I Solemnly Swear…

UPDATE:

1) The Expression Session was a great success. It even inspired people who wanted to just watch, to step on stage and read a story or some poems.

2) Italy was amazing! They were praising my poems and I will definitely “tour” the country and perform.

Back to the grind! I wrote 3 poems the past week. Here’s one:

The Pledge

Patience. Persistence.

I am beyond grateful for your existence

as I tumbled and stumbled

through a non-secured tunnel.

However, I suspect you of foul play.

That’s right, you’ve been caught, nothing to say?

I mean, what kind of love is this?

At first I thought I struck it rich

but it seems you always had a motive

and honestly, I don’t know if

it’s possible to forget or even forgive

due to the shock that has taken

over my being. It ain’t like you were fakin’

your feelings but I might’ve mistaken

your meanings for supporting me.

I’ve explained all possibilities

and it’s plain to see

that you’ve been using and possibly me

abusing the

connection that I unwittingly

established some years ago.

___________________________________

Now that I know,

I don’t care.

This two-person Voltron

we have goin’ on relies on

facing everything as one.

It’s created this calculating, insane

Poet tapping into countless brains

helping others gain

an understanding of what lies

beyond the 10 percent. All ties

to previous lives

will be severed and will never

be held, much less, contained, ever.

So please, I write to thee

continue to use me.

I pledge to forever be

Your willing vessel, dear Poetry.

Untitled Poem (or perhaps “Unlabeled”)

FIRST, an update:
1) Expression Session! For those who have my twitter, instagram, Facebook, or g+, you might have seen that I’m hosting an open mic event here in Warsaw, Wednesday, March 11th! Poetry, story telling, singing, music, it’s exciting.
2) I will be in Turin, Italy to perform (flying out March 12th) and I was trying to decide what poems to perform when this new “Untitled” Poem (actually as I type this, I might call it “Unlabeled”!) popped into my head. MAYBE?

So I looked at the mirror today
and I must say,
I’m pretty jealous of y’all,
you get to see this face every day.
While I do admire my handsome features,
I decided to look past my youth
and discovered something that doesn’t quite suit
me, still.
________________________________________________
Sometimes, at will,
I carry the burden of countless decades of the
blood, sweat, and tears, that made it possible for me
to dive deep into the realms of poetry.
Other times, I try not to identify
with this; I don’t like to be marginalized.
When I happen to carry the weight,
I’m quickly reminded by the large rate
of jokes of my actual tone
followed by the implications of “not enough”.
________________________________________________
But when I claim no association, it’s as if the rough
stares increase with frequent aggravation.
I’m not saying I change for the masses,
but it’s fucking confusing as each day passes
to be told the opposite of what I am.
It doesn’t matter if you don’t
see what’s different, it still won’t
deter the unnaturally suspicious figures
who figure that I am an embodiment
of whatever renders them completely impotent.
________________________________________________
So, why you mad, bro?
Do you really feel
that I am here to steal
from you? I guess nothing I do will
ever appeal
to your compassion.
So this happens,
you try to take out your frustration
by labeling me as a thug despite my college education.
________________________________________________
But that’s alright, do whatever you please.
I’m too busy and don’t care to appease
to your small view,
and who knew
that I would hear my words in Chinese?
I’ve accepted the fire that’s turned desire
to obsession pushing me to ascend higher
and making my coherent thoughts tighter.
Now there’s just one thing to make me a better climber;
I really need to stop flinching when my students mispronounce “Niger”.

Birth of The Poet

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“Who dares disturb my slumber?”

The boom rattles me to my very core

as the thunderous rumble threatens to tear me asunder.

But, I refuse to reveal the fear that has bored

itself deep into my essence.

_____________________________

It seems that ever since

I began this bond with my pen,

I’ve been scraping and peeling

at this onion that the masses can’t comprehend,

and…it’s a shame, because I have a feeling

that after this encounter, staying the same

_____________________________

is what they’ll wish I did.

“It is I, a poet. DJ is the name,”

but something gives away that I haven’t ditched

every false aspect of me. I was still ashamed

of that which I can’t seem to hide

_____________________________

from this being. As I recognize the curious desire

of present company, its patience fades

and continues to withhold that I wish to acquire

due to my spurious claims.

It starts to thin and freeze the air.

_____________________________

“What do you fear?” I merely stared.

The all-knowing silence that follows

as I gulp and swallow was everything compared

to the legends told of this hallow

_____________________________

spirit. I tried not to feel it,

but a compulsion forces me to confess

or I’ll just stay in this mess due to the limits

I’ve established, encouraging an eventual regress-

_____________________________

ion in my development. “Fine,” I said, I lose my dreary

composure and admit, “my name is David.” An eerie

shiver runs down my spine

as this divine creature entwines

_____________________________

with me and, now, I can channel my misery

as it seeps into the delivery of my poetry

as long as I consume the leaves of these poet tress

carefully planted by my fusion with this Chaotic Entity.

Night Owl

Here’s one of the first times I ever hinted at “The Poet”.

The chirping has

long since silenced.

My eyes

roam

the landscape,

searching.

Searching and waiting.

Minutes crawl by

with nary a whisper to

follow.

A patch of

grass

welcomes me

as I remove my

equipment from

my pack and

begin the

all too familiar

ritual, and

wait.

The deepest nerves

buried in marrow

shiver. Focusing,

I force my spirit

to retain my

hand.

It guides

my friend as

it races

across the

pages. Spilling

secrets that none

will ever witness

as long as the sky glows

and the sheep

seek and peak

looking to

find my last

bit of sanctuary.

Perspective

I debutted this poem at a slam last Thursday!

We have lived in a world where there is no ‘we’

and it’s partly because I’m a different me.

It’s crazy when you think on how you think it can be

that you clearly still have love for me.

You love me,

I loved him, you loved her,

we loved so much even when the love hurt.

I used to not sleep thinking about what could occur

and as time went on we both questioned our words.

Was it possible that we both still felt

the same as before? Can you please help?

_________________________________________

I guess you couldn’t understand these things

you loved so much that it slowly turned to hate

you hated how much our moods would swing,

you hated every one of my ‘cute little things’,

you hated how you was way too late

to admit to me what it really was

you never understood that your action really does

have consequences on my personal health

I would stress, be depressed and plain hurt myself

you claim ‘love’ but please put that back on the shelf

because what’s love got to do with it when you don’t love yourself?

2014 in review (Better late!)

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here's an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,300 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 22 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

A Freebie!

Because I haven’t posted any new content in so long, I decided to give a preview of a non Fiction essay I was just transferring to my computer.
Hope you enjoy my attempt at fitting in!

Flo Fashion

I have soon discovered that I have entered a never-ending game of catch-up around age six.

If Jansen gets a SEGA Genesis console, I will get one two-three months later, without a game. When a certain clothing brand starts trending, I acquire something similar maybe six months later thanks, usually, to my dad’s brother, Frank.

For about a month, I would see Jansen socialize with a group of boys I’ve never seen at school before. He and his older brother, Justin, have grown a fan base overnight and it is steadily killing our play time together. I have already made a few attempts at joining the groupies and eventually, I unwittingly become the butt of a few jokes.

The other kids would question my friendship with Jansen, wondering why he’d bother even talking to me. Being the friend he is, he has asked me, begged me to come with him on a Saturday morning to a park he and his brother visit.

I reluctantly oblige, and show up wishing I could have recorded my cartoons before leaving.

“Oh grow up, D.J. Look, the coach is already here!” Jansen replies to my troubles.

“Coach?” I look around, “coach for what?”

At this moment, a tall man carrying a bag of brown balls and a large stomach calls my friend and his brother as he throws a ball high into the air. The brothers take off, pushing each other as they race down the way. I half expect their tongues to hang out their mouths as they run. Justin outruns his younger brother and catches it, then for some reason he throws it back.

“Go ahead and catch that for me, young blood,” the coach says as it rotates slowly in the air.

Being new to this idea, I realize I have no idea what to do and I panic. My eyes grow as the fear-seeking missile points its nose at me; accelerating after identifying its target. Holding back my very manly scream, I throw both hands palm-side out, ready to embrace the rocket…

I feel weightless, a strange and curious sense of floating grabs my attention as I hear a voice echo across what feels like miles of nothingness.

“D.J.! Get up!” My eyelids struggle to open as I feel a hand continuously slap against my cheeks.

“Did I catch it?” I ask, blood trickling down my face with my glasses which are bent inwards.

“I think you should try being a tight end,” the coach declares.