I May Not Look Like What I've Been Through

I may not look like what I have been through;
the typical melodramatic starving artist
studying paintings against cement sidewalks
only to be understood
with intention of becoming lost
Within a maze of wandering mysticism,
but believe me when I tell you
that I will never
have enough pain
for your slam poetry.

It’s been a couple months since I have
felt vibrations of my voice
echo within forest fires of misfit poets,
elderly craftsmanship, a shiver
from ghosts being resurrected,
and all this time
an unanswered question
sits on my tongue.
All I can ask is for doom's day girl
to understand forgiveness,
true meanings and definition
of the brash poem
never spoken of, titled:
“Where is my sunshine?”


I have always wanted to write
my sorrows hollow enough
so anybody listening would
become paralyzed with fear
from the sounds of their own voice,
as if it became unrecognizable,
as if I’m carving the word help
onto everybody’s forearm, forehead,
foreclosure to their voice boxes,
etching the word wound onto
many variants of brittle skin.

I now realize
carving these inflictions
onto crowds of strangers
without offering you
some polysporin,
rubbing alcohol for those
who can deal with burning,
and band aids is just
as bad as giving someone
a back handed compliment,
as if a room full of artists
with different meanings for the word art
would actually have a rivalry between one another,
as if only pointing me out for not memorizing a f*****g poem
is more important than what I am actually saying within said f*****g poem,
as if the more traumatic my verses become
the louder the snaps of an audience will weather,
and I don’t care to stand within your hurricanes, your sunshine,
or even your Sahara desert without a canteen of spring water,
because I will never have enough pain for your slam poetry.

So next time you passive aggressively insinuate I plagiarized a f*****g poem,
Remember writing is subjective, and you’re right,
I unconsciously plagiarized Miles Hodges’ “What’s in a man” because
As fool beckoned false messiah,
I was just sharing a torn out page from my notebook without thinking similarities.
I will now cut this tension with another question,
Did anyone tell me it was wrong?
What’s the real reason HYP deleted my performance off their YouTube channel?
If it was for theft, then let’s call this a heist
And if you mistake me for a ghost then take this as phantom playing nice,
because I wasn’t given a handbook about house-keeping rules,
Categorize me as anything you want, but never again being the fool.
Let me say it for you:
“F**k you, Lucas”
Because when you ask me for my opinion about the craftsmanship,
Don’t take it so goddamn personally.
I didn’t attack you, I just thought it was cheesy.
And don’t call me a hypocrite
for being upset when
Tupac Fake In Here was quite aware
of his tone of voice when
he asked me who I
look up to, then
answered Miles Hodges for me.

Ever since then I’ve been more careful
with how I let fingertips run against these now open scars,
and there will be no sacrifice within this poem
because you don’t need to romanticize a failed suicide attempt
just to get the highest number in the room,
because you don’t need to be sad
just to write a f*****g poem that is deemed worthy enough,
because you don’t need to tell an audience
behind this pretty smile, a beastly glare remains;

If they too speak
beastly,
they will hear it, recognize it,
softly, vibrating
against
the pauses
of a voice
breaking,
between now
and an ending to this poem.

I have never been a teacher,
so my roots have grown
with the comfortableness of
never being followed,
And I don’t know much to teach about.
The only thing I do know is that
I am still alive, and to you, or you, or you,
that might not sound like a triumph,
but to me ... that is another war won.
Don’t open up my blood stream,
pick and probe about what’s appropriate to share, and then say to me,
“Stop being so catastrophic”
As if I never needed the stitches
After admitting to basically strangers
I’m still struggling
with my HIV diagnosis
a year later,
then being told it’s basically
a great one liner for a poem.
But it’s cool, right?
Replace me with another gay guy, right?
You can’t talk about the gay agenda without a bundle of burning f**s, right?

You see, kissing this microphone
with honesty used to leave
me fractured, I would wander back inside
shadows and familiar faces to only be greeted
with astonishment, a type of recognition,
as if these are supposed to be compliments,
as if the people I sit beside throughout the evening
didn’t just watch my heartbeat suddenly stop beating,
only to come back alive again as I walk off the stage.
There will be no sacrifice within this poem,
for happiness is an extinct language that
I will soon discover someday, call my own,
and keep cherished inside a black and white photograph
held within frames on a wooden shelf.

I will never allow another poet to dive deep
inside my soul, disrupt my stillness, and make me feel
as if my blood filled pens are never worth legibility,
as if they wanted a glimpse of my open soul
just to never put it back properly,
as if a polite one time message is first aid worthy
for a trial of poem after poem beckoned onto complete strangers,

This has left me choosing to merely be thankful
for the art of open conversation
over a dinner table,
choosing to be thankful for the blessings I can still count,
for the week day bakery specials,
for the piano students practicing melodies with cracked windows,
for the humbleness of a homeless man accepting food from my hands,
and choosing to be thankful for the seldom joy
I have finally carved into my being.

This is the eldest of craftsmanship, this is the stirring of timeless souls,
this is reinvention, reincarnation, revitalization.
Re-awakening, reaping the seeds I sew.
Be not as though they were.
I had to kill off the wolf within these bones,
and I may not look like what I’ve been through
because that is how I intended it to be.
Creationism. New beginnings.
Change is the most powerful notion.
I faced the mirror no longer as murderer within solitary confinement,
Yet I felt blood dripping from my hands,
puddling porcelain tiles with crimson,
and when I gazed at my reflection,
for a mere moment in my life,

I finally felt good enough.

Reviews

[.]

as i saw the title i knew you were talking to me. this is so deep

[Nora]

This is amazing, lucas , you have great deep thoughts, i loved the way you expressed them