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Blind Girl/ Gertrude/ Jew Girl/ Life is a Journey/ Marathon/ The Minorities/ Prison of my own Making/ Secrets of the Mind/ Scars/ The Smoker/ Suspended Time/ Teenage Psalm



Blind Girl

Dilated eyes see hazy pictures float on the walls,
A blind girl in a blinder world,
She watches as innocence, clear and poignant, falls.

She spreads her arrow-like wings, trying to fly,
Hoping one day to walk on still waters,
Doubting one day that shell not wish to die.

Innocence sees life as large and bright,
As a little child, she used to dance along the air,
And like Atlas could pick up the world with her might.

Dilated eyes envision a prophecy,
The end of innocence, by corrupt hands,
Forcing the blind to strain and see.

The doctors, with their simple minds, hold out no cure,
The blind girl sees beyond their one dimensional lives,
And hopes, despite loss of innocence, that these people are pure.

Out of empty sockets, she cries out tears,
For her inevitable ascension into a minion of Hell,
And losing her visions, her greatest of fears.

Dilated eyes see hazy pictures float on the walls,
A blind girl in a blinder world,
She watches as innocence, clear and poignant, falls.



Gertrude

Inspired by Queen Gertrude in Shakespeare's "Hamlet"

Gertrude, lady of the dark,
The men play tug-a-war with your soul.
Which brother will claim you,
Will you be Queen,
Or Queen Mother?
O, the greatest hypocrisy- her son-
Who she carried- gave birth to-
Now rising above her like an emblazened statue,
Whether Prince or King, he's more than Queen,
And he has the audacity to accuse her of action?
Well, say I, that is motive enough,
To make herself cozy 'round incestuous sheets, stained in blood,
Even- dare say- partake in her husband's death,
For Gertrude is a lady of the dark... ages.
An innocent woman to claim,
Must have been the cleverest thing she ever did not do,
To kill a king,
Marry his brother,
And usurp her own son.
Now who's in power?



Jew Girl

Was I born a Jew,
Like a birthright from my mother
extending past American
confines of acceptable culture?
Or, as I came to struggle,
Was it given- or snatched away- by Yahweh?

The ancient Hebrews bowed down to the one shrine of Yahweh,
And through desert wanderings, became the chosen Jews,
Whose lot in life seemed to struggle
through countless holocausts, torn from mothers,
fathers, family, all because of a culture
not accepted by ancient Americans.

The empires of the world were American,
Their faiths an colliding with our Yahweh,
And me, born into this dominant culture
where secular Christians drown out the Jews,
Like my mother,
Dancing to the feminist struggle.

Have we forgotten the Jewish struggle?
Walking down the American
streets, am I like my mother?
Praying to some descendent of Yahweh,
can I still be a Jew
if I've forgotten the ancient culture?

And as a girl in whatever culture,
A girl in a feminist struggle,
Can an American girl still be a Jew?
Jew girls combated by Americans,
Jew girls- forgotten by Yahweh?
Since we chose to defend the struggle of our mothers?

Jews and girls are both passed on by mothers,
Jews and girls both defy the culture
set out by a few rich men, who care not of Yahweh,
But follow their own imaginary struggle,
As if, as young Americans
their hardships extend beyond that of the Jews.

But Yahweh knows that struggle
comes from thousands of mothers, not Americans,
passing down culture,
So though American, though a girl, I am a Jew.



Life is a Journey

They say that life is a journey,
I don't doubt they travel the roads,
But they're fixed on some golden horizon,
Not the demons that live in shadows.

They say that life is a journey,
As if every new step treads holy,
I just keep looking at the pit-stops,
Or at least take the pace more slowly.

They think of journey as adventure,
And adventure brings 'xcitement and thrill,
I see danger and mayhem,
Looking for blood to spill.

They say that life is a journey,
Not fearing that which lies ahead,
But I, Oz's lion, lack courage,
And sometimes I'd rather be dead.



Marathon

My chest has been tense these past 18 years,
I've run through the marathon of life,
Always behind.

First stuttering speech while others spoke poetry,
Lifting frail limbs and straining a frail mind,
Gasping for breath and blinded,
Running past the years of special school,
Tears and blood streaming from my eyes.

Why couldn't I stop,
Now that I'd caught up, why couldn't I rest?
Because they would run on,
Leaving me behind,
At least then.

So I took another leap in my disjointed life,
Crashing onto my barricaded heart,
Looking up to recieve new challenges,
And I took them,
Even when others would not.
Sucked in my breath and prepared for the long haul,
Pulling into myself as waves of breakdowns, self hatred and failure engulfed me,
I resolved not to drown in my plight,
Looking toward graduation, college.

But now I'm here.
And the golden doors look brown, offering darkness,
So I've stopped running.
All I've ever wanted to see was a finish line.



The Minorities

They speak with tints of anger in their voices,
As if they see things through clouded eyes,
A massing army on the horizon,
As all the Christian Caucasians gather,
Shunting their wives into the kitchens.

Weapons aimed and locked in deadly accuracy,
The army sees one enemy- them.
Drawing on references from the days of slavery,
They strive to rid the world of diversity.

So when these minorities speak, they activate shields,
Defense systems of indignation,
"How dare you talk to me! Do you know what I've been through?
Can you possibly concieve that beyond your suburban houses,
We are Others, living beyond the picket fences?"

Nobody wants to be different.
The ignorant oppresors, the proud minorities,
They all walk circles around their words,
And speak with anger in their eyes.

But what of those of us who are passive?
White, yet Jewish? Or better-
Those male caucaisan christians who preach nothing?
Must the minorites hate us as well?
For if they do, they damn not us but themselves,
Irony is the most wiked of hypocrisy,
And they can't preach love and tolerance towards themselves,
While turning a cold shoulder and blind eyes to us.



Prison of my own Making

Prison of my own making,
Walls of steel for a corrupted mind,
Hardened heart for a hardened soul,
Fascination with trapping oneself.

Locked in the past,
Constantly remembering
Those Days,
Of death and sin and failure.

A mouse running a wheel,
Sounds of short-comings clash in my ears,
Reminding me,
Olden days, crusty regrets.

Turns to horrible sin,
Fashioning the universe about myself,
I hinder the world because it hinders me,
Mortal enemies.

I'd like to shoot them,
Watch the blood pour from their mouths as they die,
White dresses clash with the black of their audacity,
If I shield my eyes from them, individually.

I see things,
Things that don't exist,
A ghostly girl-child from 1989
Warns me I'm falling into ruin.

I cannot stop it,
Seeing people that aren't there,
Rubbing my eyes
To nothing.

I cannot stop it,
Forced forward, holding myself back,
College,
And self-reliance.

I cannot stop it,
Hatred that spews bolts of fire from my mouth,
Against indifferent Americans,
Condemning Jews and women and me.

Too many worlds I step between,
And I fashion them all to hate me.
I stand in the middle of a holding cell,
Only I hold the key.

But I cannot open it,
Cannot step off the path of hatred and fear,
I see prissy girls, arrogant boys and fucked up dreams,
I won't forgive me those sins.



Secrets of the Mind

The brain and the mind
Dance a secret dance
Of opposites drawn together
By some unknown force
Etching out a human life.
The mind is an instrument that plays music,
Along streams of neurons,
Coursing through your brain.
The mind whispers secrets in your ear,
Things you have seen, heard, felt,
And sometimes a glimmer,
An unknown from below,
As if you're connected to something larger
Than yourself.
The mind and you are a secret liason,
Like lovers under motel room sheets,
Engaged in a sinful affair,
No one should know too much.
But the mind does,
Every moment of your life,
Encoded, analyzed,
Like textbooks on how to survive.
The brain is more elusive,
Unable- or unwilling-
To reach out- or in-
To tell you of itself.
But it itself knows,
In some primal gutter of existence,
A place where consciousness dare not go.
They say the most sentient beings are self-aware,
Of how they function, strive, die,
But like vindictive gods,
The mind and brain play your heartstrings,
The former making you feel so powerful,
Making you have such faith in it,
When all the brain is is a steaming lump of meat,
That strives and dies in a lifetime.



Scars

And the people ask,
What will happen now,
That it's all over?
Over.
Will it ever really end?
Or, just like before, under shards of facades,
Is there something lurking underneath?

I slip off my liquid clothes and see.
See where the blood poured all these years,
Draining me of love and care,
And life.

Scars dot the constellations of my soul,
Like some permanent barrier between passing thought,
A reminder.
Reminder of what?
That I suffered and died a thousand times over?
That some part of me is mangled,
Even now?

Or perhaps as an answer,
When the people ask,
What happens now.
I endure.



The Smoker

How does he do it,
Walking along the New York streets,
Inhaling his cigarette through his teeth?
He steps onto the pavement,
Bringing the narcotic to the flame,
I turn away.
The crowd engulfs him,
I turn back,
As lines of people stream past.
And the act is done!
As if it flew backwards out of his hand,
I'd hate to think him a litterer.
But no, I'm sure,
As he steps near, bringing his ambiance,
A wall of smoke accosting my nostrils.
How could one small cigarette,
Consumed in a second,
Produce such an odor?
But then I know,
His life is consumed by "one cigarettes"
A habit that will not so quickly disappear.



Suspended Time

She sways along a liquid put,
Breathes bubbles through her nose,
Suspended in both time and space,
Knowledge of ages she knows.

An ethereal face of just six years,
With blazing bright blue eyes,
And blood that rushes from her head,
When she tried to touch the skies.

Exiled from a place of hope,
She walked a stagnant path,
And raped and mugged and beaten down,
Pain is her epitaph.

Demons grow from in her soul,
As she removed from faith,
Poisoned to the mind and world,
A prison, new, she makes.

So as time grows, she stays the same,
Locked down within her hold,
And watches as the demons move,
While lives of fear unfold.

But on her lips, she holds the key,
On how to capture life,
But demons dumb and blinded too,
Hold on to pain and strife.

If I could break forth from my chains,
And reach suspended time,
Id beg her for the secrets pure,
And save this life of mine.

But I be demon in form and face,
Withheld by my own lies,
So I just struggle, thus condemned,
To rage that never dies.

For only she could have the world,
And remain just the same,
The rest of us just grow deformed,
As pain re-circles again.



Teenage Psalm
Based on Psalm 91

Though imprisioned in the fortress of academia,
You hold true to it's hard work and diligence,
But you cry out
"Take me away to independence,
Where my life rests in my own hands."

You'll be led out at graduation,
Past failures held at bay,
While shrouded by the robe
Of accomplishment.

You'll step forward past the arms of your parents,
Paying no heed to the purgatory summer,
New people, new classes, new places,
All freshmen share in your path.

But some will fall to drinking,
Others partying, drugs, even rape-
But with a level head, you'll stay afloat,
Combating stupidity with knowledge.

As they drop out like stones,
Epiphany will light up in the sky,
You'll be not nerd nor geek nor loser,
Your faith in academia finally paying off.

As it grows, you are protected,
Your profits increase and others will flock,
Drawn by the light of your wisdom.
They'll be staunch support in times of trouble,
Bonding with metal, not plastic,
Friends for a lifetime, not just a moment.

Your faith has brought you profit and glory,
You lead the independent life,
With logic, wisdom,
Friends and memories,
And most important, courage,
To forge an adult life
Undeterred.


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