Slowpoe

Untold

I wanted to hear what London sounds like, liking the distance ’cause I make mirrors in an instant. Reflection of the past to the present, hesitating when the future becomes present. In this awful daylight I bear the rhythms that surround us, footsteps and the people they make lines of. Dusting doorsteps, I take no pride in being the colossus but what I want is nearly as colossal as myself, I want you to capture me and see there’s none here but me shouting at you, wishing I were free. I’ve desecrated canvasses out of mere frustration and the rhymes I try to spit try to hide me being lost among the ancients.  Comparing myself to things that they were made of. My paradigm is the lack of rhymes and the soul I lack to make them truly mine. This is how I write. Hearing the hissing voices of poets made up by grandeur. Lurking in the dark trying to read, being built upon the murky faces, trying to grasp the meaning and the seemingly never demeaning tone in which they hear their enemies. Making a portal of words where I could swim in and learning how to be a scribe merely by listening to the likes of them.
Now full of myself while performing poems. I lost tradition and missed the one true purpose of submitting to a bigger picture. Nearly flipping coins and becoming something different but intoxicated words almost never make a difference. I’m again matching mirrors, leaking deeper through existence.
Let my books burn but I persist in listening. I’ll keep on hearing words in the silent night frightened by their power. Sour words, bitter phrases, sunny paragraphs that keep me warm during the day and days to come. I came into this world mute as child, unborn in the sounds of misery. But I had an epiphany, seeing lies and deceit in the darkest corners of   the mind. But I give depression no concessions, not liking the decline of verbs that comes with pressure. No easy way in creating preciousness. And I’d like to say that, although one phrase can’t contain every wisdom. We try. We try to be more and ourselves and more than ourselves. nearly blasting through the skin with lyricism, casting away criticism while we progress. Mad for power over imaginative spectacles, mad because of the hunger that feeds our stomachs hoping not ever to be fed. You say we lie on paper, but hold on to truth wherever we stand. Popping up thoughts. Popping up lives of prose-filled disaster and other poems. The shade that is part of me in the outside. The tear-eyed outside. Laughing in maddening cries we split open our skulls and taste.
I saw London in the dead of night. There was a gash in the air. A place where I could crawl in and write. Because being born in words is about solitude and observing. Serving to the needs of what once was and yet has to come. In silence, until time tells otherwise.

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This entry was posted on December 3, 2013 by .

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