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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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.

milk

thornpuller:

She spends an hour in the lactation suite, hiding from her supervisor. Since no one is having babies anymore, the suite goes unused. It’s a comfortable spot, she rationalizes; someone should be using it. Her supervisor goes about his business, reminding her of a rhinoceros searching for a fire to stomp out. The suite is calm. It smells of lavender.

She remembers when there were babies. It used to annoy her that her coworkers got six weeks off from work and, thereafter, were frequently absent due to their children being sick. And then, of course, when they returned to work they’d spend time in the lactation suite. It seemed like they’d be in there for hours pumping away.

Later, they’d bring their babies to the office, disrupting precious moments of concentration with their peals of laughter or inexplicable wailing. She would grit her teeth and feign interest as the children were paraded around. But now that they’ve stopped coming around, now that the babies have disappeared forever, she tastes the licorice of doom. Everyone knows the Bleakness is near.

She doesn’t miss the babies for their antics, but she knows their nonoccurrence foretells a hollowness. She now understands that they were our unwitting protectors. So long as there were babies, we would continue to paint, write, sing, dance, laugh. Without the babies, we have stopped everything. She should have admitted to herself how adorable they were. All she saw was difficulty and pain. She didn’t realize that they were the balance. It’s too late now. Only the virtual reality keeps us from panicking. Soon, we will end in numbness.

She closes her eyes and inhales. The silence of the lactation suite defines her, pronounces the world dead.

wow, I love this. I want to write like this. Thank you.

dragonheartedrabbit:

Going on right now in Ferguson: Police are raiding a church that has been stocked with medical supplies, food, and tear gas recovery kits for community members engaging in protests. This cannot be allowed to continue.

Stand up, speak out. 

naturepunk:

artemiskaonai:

An officer threatens to kill a journalist and those around him since he’s not credential press. He then threatens everyone around the guy with live rounds. If you don’t know what those are, they’re real bullets.

Another journalist tried to ask his name but all he said was “Go fuck yourself”.

The tag trending for this guy on twitter, funny enough, is #officergofuckyourself.

Please spread, Ferguson is not safe. Don’t forget about it.

8-19-2014

Ladies and Gentlemen, Officer GoFuckYourself. 

Full article about this incident can be found HERE.

Uncertainty (in Solidarity with Ferguson, MO residents)

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.

New Orleans Police Officer Turns Off Body Camera Minutes Before Shooting Suspect In Forehead

This shit needs to be stopped.