Cheers to you if you've got

The right kind of love

That never talk down to you

Treat you right love

The whispers in the night

Hold you tight kind of love

That always makes you smile

Thousand miles kind of love

Cheers to seeing in the

Right light kind of love

That looks in your eyes

Sees your soul deep love

That never judge

Always build you up high love

That nevermind the distance

We alright kind of love

That deep in your pocket

Super fly kind of love

And cheers to you if you're giving

that

kind

of

love.

I am that place of king and common man where we equally stand

when judged to be the wrong and bad.

My walls will you in pen and bounding bind.

I am the place where brick and stone and iron cold and mortar poured

wire razors, steel in bars that serve no juice save for the just to quench.

I have corridors with brutes and thugs with keys and duties and responsibilities.

I am that place where walls soak tears and drink the fears of victims.

With my confines I tear the souls of victim makers they the ones, possession takers. Them that con and lie and violate the space and right of others, bring them here. I am the care communities neglect.

From afar my dress of rendered impressions testify to power

that beneath my gates they cower. They lower gazes, shuffling uneasily

muttering “but for graces, there go I”.

They cross themselves and tip the rims of caps and hats as though coffins decked in blooms glide by. The death is died.

The key is turned the watchers duties are relaxed. For here I move with the times and integrate the new, the news for yiou to watch and be aware of.

The modern day deterrents that your legislators peddle, promising a better place for all the havers and the keepers of the keys and the door peepers, who will spy with digital eyes hiding in the corners. Looking down upon us like the brother’s older hand on a shoulder to steady the swaying.

I am the place they think of as their rod that does protect and does contain and does detain and does cause pain and spirits drain and again and again and again. Recidivisms rythems as they come and go and come. As I am here and they are gone, I am the standing on the time I steal form lives for deeds and crimes.

I am the edifices of might and power wielded for the right.

I am the rooms that keep you in, not letting out, not setting free.

I am built on the ideas of bringing bad to good and right of wrong. I am the dichotomy of moral and decency. Humilities lay in the foundations capping and the plaques hung in memory and honour to the moralisers shields of state and countries.

Crests on on caps and breasts and epaulettes guarding. They pretend, for in the end I am their protection and their detention is the fears that make then chain and cage and hold and bind and seal in tombs of tragedy.

I am this place of men. I am this place of them that never will my halls grace

and never in this place of incarceration stand accused for their sins.

Their sins, those sins that are greater than the crimes of the desperate and the fraught, beating the paves to my gates with their deeds.

Them seeking novel ways in to serve and burden themselves with punishments, for your equitable distribution of justice.

I exert your right to draw satisfactions from the blight of miseducations in the ghetto and enclaves of the poor challenged by a lack coin.

No community support structures. Only me and more places like me and with money agreed behaviours deemed appropriate as retribution and payment for infractions.

So those that come before me remember, that I am no roads termination.

I am a place, a space outside, protecting, inside the precious that will saviours serve upon return.

When bricks in walls and halls will tumble, cruelties and terrors crushed

beneath the rubbles of quaking earths.

I am firm and standing strong and proud, but I am by the hand of man made and subject to the natural law and rule that nothing and nowhere is forever.

silence quakes the room

where I lay

I'm not alone, yet every

portion of me feels so

isolated

darkness consumes

saturating my flesh

eating through my bones

have I been this way

for so long, it all is

finally suffocating me?

or am I becoming one with

the darkness?

a cold sweat covers my soul

fog inhales my mind

yet I can feel

the gone by years,

so deeply

false truths

hurt which has been buried

every word,

which was never spoken

every regret

every lost dream

moments, days, years-

which was completely stolen

wounds that were bandaged,

by a good fuck

issues, never to be voiced

betrayals, which were always

masked by manipulation

every demon in hell

brings them to my remembrance

routine is life

as shackles dig deeper

into flesh

voids are only seen

in my eyes, as I look

in the mirror

who is this woman?

the true depths of pain, desires,

and liberty only exist

in ink

which bleeds from

this heart and soul

self awareness seems

so distant all of a sudden

sin is my blanket

loneliness the pillow

the emptiness,

has stolen my tears

a complete shell

the shell of my being

is still

completely isolated

muted

clawing through

the darkness

© 2018 ScriptedSilence. All rights reserved

What I've always imagined a thousand times in my head and more.

Inhuman-like Gods from another realm have been watching the humans for centuries and decides to make a contest for the sake of the world. From each country they picked a single human to represent, a special human, and this compition is a test to see whether or not these humans deserve to live or die. Most of the humans were young adults and teens and before they start the comtest they each must swear/vow to their country leaders, who were brought out personally.

"I swear to...."

"I pledge my loyalty to..."

"I vow to..."

"I promise to..."

Every contestant made their promises to their leaders in every langauge until it lead up to the United States conestant.

"Bianca," said one of the Gods, who spoke to the American human. "You must pledge to your leader now."

By the way, this whole event was streamed everywhere in the world, so everyone was watching.

The American human looks up at Donlad Trump and then at the Gods and replies, "Umm . . . C-Can I say something r-real quick?"

The Gods looked at her oddly before they nodded. The American girl looks up at the current President of the United States and spoke honestly, "Um, please don't take this personally, Trump, okay? Two days before Thanksgiving 2016, I had a hip replacement for my right side. And then you win the election. This may sound overdramatic, but it was what I was thinking at the time. You, Trump, coming to peoples homes with an army forcing everybody out of the states, even those who are legal and have rights. I just got out of the hospital and was able to spend Thanksgiving with my family. You come to my house on Thanksgiving Day, trying to force me and my family out. You have men and guns. I have a walker. Mom tells me not to resist, I say 'Don't worry.' I smack you in the head with my walker."

Donlad Trump and others looked at the American girl in shocked, confusion, and a silence from the world. They listened.

"I know it sounds silly, but I ain't scared of you because I know you have no power over me," continued the American girl with calm ease. "You may be president, you may have people in suits, you may have guns, but you don't have the right power. And thus, you don't deserve my power. I'm sorry if this offends you, but I don't lie. I'm no good at it."

"Then who will you swear your power to?" asked one of the Gods as everyone stared at the American, who was thinking. "I'll fight for . . . the kids."

"Who?" said the Gods.

"The children of the world," said the American girl bluntly and innocently. "I was sick with cancer and there were other kids who had it a bajillion times worse. They want to live. So I will fight for them to give them a chance. As well as others kids, and of course, the people they like."

"So...the whole world?" asked one of the Gods while the American girl nodded. The Gods looked at each other before the American girl turned to Donlad Trump. "I will not pledge my loyalty to you. I am sorry. I will give my power to the world."

The Gods could see into this human's heart and soul and saw she was certain of her true power as a human and knew how effective her words are. They could tell she was not like other humans, so they kept a close eye on her, especially certain other Gods.

Once everyone had sworn their vows the Gods explained to the humans that they will be put to a series of tests that seemed too bizarre for a human to understand. And the pirze will be one wish, a wish for anything in the entire universe. One by one, a human would be disqualified from each challenge until a few were left and among them was the American girl. She was surprising everyone with her skills, her ideas, her attitudes, her humor, her bravery, and her compassion. Though she is quiet and acts more like a loner, everyone saw more in her than she realized. And the Gods were seeing this, too. Through some of her choices they gave her extra help because she had earned them. And what's stranger is that she doesn't used them on herself, but for others. Even the prize itself was for others than herself.

I could write on forever, with detailed stories, but I don't know the ending, or at least, how it ends, or even what most of the challenges are. Gods can be kind of weird, you know? If you were being tested by the Gods, what would you do? What's your wish? Would you fight with your words, your fists, or something else? Why not all of them? Doesn't have to be a single choice, does it? After all . . .

It's for the sake of the world.

I sometimes envy the birds in the sky. They can go wherever they want, whenever they want. I am like a tree instead. Planted in the soil of the town I was born into but did not choose. I pray everyday for someone to cut my roots so that I may become a bird and fly away into the beautiful unknown. I am bored. I am bored of standing in this same place looking at the same things every single day.

Trees reach a point in their life when they stop growing and they begin to die. If no one is going to cut my roots for me, then I must set my own self free or I will surely become a dying tree who is no longer growing. So I will take the knife and cut myself free from the roots that have for so long kept me captive. Instead of growing roots, I will grow my wings and jump out into the world that I have always wished to explore. Maybe someday I will want to grow roots again if I found the right place. But as for now nothing can hold me down.

It was not a question of judgement and expectation that they be better because they were white,

but rather the hope that they would be better because they were white, in the expectation that this realisation would bring some semblance of clarity and understanding to the meaning, expression and experience of being black.

The very fact of these white people being, was a ray of unexpected salvation from the burden of ethnicity and its shades of differing benevolence and vitriol in equal measure.

So in order to step behind the vale of privilege, one had only to imagine the vale out of existence.

A tact that worked swimmingly until, the over scrunched wrinkled taloned eyes of bigotry and hate would cut a swath of citric reality to delusion and remind one of ones place in the pecking order of shit shovelled loathing and the rouge coloured neck of a staunchly true blue voice of middling mentalities.

I would, with all of this in mind say that it is our brilliance of blackness that is contrasted starkly by a zealously expounded whiteness. The us and them, so boisterously uttered, receives no brow of raised object of virtu. Such talk garners no whisper of disdain unregistered to the sense dead. For feeling and empathy, for wrath and pain, to rack and ruin and tumultuous ends, do we of colour conspire. Calling upon ourselves the gaze of those with whom murmurs precede and by whom all qualities are measured. I wander an empty parade of ghouls and shades that tread the halls of acceptances among the betters of us the lesser.

They walk their heads so highly with their necks as leashes, tethering the precious thing that one will murder with the very care that eyes profess and tears conclude. Balanced reasoning never knowing that beyond the edge of equality is a tilted truth that the middle ground could never perceive, like the wish behind the rainbow and its golden hoard.

The tempted distraction of doing, knowing that the seeing will record and the truth not be seen to have that opportunity for remembrance. Time will not record the outrages of our angers, the robbing of our ignorance to the hate in your blood. Nor will it reveal the lines those rages of passion trace through history.

By what authority do we judge such pains? By which measure must we concede to qualify as noises of note? As voices are risen to the beating of tattoos, the marching of the hobnailed boot across the cobbled pave. The uniformed, starkly contrasted against the barest of feet leathered and unkempt. In step with natures hum and contact with the inner self for seeking respite from mans disdain and ugly gazes. Sexes, shapes and sizes, colours, thoughts and manners, geographies of births. The worths we guard and care, nurture trade and barter, squander and reject. Despise, disappear, relinquish all for fears and the mirrored meanings of nobodies. We hide and burden ourselves with shames that feed the darkest of tones in harmonies of discord.

Lamentations will not placate the congregations demands for blood. The justices of religious furthers are passed off as divine in origins and inspiration. Red clotted trails of colonialized rape. Lust driven visions of Shangrilá, the El Dorado that turn the eyes in on themselves, into their sockets to swim amidst the visions from filled veins pulsing away the heats of madness. The engulfed empathies of human and his link with nature part ways like waves before the staff of command. The unproclaimed, the crownless monarchs resting upon their birth given spoils know little of the debt in due and to whom it shall be paid, for the blessed be await their true. The meek in soul and spirit-light commune with source and bring the truth to bear upon the marked, for they are stained with dyes of cost unmeasured. The hall awaiting the first shrill call of woe that will across eons echo and be measured as reward, are promised in kind to the violated and abused. The nature of nature will upon the wheel of reckoning be shown and to the cares of the ignorant she shall particularly attend.

They made us black and made us slaves to make us what we are in fault and all its glories of vilification. The obvious “told you so” mentalities prognosticating the most seeable of disasters with “them” as the main course served in a broth of ghetto stew to satisfy the hungry little pickaninnies. Such inevitable ending needs be averted and thus we grant the right to our fears, to sever the demons head and hope that two other heads will not sprout in its place.

From where comes this hate that so defines the miseries of difference. From which dimension is loathing cultivated and scattered? How is it that, reason has found no bounding of termination, to call the floundered thinking of the fickle minded concluded. We the afflicted, shadow box with difference and call the victimisers by our titles of respect and honours unearned. We elevate their meanings and value their traditions as though our own do not qualify to be compared as worthy. This is not our thinking this is the bad programming.

Lifeblood (Poem 1)

They called me the sun. I used to rain my light down upon them like it was my lifeblood, torn from my veins and arteries for them, for them, for them. They took it and hid it away, my blood, using it for their own gain. Some might have screamed Praise the sun! but for naught, as their brethren took and took and took and I was left a withering husk of my former glory, no longer golden, clouds on my once-fair brow. There was no glory in dying alone, without a battlefield or comrades. And for what? They complained, complained, pushing their hate towards me, for it was too dry, too hot, too much, too much, too much. How would I know? They wished for me on rainy days, hated me on the sunny. I was never balanced, I was always giving and taking too much.

To A Moonlit Dream I Can't Recall (Poem 2)

I dreamt in slow waves, shining so bright that the dark was chased away from the fair sheep I tended. My brother was off with his own, dusty with his own exhaustion when the day broke over and bled into the night. He was never much for talking, but when I spied on him, hidden in dark groves, he was alight, fiery with his own happiness and pride, until the sheep began to complain and the clouds crept in to watch. Wolves, were they, but I paid them no mind, for my sheep ran where they could not follow, to gossamer hills filled with hopes they could never express elsewhere. When my fingers ran in ribbons through their wool, the fair strands separating and splitting, dewdrops on a window pane, I sheared them, weaving tapestries of what they created within the confines of themselves. 

When my brother came wandering in one day, his arms bloody with his own life, splashing golden on the tiles, I could do nothing. We were our own shepherds, we could not take each other's flock. The day could not replace the night, as I could not replace my brother. I could do nothing to assist him, could not ease his pain. He would have to continue bloodletting, to give his sheep his blood until he was drained. My teardrops were on the fire until the night spread in thick tendrils on the floor. 

#helios #selene #prose #poetry

Note: These are a pair of prose poems.

I know you call her home, but tell me, is she where your hands live or your heart?

Do the constellations littering your irises mirror hers or is it your mouth mirroring the freckles of her skin?

Is it her words that make your skin crawl towards hers or her fingers that raise the feathery down from the back of your neck?

Is she the oxygen that your lungs pull to feed your heart or the adrenaline that pushes it to work in overdrive?

Is she the breath or what makes your breath catch?

Is she the pen on the paper or the words that begged to be released?

Is she the cathedral or the prayer?

The incantation or the spell the words cast?

Is she the sky that holds the light or the stars themselves, always there even when they can’t be seen?

The match that kickstarts the destruction or the already blazing fire?

Is she the caress or the feeling that lingers after it’s over?

The skin or the mind?

The magnetic pull or the place where you stand?

The speed or the lull?

Or is it both?

Is there really any difference to you?

And one last question.

Is it me or am I her?

A soup boal filled her cream, colored fingers. A dull spoon rests on the table in front of her, recently used by the aged woman siting to her left. Carolers walk in the room, but her face remains pointed towards the ground. The hair falling from her head, like water from a spout, gives no clue to its natural hue. I sing of joy brought to the world by an untouched girl, not old enough to drive. This overwhelming good news seems inexistent with one look at her face. It is as if the dye used to stain her hair spread everywhere else, too.

-savvy.b

#poetry #prosepoems