Welcome to The Poet's Home! This blog will be a collection of poetry, prose, and other musings... Original content will be tagged as such (#originalcontent). This blog is based in Portland, Oregon.

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jawnthebaptiste:

kingjaffejoffer:

Michael Brown’s dad before the burial. 
The emotion and all of the sweat…. shit is hard to look at, even if its only a picture

I didn’t want to reblog this because it’s hard to look at, but people SHOULD see it.
We SHOULD see a father mourning his teenage son.
We SHOULD see how a killing like Mike’s can take a toll on not only a community, but a family.
It’s as easy for young black men to become martyrs as it is for them to become victims. They can never just be humans. 
We can never just be.

jawnthebaptiste:

kingjaffejoffer:

Michael Brown’s dad before the burial. 

The emotion and all of the sweat…. shit is hard to look at, even if its only a picture

I didn’t want to reblog this because it’s hard to look at, but people SHOULD see it.

We SHOULD see a father mourning his teenage son.

We SHOULD see how a killing like Mike’s can take a toll on not only a community, but a family.

It’s as easy for young black men to become martyrs as it is for them to become victims. They can never just be humans. 

We can never just be.

When you look in the mirror, do you look at yourself or for yourself?

Forget the room of one’s own - write in the kitchen, lock yourself up in the bathroom. Write on the bus or on the welfare line, on the job or during meals, between sleeping and waking. I write while sitting on the john. No long stretches at the typewriter unless you’re wealthy or have a patron - you may not even own a typewriter. While you wash the floor or clothes listen to the words chanting in your body. When you’re depressed, angry, hurt, when compassion and love possess you. When you cannot help but write.

Gloria Anzaldúa (via hereticnarrative)

(Source: restoriedself)

If we could look into each other’s hearts and understand the unique challenges each of us faces, I think we would treat each other more gently, with more love, tolerance and care.

Marvin. J. Ashton (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

Aug. 30, 2014 - Today's Gift from Hazelden

cmforbes2:

Saturday, Aug. 30, 2014

Today’s thought from Hazelden is:

Defeat may serve as well as victory
To shake the soul and let the glory out.

— Edwin Markham


So life has given us some dents. So what? Dents are necessary, besides being unavoidable and painful. Each dent is a…

If you want to forget something or someone, never hate it, or never hate him/her. Everything and everyone that you hate is engraved upon your heart; if you want to let go of something, if you want to forget, you cannot hate.

C. JoyBell C. (via observando)

wrapyourselfaroundmyfinger:

jonny-poopoo-pants:

thepoliticalfreakshow:

For The First Time Ever, All Four Eyewitness Accounts of The Murder of Michael Brown Put In Chronological OrderThe most detailed side-by-side telling of each eyewitness account of the Mike Brown murder in chronological order #JusticeForMichaelBrown [@ShaunKing]

Reblog the fuck out of this

BOOST^^^^^^^

aslongasme:

iwriteaboutfeminism:

200 protesters continue to march for justice on Thursday night, Aug. 21st.

Weren’t there rumors that stuff was dying down? 

socialjusticekoolaid:

What they won’t show you on CNN tonight: Ferguson residents line a parade of roses down W Florissant, leading to where Mike Brown was taken from this world. #staywoke #powerful #insolidarity 

It’s amazing to me how similar the sensation of being in love is to the sensation of being drunk. I was out walking late at night and saw a girl walking in meandering, weaving lines, with a hand held to the side of her head. I instinctively thought to myself, “Go home, you’re drunk,” as she tripped over her own feet and stumbled briefly. But as I neared her, she became more aware of my presence and started walking more regularly, and I realized that she was on the phone. As our paths crossed, I heard her utter the words, “I love you too, baby,” in a voice floating on clouds I would never be able to view. Only then did I realize that she was not, in fact, inebriated with drink, but rather with love. I walked on as these thoughts filled my head: that those experiencing drunkenness mimic those in love, but they can never fully duplicate that sensation.

it’s a feeling I haven’t experienced in far too long

August 21, 2014

~MRM~

(via writethewordsyoucannotsay)

Uncertainty (in Solidarity with Ferguson, MO residents)

thepoetshome:

I wrote this poem a while ago, but I feel like it was meant to be written for the people of Ferguson, MO. I am reposting this in solidarity with those struggling for their most natural freedoms, rights, and justice in Ferguson, Missouri. I have compassion for you.

thepoetshome:

A transition in play

Lives in the Balance
Children at the Cannons
A government at war
With itself
With its lifeblood
With its people.

What Zen being would allow this?
This struggle?
This anger?
This pain?
What true man of might would allow this?
This exploitation?
This uncertainty?
This rape?

Women in the streets
Children under beds
Men in riot gear
Democracy.

What do you want with democracy?
Certain uncertainty!
Fried foods!
An eye on every corner,
An ear at every mouth!
A battle against an enemy
Who turns you on yourself,
Forcing you to
Compromise your liberties
Compromise your finances
Compromise your worth
For Power.

I lost a brother today.
He was stoned to death in the streets,
Feeling the unholy terror of true life,
A struggle, burning his candle at both ends
For the futures of men who couldn’t
Give a holy flying fuck about his sacrifice,
Lost in their decadent ignorance.

I lost a sister today.
I never met her,
Nor would any man know her,
The way she dreamed –
Only in the destructive rage of chaos
Ripping her to shreds until she could bear
Life no more and silently gave way
To the enveloping darkness of
Sweet
Dull
Forgetful
Serenity.

Their despair is our hope,
Our only hope
In a universe so goddamn twisted
We can find no meaning
Any longer.

They struggle as we watch,
Painfully –
Bought into the entertainment,
The fashion show of disgust,
Paraded before our ravenous eyes,
Shrieks falling on deaf ears.

Our infallibility is our emotional distance,
Insulated from the only truth we know:

Uncertainty.