A poem is a celebration of life’s sacrifices. As I write/I see
the minds of many poets turn within their hearts to inspire
as in their self-recognition they prosper…the many meanings
and deaths of a society stroked by its own ego. As I write/I see
a woman fragranced with the tart aroma of abuse. She walks/
she sees/ she writes down her anger on the walls of human
sacrifice no longer bleeding an internal silence kept captive for so long
in the mirrors of emotional violence. Her poetry speaks loud
as she shares the words her tears cry standing with strength
and writing proud.
A poem is the victory of a smile. As I write/I see a young child
lost on the playgrounds growth. This child has no gender as this
is any child seeking and visualizing a world where difference is embraced
and not bullied by the rough, brutal hands of judgmental freedom.
In this child’s own fantasized kingdom is a dream where individualism
is not a corruption of the mind’s plagiarism
but a reality of escape into a sky of celebration. This child smiles
while writing in chalk on the black top of life. The poetry
becomes a liberty to grow, to live and simply to be.
A poem is the linguistics of tears. As I write/I see an old man
walking slowly down the side streets of modern destruction.
With his fading cane he walks/he remembers/he whistles
of his time as a younger soldier on these same streets. A time
where ambition was worshiped and obtained instead of shot down
and stained. He sees deterioration around him and he hopes
within each stranger he passes that there is an answer for a tomorrow
he may not see. He hums the stanzas of transgression writing
through his eyes his own thoughts of progression.
A poem is the journey of emotion. As I write/I study
every stare of heartbreak and memorize every sound of a laugh.
I worship every poet as my hero as in their words I master
the influence to share thoughts that are no longer shadows
and a vision that is no longer blind to expression. As I write/
I live these words/I live their words because the heartbeat of a poem
never shields behind the mind and hide. Poetry lives inside.
Tarringo T Vaughan