Poetry lets our thoughts flow freely

I started writing creatively with poetry. Over the next few weeks, I will be sharing some of these on my blog. I hope you enjoy them! – Curran

 

November 2011

Are these actually my hands?

I trace the palm lines of my past, they’ve dug in..
Even deeper then,
The last time – I took a breathe from the hectic “rushing” rudeness
Of the big city life, that masks my true identity

So many fragments of different people’s lives I’ve stole, stolen to make their histories my own…
I’m a serial killer, not of people but of my own dignity

I’ve killed my own, “self-confidence” in so many different “timeframes” and ways,
I keep it as a memento, like Dexter’s blood tray,
To remind myself that I’m ‘nothing’ but a pawn in society’s capitalistic definitions
of success and greed.

These swollen hands, I thought I had ripped from the web of dreams,
Manufactured for me, but not by me…
I read too much into every action I take
As a perfectionist every step you make, is just closer to a mistake
The cost…is just another one of your nine lives, how many do you have left
I think I’m down to just my final… one

I burned through them trying out the robes of different ways to go
About my business, but you can’t shove a misshapen piece into any type of puzzle
You can’t fit in, into a world that was never meant for you

This world of crying souls, animal energies ground up into fancy sushi rolls,
Money drained away so we can find new ways to kill us all,

How can we wonder if there is a heaven or a hell?
I see that hell everyday, in the eyes of abused children and murdered women,
Sold into a system that profits on imprisoning…
The pipeline to jail,
That feeds on our poor

I wasn’t born into wealth or even into love,
I was born into beat-downs and meltdowns
For being a different shade, of yellow, then the rest of those – who could judge…

Try (trial) me as “the other” funneled toward a destiny of breaking boundaries
But instead I broke into the hypocrisy and lost my way

To this day, I hope and pray to regain –  something, from nothing… I am

I am… 

Born out from fleeting shadows, the little boy feels his fingers forward
Tip-taps
Out from behind the dreamy cloud, Chinese dragon
Glance down from the hidden line, strewn across from the dreams, you push

From your mind
Fabrications and lies that you’ve built to define – a means to gain reasoning
For the pain that surges inside

You were born out of a moment of regret, each step forward, but a chance
To be met, to prove you were worth it,
to be brought forth into this mess(y)
Manifest(o) destiny 

I am – but a proving ground of pain –

I am – the place to shed menstrual bloods refrain,

I am the regret in a father’s empty stares

I am – the fear that runs from life’s dares

I am – the stuffed doll that can never fail

I am….

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