Masters-of-Poetry

Your word like a father who didn’t love Hitler more or the face of GOD transfixed to a telephone— the unnerving process as a lasting prisoner in some Victorian, Wilde-esque compound without a view— only the images of the mind that crackle on the corners & the days having no meaning— just abstract concepts warped in greyed time. Like a sacrament to something holier than spilled inkwells or a drumbeat from a past life, I put the tools to different uses— ones of beauty or appeasion instead of numeric etchings on the walls. I mantra your sentence structure into deeper consciousness— hum my body until

Fortunate. Eat up all your food, even the vegetables. Do you know how many kids who would die for your plate? Do not even think you are leaving the table. At this rate, you can forget about going out with your mates. But mamma even if I ate all my dinner they will still be starving. Eating all this food would not change that. If they were here right now, I would have no problem with halving. At least then it would feel like I gave back. Son, you do not understand me. Do you know how lucky you are to live the life you lead? To be able to refuse food so candidly. When these are things that kids in Africa desperately need. But Mamma... No

The everyday walk to work, to school a commute backed by traffic's flat voice the same downcast eyes have seen the same sidewalk cracks as sthey walked along the street, and when they looked up they saw the same blue and white complexion - God's skyskin never got acne. softened by dryer-sheet clouds changing day to day, season to season, but never a blemish, and when it rained we all saw within the puddles asphalt rainbows

A piece of sorrow, a child waiting for death to knock at it's door. Your soul, dead like roses fallen on gravestones. Ripped patience, torn edges of what used to resign here. Written in blood Give me piece of mind. Love,thrown aside. Cast into eternal darkness. A numb heart, barely beating. I feel so alone when your here. I used to feel protected by you, all the things I once knew Your patience is wearing thin with me. I'm no alive anymore, I can't cry I've been waiting for my time to come Where are you now,you said you would protect me from myself. In the end, you pull me deeper into darkness I need die,to find a way to get

hearing the high pitch of a ceremonial flute chanting and chasing, how fast and far I run through tall plains grass waving, my long hair streaks across fields of antelope racing, released from the pain that grounds me, free in my flight- the wind whistling through hinged bones, twisted and twisting- sweat lodge tears preclude when I might laugh again

I'll Tell You What I Know from a dream that serenades the soul came visions of myself, beckoning for a reason to stand; but soon the reverie, having done its duty, fell asleep and collasped into tangible delight and I found myself rooted to your mere gaze that became starlight once the aura was clear; a place to stand but I can't help but wonder if my slippery moods deserve to reap what is flourishing your soul; I mean, a broken phrase dwells in diligence by my tongue to make you cry ("because you're over-sensitive?) and then I dream of us in the frigid grip of a Big Brother and I run to the rooftops screaming noth

Man Made the Money. We think that if we had more money everything would be different. That we would suddenly be able do all the things we always desired. Because the lives we lead right now have become predictable and consistent. And should we choose to, we could be the ones that are rejoiced and admired. We could be the ones on the front cover of every magazine. We could be the ones appearing on everyone’s television screen. We could be the ones that the paparazzi haunt and terrorise. We could be the ones that have our every move televised. With the aid of money we could have unlimited vacations And have access to an infinite amount