot air clings to skin,
hangs heavily on shoulders.
falls off slowly,
one drop at a time,
gradually making way for the cool breeze.
the quiet hibernation of waiting for summer’s end,
spent lounging and drowning in clinking ice-drinks,
is over.
summer is the warm yellow glow filtering through drawn curtains,
mosquitoes and bees and ants,
foreboding freedom.
sunlight waning,
a reminder that summer draws to a close.
there’s never enough time.
the mild orange tint of autumn arrives,
shining through open windows,
washing away summer’s sins.
Jocelyn MacDonough
the warm molasses of summer is slow to depart,
humid stickiness left for autumn to sweep away.
the bright blues and cherry pinks
are diffused into browns and yellow-reds,
falling to the ground and blanketing the dull grass.
sleepy and restrictive, the hot air clings to skin,
hangs heavily on shoulders.
falls off slowly,
one drop at a time,
gradually making way for the cool breeze.
the quiet hibernation of waiting for summer’s end,
spent lounging and drowning in clinking ice-drinks,
is over.
summer is the warm yellow glow filtering through drawn curtains,
mosquitoes and bees and ants,
foreboding freedom.
sunlight waning,
a reminder that summer draws to a close.
there’s never enough time.
the mild orange tint of autumn arrives,
shining through open windows,
washing away summer’s sins.
the storytelling of pain - elly hume
what is anguish?
if not a feeling we grasp;
what is the feeling we give this name?
it’s one of those things that shan’t be set to words,
something that differs from every person to ev’ry bird.
a raven calls out into the shadowing night,
remorseful over the breaking of the new light.
a lover, a brother, a mother, a friend,
screaming into the darkness on an untimely end.
is it bold to say that it feels numb?
it is not a hole in my heart, but rather a lack of one?
it has a color,
a wave of shades,
something like
indigo, commodore, and gentlemen’s gray-
it's the scene from a movie, lost out at sea,
and the waves are so dark that blue they no longer be.
black, instead, with a menacing roar,
swallowing ships, lives, and their stories no more.
as i lay, and i think,
and ponder som’ more,
i question the meanings of words and their lore.
who decides what feelings are attached to their name?
what if i decided that
success was desolation,
happiness was pain?
the world would be much different, emotions would change,
but who’s to say that isn’t the way
we have already started to live today?
things are words but
are they feeling or a name?
who decided that our emotions
had to play the name game?
if it isn’t a feeling, yet but a name,
how do we associate the word with another,
decide which one is more common, more acceptable than the next?
so, what is anguish?
is it determined by the
severity, the caliber, the length?
or do we judge others and say whether or not
they’re feeling enough pain?
but we must remember this, simple and true:
somewhere, within the soul, there is anger,
and hidden behind it
there is failure.
somewhere tucked away behind failure
there is fear
protected behind fear
there are insecurities
stacked behind insecurity
is pain
stashed behind pain
there is a reason
behind a reason
there is a story
behind a story
there is a broken heart.
behind a broken heart,
there is a human
struggling to survive.
for that-
that is the true meaning of anguish.
what is anguish?
if not a feeling we grasp;
what is the feeling we give this name?
it’s one of those things that shan’t be set to words,
something that differs from every person to ev’ry bird.
a raven calls out into the shadowing night,
remorseful over the breaking of the new light.
a lover, a brother, a mother, a friend,
screaming into the darkness on an untimely end.
is it bold to say that it feels numb?
it is not a hole in my heart, but rather a lack of one?
it has a color,
a wave of shades,
something like
indigo, commodore, and gentlemen’s gray-
it's the scene from a movie, lost out at sea,
and the waves are so dark that blue they no longer be.
black, instead, with a menacing roar,
swallowing ships, lives, and their stories no more.
as i lay, and i think,
and ponder som’ more,
i question the meanings of words and their lore.
who decides what feelings are attached to their name?
what if i decided that
success was desolation,
happiness was pain?
the world would be much different, emotions would change,
but who’s to say that isn’t the way
we have already started to live today?
things are words but
are they feeling or a name?
who decided that our emotions
had to play the name game?
if it isn’t a feeling, yet but a name,
how do we associate the word with another,
decide which one is more common, more acceptable than the next?
so, what is anguish?
is it determined by the
severity, the caliber, the length?
or do we judge others and say whether or not
they’re feeling enough pain?
but we must remember this, simple and true:
somewhere, within the soul, there is anger,
and hidden behind it
there is failure.
somewhere tucked away behind failure
there is fear
protected behind fear
there are insecurities
stacked behind insecurity
is pain
stashed behind pain
there is a reason
behind a reason
there is a story
behind a story
there is a broken heart.
behind a broken heart,
there is a human
struggling to survive.
for that-
that is the true meaning of anguish.
A Sword Guard by Washida Mitsunaka
Vagrant?
Kaelen Linke
Perhaps a sword is to death what medicine is to life
No, surely not. Maybe not, if the sword accompanies a weakling.
Do we not ravage this land for medicine?
One makes a point, life and death go hand in hand.
Could a sword slice a mountain in two?
Possibly, suppose death wields the blade himself?
Life would carry on just the same, just as tame indeed.
Consider an artist with a pen and no wealth,
What if none could read?
His sword is dull then, caustic and true.
What of these leaves? Do they wither in warped time?
No, surely not. Maybe not, if the sky was always blue.
How does the sword stay bloodied?
War, in truth. Who wields this sword now?
This man of no creed, no lord indeed.
No, surely not. Maybe not, if the sky was always blue.
The Working Class
Cayson Branconier
The smell of grit and eagerness drives the mindless to become mindful,
Yet the force-fed ignorance attacks like a parasite.
Always feeding off the consumerism in which their brains are molded.
They do not struggle, and yet, their struggle is endless.
To be trapped,
In an ENDLESS cycle of waking just to put their hands to work.
For only the littlest of spoils is granted,
To those who
Stay victims of the system.
Trapped like the animals they are,
as seen by those above them.
Always chasing the carrot in front of them
To never reach it.
Cayson Branconier
The smell of grit and eagerness drives the mindless to become mindful,
Yet the force-fed ignorance attacks like a parasite.
Always feeding off the consumerism in which their brains are molded.
They do not struggle, and yet, their struggle is endless.
To be trapped,
In an ENDLESS cycle of waking just to put their hands to work.
For only the littlest of spoils is granted,
To those who
Stay victims of the system.
Trapped like the animals they are,
as seen by those above them.
Always chasing the carrot in front of them
To never reach it.
Here’s my heart
Ailish Coleman
I think that my life is alike
To one of a flower
Insurmountable
& complex though decorated with delicate simplicity
Under the ground for a while
Then she slowly grows into herself
And eventually opens up,
& blooms.
During her life she often gets rained on
Water, the one that is supposed to give her life
For her, is only in heavy, calamitous amounts
And she wilts
And her value,
Her prettiness & worth
Seem to wilt along with her body
People come along
And some look at her and see poetry
Admire her, then they will walk away forgetting
That she was ever there
Some truly see her
And then chose to pick her for their own possession
And then the life she lives is evidently ended
She’s no longer seen, or really there at all
The truth being that she never was seen by anyone, really
And like the meaning of a flower’s life,
Her heart was always invisible
There is my heart
Ailish Coleman
I think that my life is alike
To one of a flower
Insurmountable
& complex though decorated with delicate simplicity
Under the ground for a while
Then she slowly grows into herself
And eventually opens up,
& blooms.
During her life she often gets rained on
Water, the one that is supposed to give her life
For her, is only in heavy, calamitous amounts
And she wilts
And her value,
Her prettiness & worth
Seem to wilt along with her body
People come along
And some look at her and see poetry
Admire her, then they will walk away forgetting
That she was ever there
Some truly see her
And then chose to pick her for their own possession
And then the life she lives is evidently ended
She’s no longer seen, or really there at all
The truth being that she never was seen by anyone, really
And like the meaning of a flower’s life,
Her heart was always invisible
There is my heart
Then Life Hits You
by Nyah Santana
What impact do I make if I'm just like everyone else.
I wake up having the same feeling.
The thoughts rush through my head, like water flowing down a stream,
but there's a dam,
blocking my feelings,
my ability to speak,
and all i can do is LISTEN,
LISTEN to you talk and talk about what you’re going through,
I look at you with love, and hope that you can feel better,
But what about me?
No one checks up on me,
What about me,
Why me,
I don’t deserve to feel like this every night,
Tears glide down my face,
As I listen to hear if anyone walks up the stairs,
And when I hear a knock at my door,
I pretend that everything's okay,
Those thoughts make me question why I'm still here…
Making the decision to stay,
That battle I face alone,
Fits perfectly in a bottle I created with my imagination…
And then there's that voice telling me I'm not good enough,
Am I though?
Really?
I mean am I dumb?
Well at least that’s how I feel.
Am I just a test score or a grade?
A student Athlete, who’s only good at being an Athlete.
School am I right?
The first week of school I'm excited,
Then the second week hits and
I feel like a robot,
Waking up at the same time every day, doing the same exact thing,
NO CHANGE.
I'm tired of it.
I'm not excited, I'm stressed.
I’m scared.
I’m drained.
But you can't see that since I'm just another kid you see every day,
Who tries their best and still isn't good enough.
But that’s okay,
I don't do it for you, I do it for them.
I do it to make them proud, because that’s what I want.
I wanna be happy.
But there's that question again.
When did life get so boring?
I myself do the same thing every day.
That buzz I hear every morning at 5:00,
Plays games with my mind as I get up and begin a day just like the rest.
There it is again.
“Buzz”
And I will walk with those who show half their face,
Those tired eyes walking down the hall…
Sit in their class hoping for something new to happen but everything stays the same.
It’s just the way it is.
I felt myself falling, then my eyes
SHUT!
“Buzz”
Here
we
go
again.
by Nyah Santana
What impact do I make if I'm just like everyone else.
I wake up having the same feeling.
The thoughts rush through my head, like water flowing down a stream,
but there's a dam,
blocking my feelings,
my ability to speak,
and all i can do is LISTEN,
LISTEN to you talk and talk about what you’re going through,
I look at you with love, and hope that you can feel better,
But what about me?
No one checks up on me,
What about me,
Why me,
I don’t deserve to feel like this every night,
Tears glide down my face,
As I listen to hear if anyone walks up the stairs,
And when I hear a knock at my door,
I pretend that everything's okay,
Those thoughts make me question why I'm still here…
Making the decision to stay,
That battle I face alone,
Fits perfectly in a bottle I created with my imagination…
And then there's that voice telling me I'm not good enough,
Am I though?
Really?
I mean am I dumb?
Well at least that’s how I feel.
Am I just a test score or a grade?
A student Athlete, who’s only good at being an Athlete.
School am I right?
The first week of school I'm excited,
Then the second week hits and
I feel like a robot,
Waking up at the same time every day, doing the same exact thing,
NO CHANGE.
- School
- Sports
- Homework
- Sleep
- Repeat
I'm tired of it.
I'm not excited, I'm stressed.
I’m scared.
I’m drained.
But you can't see that since I'm just another kid you see every day,
Who tries their best and still isn't good enough.
But that’s okay,
I don't do it for you, I do it for them.
I do it to make them proud, because that’s what I want.
I wanna be happy.
But there's that question again.
When did life get so boring?
I myself do the same thing every day.
That buzz I hear every morning at 5:00,
Plays games with my mind as I get up and begin a day just like the rest.
There it is again.
“Buzz”
And I will walk with those who show half their face,
Those tired eyes walking down the hall…
Sit in their class hoping for something new to happen but everything stays the same.
It’s just the way it is.
I felt myself falling, then my eyes
SHUT!
“Buzz”
Here
we
go
again.
Hope
by Hind Mustafa
Only love lives here.
No more pain from here.
No more new scars.
I see stars, sparkling within.
When I go deeper than your skin,
Into your still-beating heart.
You gaze at a few,
But you’re terrified too.
Previously drowning in sorrow,
You avoid diving into hope.
There was more than drugs and alcohol,
But dad never warned you about self-harm.
The hardest war is fought within,
But all they witness is the skin.
Despite the all-consuming self-doubt,
You still wake up to the light that shines through a small window.
She lives, despite your feeble attempts to slaughter her.
Evolving in size and strength.
At your funeral, hope will smirk.
“She was more than her darkest moments.”
She is proud you couldn’t kill her.
________________________________________________________
Hope II
by Hind Mustafa
Hope b e a t s my fragile chest,
Threatening to split a bleeding breast.
I know
I know
I know
I want this?
I hope
I hope
I hope
I got this?
Marching solitary for years,
A desolate land breeds fear.
Another soldier on the battlefield?
Would I recover when this soldier deserts?
Would l recover if he can't deploy or commits treason?
Wouldn't be the first time my naive trust was crushed,
But from a therapist, it’s too much.
Hope is a friend to nurture…?
Hope is a threat to slaughter…?
I have almost nothing sacred left.
How can I confess what made me depressed?
In the h e a r t shattering moments,
The only possibility of rest,
Was a faraway fantastical fantasy.
Now reality?
A wizard that aids?
Or a warlock that betrays?
How can I know? How can I know?
I want to scream a sob to the strange sorcerer.
I can't quest without a
fellow traveler any longer.
But I'm afraid.
I'm afraid.
I'm afraid.
I'm excited.
I'm ashamed.
I'm scared to hope.
Scared to do anything more than cope.
I can't trust these "better days."
I yearn for the sunshine,
But when will I get burned?
Lady Liberty says:
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
So I drop my mass besides the golden door,
I walk into the burning sun, or I walk into a calming shore.
Might as well risk it all,
I've already tried everything.
Thank God for desperation,
or there would be no barren ground for hope to dare grow.
by Hind Mustafa
Only love lives here.
No more pain from here.
No more new scars.
I see stars, sparkling within.
When I go deeper than your skin,
Into your still-beating heart.
You gaze at a few,
But you’re terrified too.
Previously drowning in sorrow,
You avoid diving into hope.
There was more than drugs and alcohol,
But dad never warned you about self-harm.
The hardest war is fought within,
But all they witness is the skin.
Despite the all-consuming self-doubt,
You still wake up to the light that shines through a small window.
She lives, despite your feeble attempts to slaughter her.
Evolving in size and strength.
At your funeral, hope will smirk.
“She was more than her darkest moments.”
She is proud you couldn’t kill her.
________________________________________________________
Hope II
by Hind Mustafa
Hope b e a t s my fragile chest,
Threatening to split a bleeding breast.
I know
I know
I know
I want this?
I hope
I hope
I hope
I got this?
Marching solitary for years,
A desolate land breeds fear.
Another soldier on the battlefield?
Would I recover when this soldier deserts?
Would l recover if he can't deploy or commits treason?
Wouldn't be the first time my naive trust was crushed,
But from a therapist, it’s too much.
Hope is a friend to nurture…?
Hope is a threat to slaughter…?
I have almost nothing sacred left.
How can I confess what made me depressed?
In the h e a r t shattering moments,
The only possibility of rest,
Was a faraway fantastical fantasy.
Now reality?
A wizard that aids?
Or a warlock that betrays?
How can I know? How can I know?
I want to scream a sob to the strange sorcerer.
I can't quest without a
fellow traveler any longer.
But I'm afraid.
I'm afraid.
I'm afraid.
I'm excited.
I'm ashamed.
I'm scared to hope.
Scared to do anything more than cope.
I can't trust these "better days."
I yearn for the sunshine,
But when will I get burned?
Lady Liberty says:
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
So I drop my mass besides the golden door,
I walk into the burning sun, or I walk into a calming shore.
Might as well risk it all,
I've already tried everything.
Thank God for desperation,
or there would be no barren ground for hope to dare grow.
I am everything, anything, and nothing at all; Chaos.
Monty Gomes
Alterhumanity,
Alternative Humanity Personal Identity,
A category of personal identity which encompasses identification that is alternative,
to the common societal idea,
of humanity,
That is the secret that lies behind golden-brown eyes,
stuck behind lopsided, framed lenses,
Curtained in brown locks of fluffed hair,
revealing a deep-red brown when culled like wheat.
What you see is a mask, what reflects in the mirror,
Is not what I truly am, not what I truly want to be,
Not yet, maybe never shall be,
I was told I was many things I’m not,
Told to be things I could not be,
And when I took my chances to be unbridled and true,
I was hushed and guided away with stern fingers,
And gentle, perturbed mumbles,
While I was still soft from the womb, I was molded,
To be something I’m not,
By a society that was never built for any of us at all.
Without people of my kind, without a single word to put on my experiences,
I knew something was wrong,
I knew I was a outlier among my peers,
Chittered out too many words, prose, and stuck on loop,
Cawed with a voice too high, too sing-songy,
Hissed with a silver tongue too honest, rude, and sharp,
Yet I had a wild glimmer in my eye,
And an undying passion,
Prematurely born, skin a sickly yellow,
C-sectioned and incubated,
My very first pseudo-memories,
Black and white glimpses,
As I struggled to open my underdeveloped eyes for the very first time,
It took 14 years for me to open those same eyes for the first time again.
I am chaos controlled within the confines of a human mind,
an ever-changing, ever-reaching spirit within a vassal of flesh.
Forms astral, metaphysical, in shapes of the weasel, the griffin, the metallic,
and the further stranger.
Further incomprehensible.
Of pure emotion, authentic, unbridled, and piercing,
such a rich voice can only be described as destructively passionate and visceral.
I am of artistic chaos, in colors both visible to inhuman and human eye.
I can be everything and anything, remain forever undefined,
Neither Discordian nor Authoritarian,
I am stuck in a middle ground, bound to flow like the current,
Of the promiscuous sway of the lunar tides,
With human hands, I come as an artist, a singer, and a poet,
A forever master of none; a Jack-of-all-trades,
As I croon a merry song of nomadic discovery,
Through both Introspection and observation,
In wish to inspire others,
In the glorious symphony,
And its many vertices.
A relative, a friend, an adviser, a mentor,
My purpose will continue to morph with me,
And my many masks.
However,
If you take a long enough glance-- you’ll see,
Not all of these masks fit me.
A cathedral stands in my mind, a multiverse weaving through my head,
non-euclidean,
beings stay roaming, helping,
a bridge between this reality and my own,
The body of one, the voice of many,
All sprawling as one,
Strong, imperfect community,
With their own separate ichor,
They make up all that I have missed,
A flawless father, a crystal-gilded acrobat,
a secure protector, a man of mirrors and gentle, faded eyes,
An expression, an outlet, all odd, fascinating creatures,
Others emerge to me aimlessly, even reflect me,
Construct their lives as I assemble mine,
Obscuring all of my shattered limits,
Protectively from my enervated conscience.
A cathedral stands in my mind, humming peacefully with a distant sound,
It sings to me,
With a deep, vibrating belt of its bell,
And communing, familiar voices,
That I can’t easily reach, covered in fog,
Just beyond my veil outreached,
I learn with them, grow with them,
Even if I remain absent, and they come,
Evanescent and tenacious in my daily life.
Interconnected, all my masks and beliefs,
Introspective,
I am the Hermit, Strength, and The Star of,
The Major Arcana,
I have learned to console my soul,
Within my own powerful auras,
I stray away from Babylon,
To wander into Seahenge,
And set myself into the intricate rugs of Persia,
Pagan Sabbath, Cabbala, Analects,
Tarot,
Demonology, Roman Church,
Urban Legend,
I search within humanity to reignite my own, forgotten brilliance.
Mysticism, animism, shall be my calling,
As I weave my being
And stitch my wounds,
with the smallest strands of string,
Spiderweb, silkworms, and beads,
To create my own fabric, my own special fleece.
My own unique hagstone to view the world through.
And I’ll continue to look,
Until my vision looks clear, and becomes complete.
Take a moment with me,
To breathe, to think, to ruminate,
To ferment in our barrels,
To become elixir, wine, or toxin,
What do you think, of you,
Of me and my personal truths?
Borderline delusion?
Any who has looked within reason, without bias,
would say the same to everyday religion.
I pave my own path to traverse the world and nobody shall pierce the skin of my hide to command me otherwise.
I gaze upon humanity with a cruel compassion,
I am one of few, one of many,
Who reach my arms and spread my wings,
Welcomingly,
Like a mother, like a father,
To a reckless, rambunctious,
Troubled child,
Towards humanity and your cultures,
I embrace you, humanity,
I embrace my furless skin, my gold-brown eyes,
And my cosmic morality,
For I know I’ll leave a legacy,
And I embrace me,
For I am everything, anything, and nothing at all.
And we are chaos.
Monty Gomes
Alterhumanity,
Alternative Humanity Personal Identity,
A category of personal identity which encompasses identification that is alternative,
to the common societal idea,
of humanity,
That is the secret that lies behind golden-brown eyes,
stuck behind lopsided, framed lenses,
Curtained in brown locks of fluffed hair,
revealing a deep-red brown when culled like wheat.
What you see is a mask, what reflects in the mirror,
Is not what I truly am, not what I truly want to be,
Not yet, maybe never shall be,
I was told I was many things I’m not,
Told to be things I could not be,
And when I took my chances to be unbridled and true,
I was hushed and guided away with stern fingers,
And gentle, perturbed mumbles,
While I was still soft from the womb, I was molded,
To be something I’m not,
By a society that was never built for any of us at all.
Without people of my kind, without a single word to put on my experiences,
I knew something was wrong,
I knew I was a outlier among my peers,
Chittered out too many words, prose, and stuck on loop,
Cawed with a voice too high, too sing-songy,
Hissed with a silver tongue too honest, rude, and sharp,
Yet I had a wild glimmer in my eye,
And an undying passion,
Prematurely born, skin a sickly yellow,
C-sectioned and incubated,
My very first pseudo-memories,
Black and white glimpses,
As I struggled to open my underdeveloped eyes for the very first time,
It took 14 years for me to open those same eyes for the first time again.
I am chaos controlled within the confines of a human mind,
an ever-changing, ever-reaching spirit within a vassal of flesh.
Forms astral, metaphysical, in shapes of the weasel, the griffin, the metallic,
and the further stranger.
Further incomprehensible.
Of pure emotion, authentic, unbridled, and piercing,
such a rich voice can only be described as destructively passionate and visceral.
I am of artistic chaos, in colors both visible to inhuman and human eye.
I can be everything and anything, remain forever undefined,
Neither Discordian nor Authoritarian,
I am stuck in a middle ground, bound to flow like the current,
Of the promiscuous sway of the lunar tides,
With human hands, I come as an artist, a singer, and a poet,
A forever master of none; a Jack-of-all-trades,
As I croon a merry song of nomadic discovery,
Through both Introspection and observation,
In wish to inspire others,
In the glorious symphony,
And its many vertices.
A relative, a friend, an adviser, a mentor,
My purpose will continue to morph with me,
And my many masks.
However,
If you take a long enough glance-- you’ll see,
Not all of these masks fit me.
A cathedral stands in my mind, a multiverse weaving through my head,
non-euclidean,
beings stay roaming, helping,
a bridge between this reality and my own,
The body of one, the voice of many,
All sprawling as one,
Strong, imperfect community,
With their own separate ichor,
They make up all that I have missed,
A flawless father, a crystal-gilded acrobat,
a secure protector, a man of mirrors and gentle, faded eyes,
An expression, an outlet, all odd, fascinating creatures,
Others emerge to me aimlessly, even reflect me,
Construct their lives as I assemble mine,
Obscuring all of my shattered limits,
Protectively from my enervated conscience.
A cathedral stands in my mind, humming peacefully with a distant sound,
It sings to me,
With a deep, vibrating belt of its bell,
And communing, familiar voices,
That I can’t easily reach, covered in fog,
Just beyond my veil outreached,
I learn with them, grow with them,
Even if I remain absent, and they come,
Evanescent and tenacious in my daily life.
Interconnected, all my masks and beliefs,
Introspective,
I am the Hermit, Strength, and The Star of,
The Major Arcana,
I have learned to console my soul,
Within my own powerful auras,
I stray away from Babylon,
To wander into Seahenge,
And set myself into the intricate rugs of Persia,
Pagan Sabbath, Cabbala, Analects,
Tarot,
Demonology, Roman Church,
Urban Legend,
I search within humanity to reignite my own, forgotten brilliance.
Mysticism, animism, shall be my calling,
As I weave my being
And stitch my wounds,
with the smallest strands of string,
Spiderweb, silkworms, and beads,
To create my own fabric, my own special fleece.
My own unique hagstone to view the world through.
And I’ll continue to look,
Until my vision looks clear, and becomes complete.
Take a moment with me,
To breathe, to think, to ruminate,
To ferment in our barrels,
To become elixir, wine, or toxin,
What do you think, of you,
Of me and my personal truths?
Borderline delusion?
Any who has looked within reason, without bias,
would say the same to everyday religion.
I pave my own path to traverse the world and nobody shall pierce the skin of my hide to command me otherwise.
I gaze upon humanity with a cruel compassion,
I am one of few, one of many,
Who reach my arms and spread my wings,
Welcomingly,
Like a mother, like a father,
To a reckless, rambunctious,
Troubled child,
Towards humanity and your cultures,
I embrace you, humanity,
I embrace my furless skin, my gold-brown eyes,
And my cosmic morality,
For I know I’ll leave a legacy,
And I embrace me,
For I am everything, anything, and nothing at all.
And we are chaos.