The Irony In A Fools Hope

Tragedies waiting, I’m tragically waiting for days to pass.

Organically searching through my past wondering what the world has in store for me today.

What the world had for me yesterday has me worried about the future.

This tragic moment in time, waits for me to fail. It waits for me to fall but I disregard the fatal truths of societies world.

Societies tragic faults torn down by the use of the tongue. It’s AK-47s are therapeutic in these tragic moments. I can hear the world mourning but I’m numb to the cries of its devastation.

The world sheds tears and I tell it to look to tomorrow, because tomorrow’s you will see a better today. Tomorrow’s today will see a better world. Tomorrow’s today will be washed away in today’s hope.

Its ammunition spits at this unrealistic system of hope, and its mass murders crumble within its grasp. Painting portraits of yesterday’s past.

The worlds hand clasp around the dreams of its people the pillars that hold the weight shatter and break and hope with stands these tragic moments.

Hope exists tomorrow. Hope forgets its past only to bypass today.

Hope with stands the irony that exist in its chaos. Hope is ironic. A fools way of waking up tomorrow.

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Memories Lane

Memories lane
While walking amongst the nights clouds in darkness I was accustomed to walking next to light. Right next to life.
Now I find myself walking alone on this dark and stormy night.
My mind traveling this darkness as memories became pictures on the inside. They flickered flashing bright across my eyes like flashes of lighting in the night sky.
The shades of black and white became horror stories that tormented me and a single tear sparkled like a shooting star twinkling from my eye. 
Dropping down in a puddle that formed over a period of time. I looked up in the night just to see her shadow as she passed by.
I questioned my sanity as life passed me by. She seldom passed me most often she walked by my side.
I could feel the life leaving and every moment became memories dying as time passed by.
I started to connect the two as one in the same. As I aged so did life rotating around like the second hand of time forming on the right side of the moon.
The coldest side of the universe I would see love and she wouldn’t notice but I stared at her from the warmest part of the room.
The night reminded me as I stared out that very same window that painted pictures from my window pane as broken glass I’m staying strong on the outside but I’m crumbling on the inside.

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Pretty words

These lies are Hazardous to you, and hazardous to me, their influence significantly reduces the reality of your pretty words.

They are Poisonous these ivy leaves that lead us into insanity, constantly doing the same things hoping that history will repeat differently. It struck a chord in pitch to your pretty words.

Confined to be trapped, I track myself a slave, if not careful to be ascertained I lurk into the shadows set forth by your pretty words.

I’ve fallen for the muse your high profile that crept up to the fool I stand here a text less message sent as a canvas for your pretty words.

They flow through my ears as pastries, baked from the most organic of seeds planted from a story you told from your knees. Those pretty words.

I lay across my backside as you slide forth on this amazing ride that lifts the thoughts of your words, you sling them forth all subtleties fallen from your pretty lips are your tasteless pretty words.

These words what they mean to me, catastrophes created by a better ideal, no not ivy leaves but organic trees. They say the sweetest things but mean the worst of it that tell the opposite oh these pretty words.

What are these words you ask? They’re phrases that are used they have the world engulfed in it,

Words that are said when my ears can’t hear reign truer, than when I can. Such a phrase defines your pretty lies.

 

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Nightmare Suicide

Nightmare Suicide
These dreams keep me up at night.

I run everyday, day and night.

The pain is exquisite a temporary release, the relief is the only thing I have left.

I’ll drown myself you don’t have to worry, these sips are never enough I’d down this whole bottle if it’d help me sleep better at night.

I suffer from not knowing what’s wrong or right. I’m tormented because I see her face when I sleep. So I only want to sleep and not fight.

I live in a time where sympathy is for the pathetic so being sympathetic to a person just doesn’t feel right.

I get high so say goodbye. I said hi and you still said your goodbyes. I want to release this exceptional emotion will you accompany me in this suicide.

See here’s the note now I’m saying goodbye. You still won’t read it. Within this crumpled piece of paper, I apologized.

You know that night, while driving drunk, I took someone’s life. It destroys me on the inside. It hurts to cry.

I’ve been running for so long, but today there’s no where for me to hide.

I don’t know how to end it, I’m in it alone so I guess that’s how I should die.

Six in the chamber, seems like a waste, one should do the trick, this Russian roulette. So hard to forget I wonder will I still see your face after I take this bullet.

My nightmares Suicide. My final goodbye.

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My Ancestors Woes

My Ancestors Woes

I fell asleep last night and my ancestor came to me in a dream and told me about something called hope.
He told me about his journey, he said that he was carried away from it, a powerful word because theirs strength in hope.

He said I sailed across the ocean in chains. Thinking of my children’s children I spoke words of wisdom before I came, now I speak words that aren’t my own, I speak a language that my people never spoke.

I look over to my neighbor and he looks to me for hope and all I can do is look away and just row. This endless exercise has me fit, skin and bones. My sisters are gone, on another boat maybe Ill see them again I hope.

I shed these tears internally because my brother sits in front of me, still holding on to what we call hope. My back is strong I carry this weighted world as if it’s weightless, this wooden globe this mayflower like vessel and steel around my neck that drags along.

The beautiful smell of my own has all but disappeared, and what I smell now is not mine, but of my neighbors neighbor and my neighbors neighbors waste, a fowl smelling cologne.

I picture home and it seems like a faded memory, we sit here bloodlines of kings and queens round up like sheep. This long voyage sits in our thrones as forgotten heritage, lost tribes and foreign words switched places in our dome.

Our minds are diluted and polluted into thinking that it’s our skin tone, and not the ways of this new home. I think of hope as a poisonous elixir that my neighbors have evoked. Hope has had my wife victimized and raped in front of me on its path of deadly woes.

My children’s children have been murdered in the streets, hanged by nooses tied from ropes. My grandchildren’s children, have all been in cotton fields on plantations beaten by my “masta” for not meeting the days quote.

They demoralize my kin breaking him in, this black buck is this “masters” Grand Joke. My children’s great grand children fought in wars for “freedom” something that my children’s children could never know.

They died for forty acres and a mule, for something called, hope. My children’s great grandchildren were introduced to Jim Crow, laws and color lines of segregation, so they created their own. A flourishing civilization of “black Wall Street” Tulsa Oklahoma a place they could rest their heads in peace, a small token of hope.

Like a thief in the night the fires rose, genocide took my people’s souls 3,000 of my kin folk died in a night where bombs dropped from the air and exploded, hope. My grandchildren’s great grandchildren, walked in lines next to their brothers and sisters ready to fight for rights that were suppose to be for every man and woman. Born rights not given to man by laws on a piece of paper that tells me something that I already know.

I am a free man and I’ve always been it was the white man who didn’t know. So they Set bombs in Montgomery Alabama at 16th street that killed those 4 little girls, murderers in the cold. The blood of my people run in this countries roads.

My people set foot on soil that wasn’t our own just to march down Calvary Road, freedom movements that brought my people something called hope. Again my great grandchildren’s grandchildren saw the rope, murderous groups ku klux klan emerged in blues and whites flashing lights and water hoses, Standing between the lines of freedom extracting our leaders wire taps jail cells and loop holes of the lawless. Assassinations on my brothers selling Hope.

Malcolm X and Dr. King saw doors closed. Just to be opened again by The Black Panthers who sought to fight for it. Stokely Carmichael, Eldrige Cleaver, Bobby Seale, Angela Davis and Huey Newton all gone in a time where our people needed them the most.

Federal government set forth plans to kill my people with the drugs they drove. An exchange from selling hope to selling dope. Giving my people cocaine and a heroine overdose. Giving my people this false sense of a high a high on hope, and when they made enough money killing their own they locked them up in isolated holes with rules and regulations of drugs sold.

I’ve often wondered where they all came from. They call us Niggers and thugs painting pictures to scare those who don’t know into thinking that what my people have been through was so long ago. But my people built this country and gave this country hope.

Not to see our children of today shot down in the middle of the road with their hands in the air still clinching on the graces of man but to to be lifted back into our heritage of kings and queens and love our skin tone. To love our own, to stand together and not be divided on these old country roads but to rise up holding one another’s hands strong. Looking into my neighbors eyes not looking away and not letting these lies tear down what we call hope.

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The Clay Face

 

To live and let die now that’s the sounds of the world, shifting and changing from one to another, your so in the dark about the future, and the past is about a girl. The line of sight is on the present, life confiscates the mind, holds  on to it’s own creations, and lives life without time. An unrealistic way to start up the conversation, sends a rift that changes the shape in the design. A coward can die a thousand deaths but a hero just one time, put behind a mask and change a thousand minds, a thousand times, changing one face to another, let that man die and the mask would still be alive. Live to be the face, and don’t allow the future to sacrifice true life, by living behind. Undo what’s been done by taking off the mask and letting the world see who u really are. The face of the mask the truth of who you really are the clay face

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Will I Stand

Words found from another man gone through it all it’s out of his hands, determined to get another, he’s on his last chance. His last stand, wounded and hurt he crawls on knees that broke, pulls the dirt within his fingers partly torn from himself he lives in a bad circumstance. Hardly awake his body is but his mind is in a trance, the deadly alliance of a battered and broken man, turns in to a place where he can become a better man. He finds a way to move forward with the strength in his heart, and the heart of a friend. So he rises, never to fall again.

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The Depressor

His world is barren a dreadful place to live but his minds more pleasant. The way she left him was downhearted he broke then shattered into more than one piece. The Sacrificial mentality created a world  unknown. A place where the heart doesn’t belong, torn apart but through trials the heart has grown it’s just that the pieces won’t fit. He does all that he once did a little different, his heart is now black and the flow through the eyes he no longer controls it. His depressor is his mind, an imaginary wall that’s been fixed. It looks dangerous the journey that needs to be taken isn’t real it’s holographic a depiction of his soul. Once a never-ending flow of gold now becomes a wasteland of skull and bone. The depths of his thoughts have been ruined, his body weakens, and the fight is at it’s end. And all at once he prepares for an end as the peering crowd looks in as he looks out wondering why they just stare in. No one lifts a finger. So he lifts his own. The current that pushed him back, he will no longer condole. The water that forced him under, begins to calm as he learns to get it under control. He begins to hear the yearnings of his soul. A song he chose to neglect, a voice that was there all along.His own.

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War

I’m fighting a battle in a war that I can’t win; I feel that right about now it’s time for god to step in. I’m having secret aspirations of starting an end, turn around and make the beginnings of two ends meet, I have fears of writing the wrong things, even accomplishing my dreams, fear of saying the incorrect scene, saying something beautiful, and nobody around really understand what I mean. I hope I grow up and don’t change what I believe or even think that when I was younger that I use to do dumb things, wars are going on beasts are coming, becoming realities within my dreams and my mind tells me to believe but my body tells me to drop everything, to dumb everything down because I won’t fulfill anything I’m wasting my time living. Depression kicks back in and I begin to detect envy a few whispers about some shit called the Illuminati, it’s distorting my mind but it’s really intriguing to me, freedom writers, put a cap on the free mason writers let God step in and separate the two like a set of dividers my understanding becomes scarce like the lord cut off the world that’s inside us and my flesh wants to come back. The war is something that’s forever on my back, God save me from this world and unload this unworldly pack, and let me forgive and forget everyone that fought against me in this war.

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Therapy

Therapeutic signs that comes from the enzymes, understanding the times will vindicate the mind, they’re trying to die but get revived to live and try, so what’s the point of trying if you are constantly being denied, someone wants to live, no one cares to try, so she looks into the skies, Fights everyday but suffocates in her life, no one will come to her rescue even if she cries, so who’s to say who lives and dies, the ones that are willing to fight constantly ask for time, but it’s given to the ones that aren’t free, those that think can see the tricks of the mind, and an understanding can change the worlds design, a change will come prayers being answered from those that’s crying, coming together for differences shows the end of times, the world is coming to the end and the dead is counting while the flesh is dying. Therapy can change the ways of the mind, my psychologist is the world and it’s trying, polluting the thoughts and in due time, the extreme makeovers of the world will dine. Confusing thoughts consist in the mind waiting to be acknowledged but confuses people more by gaining knowledge straight from the forbidden fruit one bite will kill illuminotist the world hides the tree, God already banished Adam and Eve and we suffer the penalty so what good could come from biting from the fruits of Therapy.

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jsmithkeontepoetry

The Season of The Rain

There are theoretical desires or truths of the heart.

Taken beats from a stethoscope, heart beats differently sometimes they beat apart.

The rhythm in which it beat is different, far from the way it beat-ed in the start it beats like rain pounding in the streets, heavier then ever before, its getting closer to the predictions in the news reports.

The world watches, paying attention to him and her, as if they were never meant to be, but they love to be together its just their hearts beat intrinsically hers beats and skips, his beats rhythmically in repeat, running like tears falling down his cheek.

They sit across from each other when they were accustomed to sitting in the same seat, the pages they read upon are not the same, he reads a book of her, but the book she currently reads is, a depiction of being…

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The worlds Gaze

Sleepless nights where, day light seems to fade, the world is unfamiliar and tries to become acquainted in such ways, where night is no longer day, and the mental inquisition of thoughts in the brain, becomes a maze, as life stares at the ceiling, death becomes amazed, as the world peers into its existence through the shades, if one would draw back the curtains to life, light would illuminate the worlds gaze, they’d see that life will meet death, but death is the disguise, it’s a charade life actually passed through death in order for it to see its true meaning, but the question is always formed. What is that meaning? Now the world forms an Erie silence and listens to what life has to say but life says nothing, and walks away, now every individual follows life trying to figure it out, not paying attention to the one in front of them. Constantly worrying about another life instead of their own face. When its shared in black and white, while life wears black face, and deaths is white, its easy to misunderstand something so easily understood. In truth, life should be shared and not shielded and holstered, life should be succumbed to the worlds gaze.

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The Season of Rain

The Season of The Rain

There are theoretical desires or truths of the heart.

Taken beats from a stethoscope, heart beats differently sometimes they beat apart.

The rhythm in which it beat is different, far from the way it beat-ed in the start it beats like rain pounding in the streets, heavier then ever before, its getting closer to the predictions in the news reports.

The world watches, paying attention to him and her, as if they were never meant to be, but they love to be together its just their hearts beat intrinsically hers beats and skips, his beats rhythmically in repeat, running like tears falling down his cheek.

They sit across from each other when they were accustomed to sitting in the same seat, the pages they read upon are not the same, he reads a book of her, but the book she currently reads is, a depiction of being free.

He suffocates her life in a way that she can’t breathe, but in that same breath, that she can’t breathe he’s been stripped from his voice to speak, he believes she does the same to he, to him and if he had the words, to her they would be leaked, they would actually seep in the openings he gives her to be free, but she never seems to want to leave.

She wants to do it her own way, traveling the subtleties the winds bring, he’d offered the the getaways that was best for departs, she forced a new opening, shredding what remained in the hearts. Destroying everything that could not be freed, thoughts begin to pour, rushing through the crowds, destroying everything that he believes to be.

His house, his home, everything that held a memory is now dead or gone, so ready to be freed, he’s stuck he lives lifeless floating in the stream, where the road use to be, he floats head barely above water at a level where he can see.

Floating on the branch of the tree he planted in front of his home. She being the idea of a hurricane, and he being every individual, that had a dream washed away by the season of the rain. He looks to the world as he floats and notices its all gone. He’s all alone.

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Lost

Lost

He’s not lost he’s hurt, that part of him its not lost, but its a blur, they found each other she found herself through him, and he through her, he appreciates that but he told her with him, she went about it the wrong way, he never asked her to leave, but he never asked her to stay, He only asked that she reconsider, the magnitude of how they both parted ways, because in the heart, there is a line so thin its easy to turn to hate, this is part of a game played a game of tug of war, she tugged a little, then he tugged more, but in the end she let go, burning her hands and slamming him to the floor, she can walk away unscathed on her terms, with only one degree burns, put in a position away from the cliff  he slipped off of it, and now he’s dangling with one hand, heart in the other in pieces broke, hanging high and choked, trying to think clearly in a way that really doesn’t make since, he just wanted to make since of it, but that wouldn’t be sticking to the script,now it’s late the hearts not broken at this point it’s torn and ripped, he had to let that heart go, for a while he has to be heartless until he’s had the proper time to mourn and read it. The script that is. The heart Hurts after its shattered in a whole lot of pieces. He needs time to re-piece it, so he tossed it off that very same cliff, in an attempt to save himself, but in the end he still has to retrieve it. That part of him is not lost to the point where he can still see it, what he’s lost is a true meaning, of a friend, that lines been broke but what happen to, through thick and thin, what happened to the dynamics, what happened to the definition of a friend, to him it’s lost, because before they became lovers, they were friends.

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Just Do It

 

Persistence is not always the key to success, sometimes being persistent only has you perusing the un-pursuable  it has you chasing dreams that will turn into nightmares in the end. It comes to a point when you have to give up on a dream; but how do you give up on something that you love? How do you give up on something that you would do absolutely anything to accomplish? There are times when your dream turns its back on you, it hits you, knocks you down, suffocates you from the air you breath it throws the biggest obstacles in your direction, and still you chase after it blindly taking every bit of punishment it puts you through, and after all the sacrifices you make for a dream it walks away from you, but; How do you just walk away from it? The answer is plain and simple, easier said than done but it’s simple, you just do it. As hard as it is, you push forward, and it will be extremely hard to replace, a love that you hoped would forever last in life along your side as something you accomplished, but as it becomes a hindrance a choice has to be made. To move on, sometimes, time is the only remedy. Dreams don’t always come back, dreams almost never reoccur, and they don’t always last long enough for true happiness to erupt. With that being said sometimes you have to push harder, because maybe just maybe that push after your body wants you to give up, and your mind says let go, and the heart is ready to explode, that next push is the push with that right amount of effort to get you where you want to be, so I say just weigh your options and which ever way the scale tilts just do it.

Just do it
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Lies That Make sense

 

Divined intervention through time it comes within a name, some would say a name is but a name, only defined through an existence of life, true meaning doesn’t exist, it’s what we make of it. We live to find Love which  is a game played in the heart, then followed within the mind. Crippling in its dynamics, Love can create new life, create a fantasy that divides truth from reality, divides youth from the world, divide husband and wife, draws together man and man, woman and woman chosen words associated within the term lust, we misplace our own universe like lost keys to adapt to another’s, to live where they live to create in the way they create,  we crave the body in ways that should only exist within a unity sealed by a kiss. Two lives combined in meaning waiting to be interpreted, waiting to be torn apart, for the world forgotten, the universe that gave true meaning traded for one that never made sense. We try to give it meaning stepping away from it, thinking that, that’s what is meant, thinking that life is a different color then the one present, we intertwine and invent, with the intent to misrepresent the truth  with less time spent. To get away from what was thought to be real, which was thought to be the only part of life that really made sense, but now we get confused by trying to live in it. Trying to live a lie.

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In The Heart

 

We Go through things for no reason, the reasons being accomplishing dreams, nightmares turn to undefined memories, memoirs created by determining the means to survive a struggle, to live in the present dead for the moment just to rise again, portrayed by reason. It means that over coming becomes the next big thing the heart mourns whether it’s for the right or the wrong thing, it hurts to dream sporadically catching scenes, bits and pieces turning into something that’s more incomplete, competing for the heart is more complete, when the heart actually beats, rhythmically dancing to the sounds of what one may call love while the other calls it an escape to a place where dreams can be met, but it’s actually a place where dreams and nightmares meet. In the heart.

 
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Staying Open to Change

Falling in love is such a beautiful thing, falling out of love not so much. It’s beautiful in its own way, you just have to be open-minded, say you were in love with abuse, as if it were a drug you cling to it, everyday that you use it the more of it you need. Now of course you can see where this is a bad thing right? Wrong. When you are in the middle of it, and I’m not talking celebrity love, that loves a joke, I’m talking “ordinary people” love, you know John Legend first album type of love, the sacrificial love. Where there is no obstacle big enough for you or your love to hurdle, where the struggles consist of good and bad times. You don’t stick together during this time just to break it off when things get better, you adjust and come together with communication, understanding, and patience. Now this type of love you have to be careful of because it can be damaging to you, and the other person in love. Be careful of going through love so blindly that you don’t know when it’s time to get out. Sometimes it’s hard to call it a quits, but the handling of this situation is key, make sure the other person has an understanding talk it out not to work it out, but to get through the situation. Not doing this can be very damaging to you and the one that you “loved”. Getting through this addiction of another person will be difficult but the level of difficulty molds you into the person you are supposed to be if you come out of it positively and not bitter. Being open-minded to change can push you to your greatest potential.

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Reflect

So many people in the world take for granted the things that they have, the things that they think make them who they are. We get behind the materialistic world and get so caught up in our own lives and forget that life exists outside ourselves. So when everything comes crashing down, and the life we had we no longer have we don’t know what to do with ourselves, we get stuck, paralyzed unwilling to make the move that pulls us from this place of demoralizing descendant, because we feel like it’s beneath us. So we find places to fill voids, because it hurts, sometimes it can feel as if our hearts are being torn apart from our chests as it beats to the world the world watches, ignoring the pain that it may have caused, but it’s these moments where we can be most triumphant, it’s in these moments we feel we can no longer move, there is a sense of peace there if you look to find it. If you really truly teach yourself that everything happens for a reason you stop to see the world as it should be seen as a community, as a place that’s more than just you and I there is a whole society that we as individuals can bless, and move further than we’ve ever gone. It’s a feat that can’t be done alone, it’s a time to reach out to that entity that you believe in, that spiritual faith that you believe in I believe in God to pull me from a place of self-pity into a place that’s a blessing for me. I say reflect on your life and look at the things that you have and appreciate it before it’s all gone, and you get to see it leave. Sometimes we just have to stop and smell the delicacies of life.

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The Phantom Words

Transparent in form cutting deeply into existence, wounding, destroying hopes and dreams within its path a ghostly figure, she goes through out, delivering every cut deeper then the last. She utters words that have no form, echoing through, in then out a bottom less hole, to loose a substance to stand. Weightless, but heavy but backed by nothing, a phrase that pierces effortlessly tormenting the edge of the soul, sound less meditations that cross the heart and collides with the mental. She sets forth a domino affect that constantly cuts as time flows, the wounds are unattended, left to leak true meaning, to the point that I love you sounds misplaced and unowned. Her subject seeps through the unknown in sentence form, plagued to have an unrealistic meaning alone.

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