The Silver Poet on Mind palace The Silver Poet on HEY question! eunoia16 on HEY question! The Silver Poet on play on words Karma The Silver Poet on HEY question!
What is a flaw but what someone sees as different? a plight of wrongness that your forever born with? something that sticks right up there with your name and identity so close and tightly that it may steal any sanity the second skin; the mask stuck so fast to the point you can no longer see past its existance?
But if it exists, then it is real; the ultimate truth will it reveal.
Nevertheless they see it as a mistake, a human disfunction of the mechanics of construction. You double take. You want to belong, but that little blemish is just so wrong!
Who am I, to remark on the appearance of my face and judge the mark as if it were my own choice? It is then, that I know, that this blemish is mine alone. That this piece plus this piece and a little more equates to the greater force with powers of magic to create.
No one sees who I am beneath all of this. I am the girl who remembers. Who never render’s falsely in a mystery for I am the girl who notices all the little details and solves the puzzles.
I am the girl who knows passion and power. and how to mind bend her dreams into reality.
The issue here, is that I am never consistent. Everything I say absolutely are really partial lies.
It is true that I remember but I so do I forget.
I stumble on numbers and get F’s in math.
I am not fluid, but I am proud, of that at least. If that makes me different, I don’t care. I am willing to change my brain to understand everything I come in contact with.
What is a flaw when seen over time?
Will its space that it occupies be accepted from the jointed world of error? or will it stick out as a life long devastation?
something worse than common frustration, a feeling you can’t just pick off.
Time does not exist though. It’s an ever changing flow, a pattern, a beat, a rhythm persistent in only that one place. But I am real, this smudge is real. I can tell, because I feel. That was when I knew the truth. I am a work of art, a walking talking masterpiece. Proof of mother nature’s realness for I am the human experience. I have color, I have sounds, I can make things move from their grounds. I am aware.
Does that make it alright?
That for some reason I came out wrong? No. Of course not. But what is wrong? What is right? What is bad? What is good? That’s a binary categorization which constricts the nations into a tiny little box.
I am but true diversity in action. A change, a choice, another chance to experience it all. and a gifted moment to try to live it better. I am not wrong. I just am. So I call myself flawless.
In 1989, children younger than 16 could be sentenced to die in the United States. Lawyer Bryan Stevenson (TED Talk: We need to talk about an injustice) represented some of these juveniles in Alabama, the state with the most children sentenced to death per capita. Read his chilling account of meeting Charlie, a 14-year-old tried as an adult for capital murder, in an excerpt from his new book: Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption.
“He’s just a little boy.”
It was late, and I had picked up the phone after hours because no one else was in the building; it was becoming a bad habit. The older woman on the other end of the line was pleading with me after offering a heartfelt description of her grandson, who had just been jailed for murder.
Charlie was fourteen years old. He weighed less than 100 pounds and was…
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to hide the face,
to cage the woman in man’s expectations
shower her confidence down until she is just a pool at the man’s feet.
every ripple he makes is another woman drowning in despair
the man thinks it is romantic, to hide his lovely bride behind a curtain
He says, “You mean the world to me, like a jewel in your jewelry box. I will keep you safe under lock and key because I will not let anyone steal you from me.”
So she is held fast to him
worse than hand cuffs
left to walk her path, as a follower
She wants to escape
But no she can’t, he has her heart chained
and the clouds drips down her face blending with the make-up
leaving smudges as if someone is erasing her soul
Don’t let the bubble pop, don’t let it explode
Honor the child, kiss them goodnight. Don’t feed their fears by throwing bombs out of spite. Make the dead fishes fly from our sight!
Blow them bubbles, make their world glow
There is a little world in each and every bubble, little earth,
little leaves and little baby animals hidden in the trees.
They don’t know about the other
Except they know, that they feel, the gravity, keeping each bubble in the balance
But they respect
And With no question
Just like a child whose learned
Not to pop the little swirly orbs
Of soap and water and air