PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

This is not your: typical, lyrical, cynical, entity nor factual collaterals of humanity.

This is not covert: love, lust, muck or what’s suits the needs of those who want.





You see, this is not a lie nor is it the truth. Did my first sentences not get through to you?

This is not me writing to earn a dime and making this line happen to rhyme. How much attention would I get if I would just slit my wrist with a knife? I would like to live but several particles of my soul have died. For I don’t understand the true meaning of life.



I gave you my strength and you showed me my weakness.



Like Martin Luther King, I did have a dream that once was an ambition now my wishes seem to have no existence. I did try to read and have some believes but all that is good is a fantasy, and all that is life is a reality. The verse in the text aims to you as a mark man. I don’t understand your plan. When the word “mankind” separates itself as if it was two different accomplishments. Is this punishment for those who question or those who ignores the truth? What did I ever do to you? I only played with the borderlines of your rules, but I never meant to harm you. What can I believe as you have never appeared before me?

Tears of pain and joy have concord my body for I run with passion having no destination or place to call home. My body is my shelter for my soul, so where is my real home?



Point to my destiny as I meet you one day at the crossroads.



My complications and frustration in my soul has me living in pain as tomorrow is worried. I don’t know what life leads me. All I know I need to do something. How can I move on, take it easy, when the horror I have gone through lives within me.

I look upon you with the saddest tears ever seen. How come I can‘t never overcome this tragedy. So many things have occurred but will I ever be heard. I screamed for love, the truth, the last option of hope. Listen to my story like Cher “a song for the lonely”.

Raised in New York City but in a borough called a place of pity. Raped from my parents and brought up in a place I was taught to call home. You see, as you observed, I want to believe and have faith and wish that all my worries would go away. I believe in my spirit that can lift me up to ecstasy.

The more I think about my reality, it turns my ambition to dreams, but the more I reckon on my spirituality it gives me something to think about, it gives me something to live by. Something to moralize to future generations. This is not only about me, it’s about a prayer, can you hear it? Can you feel it? I render my mind numb for I deem my purpose in life. Without that I’m nothing.



I lead my life on footsteps and ladders where I trip I can stand and where I slip I will land. This is my spirit. My reality. But who hears me?