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Yep. Moose, Thanksgiving 2017.

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What a word spill! People often think that poetry has to be pure emotion. Feelings put into words. But that is not always true. Poetry can also consist of condensed crystallized thoughts. Writers nowadays often give serious or political problems a wide berth. This poem is a good reminder that poetry and art in general has always been a medium for criticism and activism, from shakespeare to the beatles.

Also, this poem has a fascinating texture. It’s so messy in ways but still has so much coherence

Influence

Influence It’s what we hear what we see what we drink what we watch  It’s all an influence Sometimes that’s a good thing when an artist is influenced by another when creating their art pieces or their career all together But it’s also a bad thing When you’re someone who was alone often either you don’t mind  or it makes you feel empty and sad Seeing everyone else with someone and you just standing there then you find that friend who isn’t really a friend they are connecting you to their chains you are owned by them like how a record company owns a band If they don’t like someone you don’t like then if they blame others for their own problems …You follow along you cut the “friend” out of your life because you realise they were  manipulative You meet another friend who you think is different but is quite the same Assuming everything about everyone, following you even when you want to be alone,lie after lie blaming others for their own problems Why? Because she was around me often I’d listen to what she’d say even if it was a lie the assumptions making me paranoid becoming quite toxic myself why did I even try? These aren’t the only chemicals to this toxic concoction Think the young wannabe performer who’d move about the playground telling jokes and Disney song covers to people when half the audience are children they get quite demanding like a real life celebrity they were my paparazzi requesting songs when they were simply taking the mick never leaving  the smile upside down on the whinging clown who seemed to always feel down The clown loved colouring their rainbow in an environment where that was frowned upon being put on a roundabout where all they could see was kids laughing at them and not with them I felt lost, confused and disconnected anything on the internet would either cheer me up or make my thoughts even more complicated The literature  enthusiast meets the trolls from the internet they didn’t like them and she didn’t either but hung out with them anyways why does this matter? I might be a loud vitriolic anarchist now then I was once a sheep in the  flock Wandering around blindly following who I listened to saying others words instead of my own What did I do? influence is the old media spreading lies and slander turning any celebrity’s reputation into a disaster Blaming our electronics for society’s downfall when really the internet for most is their wonderwall A censoring pause while the system grabs us by their claws, I don’t need to be a wanderer, whining about the past without considering…the future The level isn’t fully complete I see now I’m am my own person no longer connected to anyone’s chain I’m free The future can be bright hopefully it won’t bite learn and grow this is the you now Who cares what the tories and facists have to say I’ll spend it my way It’s good to have a positive influence as I said before about a artist being inspired by those they adore like me and a comedy actor who would sometimes be on channel 4 Flashing their hearts with sick slapstick his acting sharp and quick can’t quite remember his real name but oh he was a prick Even on that dreaded secondary school playground I continued my poetry creation round ever since I found my love of literature through reading the old Victorian writing only for me to type this as I’m reciting There was always an timid anarchist hidden under there now I look back at my awkward cringe worthy self and sneer I’m here 

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Everything you can imagine is real.

Pablo Picasso

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source: https://www.pinterest.de/pin/145593000432479731/

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this poem has a fascinating rhythm.

And that ending. It is so melancholic, hurting. Provides no conciliation. But sometimes you need it like that. 

Chemical Imbalance

Distance is distance is distance is

Disdain in reflection

These days I call just to hear your voicemail

You looked just like what peaches taste like

And my teeth have fallen out

Distance is distance is

The throb of memory

The ache of measured time

And what I wouldn’t give to live in that past

Is long since back then

Distance is

A chair toppling over

And feet that don’t follow

-M

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A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.

George R.R. Martin -  A Dance with Dragons

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This poem asks a lot of questions. literally and figuratively. I find it rough and beautiful. The kind that opens new ways for your mind to wander. Also, the title choice is excellent

Melanin

Black excellence bathed in white

The world waking up to the times

Survival of the fittest still survives

We embrace structures we despise

Bearing witness to your truth

We have let your skeletons loose

And what a story they tell

Though, not all bad things

They mention our Angel’s as well

Is it that they see the horizon?

Where the new day dawns

Do they remember the winter?

In a major keyed song

Or do they speak it true

Letting little stay unsaid

That we still hold our chains

Manacled around the neck

Choked, we do not breathe

Our minds are fatigued

Excellence… relative

To what we believe

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source: https://www.pinterest.de/pin/297730225362326602/

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I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.

Douglas Adams -  the long dark Tea-Time of the soul

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a bit early in the year for this theme but this day was particularly cold. 

This beautiful piece reminded me of what a beautifully rich and expressive language russian is. I wish i’d speak it better. Anyway, this is a beautiful blog i found. 

Зима поэта больше чем весна,

Зима поэта отражает нежность.

Возможность приоткрыть на мир глаза,

Под снегом отыскать любви подснежник.

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The poet’s winter is more than a Spring - it’s covered by gold,

Poet’s winter reflects tenderness glow.

The opportunity to open the eyes on the world,

And discover love snowdrops under the snow.

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source: https://www.pinterest.de/pin/528398968778350406/