I Use to Pity the Disabled, Now I Pity Myself

Did I feel that she was less than me. Did I see her as inferior…thus she must be in pain? She was evidently intellectually disabled and I immediately felt bad, I felt pity. Who am I to feel pity, what authority do I possess? Who is to say she was in pain? What I see as supposed normality is mine, but for her, her existence is normality. And for him, and for them, and for they – their normality is theirs! What if she sees us as the sufferers? It is known that those with autism live on a different spectrum of life. They see, hear sounds, and experience the world in complete difference, I wonder if they feel pity for us? 

Normal. Normal. Normal. This word itself is the quintessence of insanity, of abnormality. I think I am the one suffering, I think we are the ones who are striving to fit in. To be normal, this very idea should be pitied. 

I became uncomfortable with my own presence. I felt disgusted with my thoughts, which where uncontrollable. I had no control, the emotions I felt became of its own will. I see a journey in us all to undo all that we have been told and gather new consciousness and perspective. It will not be easy to undo that which operates on a unconscious level ; to thwart that which thinks before we think. 

  I use to pity the disabled, now I pity myself. 

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My Conversation With God

If we can love then surely it be in us to un-love. If we so accurately choose pain then we surely have the power to choose fortune. We become our thoughts, the pain attaches to our spirits and soon after our auras are dimmed and tarnished.

 

I Decide. I decide to think of the apple delicious, it is thus delicious – and to him or her not so much. Equally I shall decide pain of the past to be triumphant. I am no longer there, it is not my present, but indeed was it a gift.

 

~Dear Sir, why do you hurt?

I hurt because the heart wants what it wants.

Dear Sir, do you think you are worthless?

No.

Dear Sir, then I ask you why do you hurt?

I hurt because I want to be loved.

Dear Sir, is there no one that loves you at all?

Yes there is, but I want to be loved by a lover.

Dear Sir, your lover already loves you as you love them.

OK, but where are they?

Dear Sir, they are searching for you as you seek them. But do not seek them in Brothels and with Thieves. Wait for them where they patiently await you – your heart.~

We are not Hearbroken. We are Heartfilled.

I have come to far to give up now. Thoughts rule this world. Control your thoughts, control your world. I am only heartbroken if I say I am. I am only ugly if I choose to be. You are beautiful, you are wonderful, you are godly.

~From silky water, a goddess adorned in silver extended her arm with stars in her eyes. Her hand unfolded like a blossoming rose and in it she held my heart of gold. “No matter how hard the flesh may grow give not your heart to wanted eyes. As the gold shimmered in vibrations congruent with my breathing the waters in which we stood trembled. Oaks as tall as mountains shielded their eyes and rocks turned to dust. “Love is the strongest magic we have in this world. Use it wisely or be destroyed by its allure.” ~

To Cry In Silence

A swelling of tears tsunami’s his bowels. A bouquet of smiles for onlookers.

Eyes, a humanistic dam grappling pain. Sweetest gestures of joviality to passersby’s.

Tears dropping, mouth wide open, clutching a towel against his face – no sound.

He washes his face, dries his hands, brushes the beard, and primps his shirt, a meeting in 10.

Expect laughter, wait for the punch line, be inspired by his presence, adore his perfectionism.

But miss his humanity. Mistake his red eyes as hardworking. Assume his tardiness as busy, make light of his bruises as battles won, and lastly jest of his silver… platter… life.

An Incantation for Ancestral Power

If I ever find myself weak, weak in thought and weak in spirit, may I be reminded of the infinite power of my ancestors. May I dip myself in their prayers and hymnal voices. Drought, death, and dread could not spear their souls. Why shall I encourage power less than mine to overcome.

The dead walk beside me, they course through me. I am because they were. “I come as one, but stand as 10,000.”

I Have That Itch – I Am Being Called To Serve

I am getting that itch, you know the one. The one when I have to leave. The one when I feel that all my work is done and there is nothing I can teach you. I have given you all the tools you need to survive.  But most importantly, I am being called somewhere else. Where? I do not know, but I am being called. I can feel them or him or her calling me. Help is needed, my guidance is wanted.  A new adventure awaits. It is a life style I am becoming accustomed to; one I am beginning to understand.  I would love to stay in one place but I cannot, this is not quite my reality yet.

 

I learn and teach. I make and give. I teach and learn. I give and make.  I am a traveler of sorts. An inventor of many. An explorer of times. I am alive. I have to share what I have learned to give what is needed. I have to learn what is experienced and then spread what needs to be known. This is my calling, this is my being…this is my life.

 

This next place feels hot. It feels quiet and unsaid. I feel energy kept, waiting to be released. I see sex, I hear drugs, and my eyes burn from the lights. I do not know this place but I have heard of this town. I have seen these people but I have not met them. They know of me but have never dreamed of me. I am their hope, they are my aspiration. This place feels right. There is a lesson waiting.

How Do I Stop This Tape??

I tire of the repeated stories in my head. I grow bored of the constant replay and edits. Is their no sanity in this mind? I am not my past. I am the present. These words ring wonders but the practicing of it, not so much. Why is it so easy to replay pain but hard to imagine glory? My day is filled with fighting my mind from wandering into the pits. Why are we all so plagued with the belief that we must suffer? We are obsessed with the idea of struggle. Man vs Man. Man vs Nature. Man vs Himself. Elementary, my dear Watson. It makes a good story. Cinema. Lights, Camera, Action!

I want to see without thinking for once. I want to feel without feeling. I want to exist without the rotating, “Why Do I Exist?” Can I sip tea and be merry in the motion of sipping?

Do You Want to Talk About It?

Do you want to talk about it?

Do you want to talk about it?

Yes!

Let’s talk about how much it hurts. Let’s talk about how I am still feeling it. Let’s talk about how I am addicted to the pain. Let’s talk about how something so lovely could feel so horrific. Let’s talk about how something warm and round turned into shards of glass slipping down my throat. Let’s talk about heartache. Let’s talk about betrayal. Let’s talk about friendship. Let’s talk about sleepless nights. Let’s talk about you. Let’s talk about me. Let’s talk about sacrifice. God, the Universe, the Law of Attraction. Let’s talk about science. Let’s talk about new world orders. Sub atomic particles, Quantum Physics, emotional stability. Mental analysis. Twin flames-soul mates. Segregation, discrimination, memories that won’t leave. Memories that won’t come. Dreams that are in the past. Future events never to come. I am talking pure religion, physical attraction, romantic explosion, lost wisdom. I’m gonna cover sex and blisters, and long nights with whispers. Caress my body and cuddle my mishaps. We gonna walk down the streets with death on our hips; pestilence on the left and mortification on the right while looking hope and creativity straight forward. I’m talking about love – you know what I mean?

So, do you still wanna talk???

My Love is Too Wild to Be Caged

This is the second poem I wrote after watching Tyler Perry’s “For Colored Girls.”  My hand rushed against the paper to bring a message of internal surge. As I read it now I feel power, pain, courage, fear, and love. This poem is a mesh of all my experiences – triumphants and failures. I did not like the poem at first, but after watching my friend’s expression after she read it I became intrigued. Between you and I…I think the poem is so personal that I am afraid to share it.

 

~My Love is Too Wild to Be Caged~

 

My love is too wild to be caged

Too pure to be thrown in my face

My love is too raw to be cooked, boiled, and seasoned

My love is too Godly to be served, to be written, and spoken.

 

For a gay boy my love is just as real

I am unashamed of my body and its wants

For a gay boy my love is too real to be sexualized

For a gay boy my body is too manly to be demeaned

My heart is too red to be diluted, too fierce to be tamed.

 

As a man my heart is too real

As a man my heart is here, hard, and soft

Melting and stone. Hard. Soft. Crazy. Painful and full.

 

As a man my heart is me

As a gay boy my heart is me

As a child my heart is me

As me my heart is here.