I wanna do some things tomorrow, so I need to leave early. I have to go, dear friend. but don’t turn it off; leave the entertainment in the night
pleasure can rejuvenate, but life will go time will find its match, while you’ll be here inundated by pleasure, staggered by intimacy.
let the dark preserve what could’ve been guard the memories, so each time regret gets too near, we’ll recline into the night—give life to these moments again
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my mother struggles for the care of her community drop outs on broadcast with a curriculum in their mouth, the avenues always studying. so why the education that you offer?
which level of this cycle begs the most for attention? my brother strives to open our eyes presenting to a collection of disguise he’s the example, avenue. a Promise but our stomachs ask for attention, too
if death comes for me, tonight where in my sleep will it place the blame? am I a bad student? or do certain teachings drowse me amiss to the dreams deferred before i knew of sleep the dreams yawning, yearning, to be awake in the present
my uncle’s teeth are rotting but Which lesson in life did he not learn? Which course initiated the faults in him? Which choices were his to make?
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This poem was the result of an assignment I was given by an organization. The instruction was to write a poem that touches upon the idea of “The American Dream Deferred.” I wrote the poem and sent it to them, but I never heard back. It’s a great piece though. I surprised myself too.
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you first wake up by setting six alarms that you cannot tell yourself you will ignore or, much better, turn off as that will stop the lousy disturbance
the smartest person in the world will tell you to go to sleep early and make it a habit, but they surely have forgotten about the dark sleepless road before success
now their words have some significance to you though most of you think it is much easier to give merit to a darkness with struggle when all of your garments, actions and words reek with success already
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I wrote this after watching a Billy Collins Masterclass. It’s something quite fun. I hope you wake up early this year 🙂 Happy 2023!
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I never knew how it started. I’d just always be sitting at that seat when she walked into the car. Then
That became our thing. That became our time. That became our train. That became our car. That became our seat. That became our corner. That became our station. That became our greeting. That became our expectation. That became our reason to smile.
That became our every day. Until someone was missing
From our thing. From our time. From our train. From our car. From our seat. From our corner. From our station. From our greeting. From our expectation. From our reason to smile.
Every day, 11 days. She knew that was it.
When I woke up, 11 days later, I knew that was it.
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and the nervousness is in every crack in my confidence it slides on all the bends in my personality then leaks out my fearless structure like an egg almost saved
i shrug i make excuses i mask the disappointment with reasons why it was not meant to be, concealed with a blame away from me.
i dictate the supposed sequencing of the events of the past perhaps God had made a mistake on how things developed surely the powers that be mishandled this encounter
i contempt; the opportunity was not of merit, regardless even though i’ll spend the rest of time thinking about my deeds, reimagining the event in a world where I get second chances, and thirds, or a world where i flawlessly predict the obvious next occurrence
even though i’ll shame myself in future recounts about a great missed opportunity.
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Rest In Peace to all the opportunities we missed because of lack of confidence and nervousness 🙏🏾✨
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A train runs in the backyard but the wooden fences are still leaning from the previous generation so the train kept going on its own tracks
five executive reps stuck their ears to the ground to locate the incoming sound but the train sometimes runs above so excuse New York City if it seems to have lost its way
maybe a train runs through walls so since the great discovery, the bells have been a mystery and the rolling rocks have discovered the purpose within their spirit
but the people collecting tickets are well accustomed so they will never check the carpet in their living room even though in a rush they’ve broken the plastic tracks
built on the dead heat of playtime because that’s where all of reality makes total sense the conductor on bruised knees. Who’s also the engineer, the passenger, the fuel, and the only one who knows the way.
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the sharp edges hurt like a flower’s petal the texture receives grief like a cloud’s golden smile
if I fall in grace forever, eventually I’ll reach hell so I remain in confort. Soundless movements of my body obedience to my wishes, without complaint
so I ask how? but acceptance is not a choice it’s a decision made after a day of heavy burdens even when surrendering all the weight is done relentlessly unaware of the permanent pain, poison, pressure caused even when it has to bend unusually for your confort
love is only an idea for the amateur, and the cowards who overthink the purest form is “what else is there to do?” but embrace— let me lay my heavy head of a day’s frustrations somehow, turn density into dispersion, dissipation.
the nights are frustrating. they leave you in the morning, with creases to flatten for you to accept a bird’s song that is already rejected so you might as well choose to live in hell. so long as the fire shine for my confort what else is there to do?
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She’s the light of my life! ❤
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your eyes in mine we’re pondering each other’s thoughts we’ve shaken each other’s understanding of life and we know the dust will never settle
there’s a game made to bring us closer but i’ve already fallen into the river in your iris so i hope to always be a part of you, regardless.
let Earth remember us as artists overwhelmed by passion, so we consume each other in the tight chamber with royal elephants on the wall; a forest of sunshine or absolute darkness; a temple with mirrors on the wall
webs of betrayal bundled inside, connecting our eyes; galaxy, flavored chocolate. cobwebs attach—closing the distance between
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I don’t know about your stories with other-balls but in my city, our sport is handball:
where the outsiders and class-drivers reconciled their pride, forces and hides each Friday night, after school: concrete playground blue round rubber band ball bouncing boldly. Man, that was our party!
Our palms would bump ’till peel but this pain, we never feel. Slaps and echo’s drumming our ear drums before it resonates into what seems to be an abyss; a neighborhood made of blocks, corner stores, out-of-schedule buses, squirrels; pigeons and apartments ever too tight to fit our dreams, so the city never sleeps. Some say it’s because we are convinced that we will fix these dreams right each time we’re breaking night.
But days are for society’s demands and kids walking in bands; teenagers mimicking gangs.
Maybe we only mimicked cause we knew. Deep down, there were bigger purposes than parading around corners, down blocks where piggies oink with bother: questions that could never answer why we’re always shooed off our own territory with dictation about school, our potentials which, for now, is in the form of trouble seen in the skin color of our brother.
We always knew. This education: stories of doctorates, laws and a backpedal to instruction, was only the limits we were told to be bounded to. There had to be a way to let wind slide under our capes. Although we, at times, refused to believe it.
But if a brother could actually use these real life wings that he won’t shut his trap about, then, brother, I’ll be the first to slide up and down rainbows.
Sometimes, even we tell ourselves to not believe in our dreams. Though this stubbornness in us always sang else: there’s more beyond being trapped in this trap with a tight cap.
II My city life is: handball sessions at the local park’s handball court. Where you know these Asian kids won’t be beaten. Rounds on the basketball courts where you know the black kids are kings of the court. Skate spots that I doubt are legalized where the white kids are discovering culture.
Culturally divided, we always were culturally integrated, we always are for every now and then, we mingle our differences in the center of the court— qualities of: Professional Athlete, Einstein and CEO losing their differences.
Step behind that white line; cracked line and serve.
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I posted an older version of this poem a few years ago. This one is edited and much better, so I am sharing it again. I also got the opportunity to meet up with an old friend of mine from freshmen year of high school the other day. We haven’t seen each other in 10 years. It was so enriching to talk to him and catch up with our lives. I shared this poem with him. That was very special for me because he is THE ONLY person in the entire world who could fully understand this poem. And he did. After reading the poem and reminiscing over the good ol’ times, we went out to a deli to buy a handball. We then found ourselves a handball court. There we had our first handball match in 10 years! It was incredible, and he beat my ass like he used to do back in freshmen year of high school! It was a fantastic time. Freshmen year of high school, I would go through the day looking forward to go play handball after school. After the bell rung, we would put our stuff in our lockers, run outside to the nearby park, get on the handball court—we each carried a handball in our book bag—and form teams. Then one of us would walk to the middle of the handball court with the ball, step behind that white line; cracked line—suspense fills the air—and the rest is history. Serve.
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it’s the sense of having nothing to do— though surrounded by inspiration conversations bombarding the ear start an analyzation.
My thoughts becoming lamps hanging in the obscure tunnel that i travel with a hissing passion bringing me to astonishment.
before my destination, I arrive at an idea sometimes it waits for me—standing on the platform alone, in the open air, where cold wind brings the echoes the bench sitting in suspense, waiting for its purpose
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Sircharlesthepoet 